Chapter Three: Where the First Once Stood
Part Five – The Flame That Stirs
The sun didn't rise all at once.
It pushed through the window in slow streaks—soft gold cut by cloud edges. Light, but not warmth.
Not yet.
Zephryn stood near the edge of the barracks path, wrapped in a layered coat that didn't belong to him.
It was Kaelen's.
He hadn't asked.
Kaelen hadn't said a word when he handed it over.
Just a nod.
That was enough.
The air outside the barracks was sharp. Not cold—just honest.
It smelled like rain that never arrived.
And something else.
Like the edge of a campfire that burned without wood.
He followed the sound before he realized what it was:
Metal.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Not in training.
In memory.
—
Buta was sitting on a stone just past the fence line.
Not fully armored.
Not fully resting.
Just there.
Wiping a blade that had already been sharpened hours ago.
His hands moved like someone replaying a moment they couldn't stop from returning.
He didn't look up when Zephryn approached.
Didn't need to.
"Still hurts?" Buta asked quietly.
Zephryn nodded.
Buta didn't ask where.
He already knew the pain was not in the body.
—
Zephryn sat beside him.
Didn't speak.
Not at first.
The hum wasn't back. Not fully.
But it pulsed under the surface now—like a tide waiting for permission.
And Buta?
He finally spoke, low, dry.
"The Doctrine's already talking. I got the report this morning."
"They won't move yet. But they're listening now. Waiting to see if the next cast burns louder than the last."
Zephryn didn't flinch.
He stared out at the trees.
"Have you ever felt your own memory try to run from you?"
Buta didn't answer immediately.
He folded the cloth in his hands.
Once.
Then again.
Then handed it to Zephryn.
It was stained.
Dark red at the edge.
"That," he said,
"is when you know it's not your memory.
It's someone else's.
And they want it back."
Zephryn held the cloth.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Just… listened.
Buta stood.
Cracked his neck once.
Then said it:
"We move in two days."
"Don't hum until I say."
And with that, he walked away.
Leaving Zephryn on the stone.
Cloth in hand.
Eyes forward.
Glyph silent.
But no longer still.