The Morning After the Ember
John 7:38 (NIV)
"Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them."
The sun came late that morning, pushing through a veil of pale mist. The village had not truly slept. Smoke from half-burned torches lingered in the streets. Doors creaked open, and faces appeared one by one—hesitant, pale, waiting to see if the night had truly passed.
By the well, the last traces of the miracle still shimmered. The water was clear as glass, and the faint warmth that had risen from it during the night had not vanished. Villagers gathered at a careful distance. None spoke at first. Only when Ye stepped forward did the spell of silence break.
He was a young man in his thirties, broad-shouldered from years of labor, his eyes sharp beneath the folds of his brow. He carried a clay cup in his hands. For a long while he simply stared at the water, as though it might turn on him. Then he knelt, scooped a handful, and drank.
The water ran down his throat like sunlight. He set the cup down slowly and said, "It's warm."
That was all. But the words traveled through the crowd like a spark through dry reeds. Someone gasped. A woman dropped to her knees and began to weep. Another pressed her palm to the ground and whispered a prayer.
Elena stood a few steps away, Liron beside her. She watched as the villagers began to touch the water, one after another, their fear melting into wonder. Regbolo, still weak but steady, leaned on the well's rim and looked at his reflection. His eyes were clear again.
Ye turned to Elena. "The Fire did this, didn't it?"
She nodded. "Not mine. His."
He looked back at the water. "Then He remembers us after all."
The words carried a tremor that felt like confession. Elena felt the stir within her again, the warmth answering his faith. It wasn't just her flame anymore. The air itself seemed to breathe.
Micah came from the house, leaning on his staff. Evelyn followed, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. When she saw the crowd, she stopped short. "So it's true," she whispered.
"It's true," Ye said, his voice steady now. "The Fire is mercy."
Liron placed a hand on Regbolo's shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been forgiven," Regbolo murmured. He met Liron's gaze. "When your light touched me, I thought I was burning. But it was the weight leaving."
Elena felt the words settle in her chest. The Fire remembers.
The morning deepened. Chickens began to stir in their pens; the dogs barked, uncertain but alive. A child reached toward the bucket beside the well, cupped water in her small hands, and laughed. The sound carried, clean and bright.
Micah raised his face to the sky. "Look."
Above them, the mist began to part, revealing the faint outlines of the twin moons, still visible in daylight. Vareth's pale gleam brushed Lunara's golden edge. Their light crossed, and for an instant, the air itself shimmered.
The villagers fell silent again.
Ye whispered, "They are watching."
Elena closed her eyes. "No," she said softly. "They are remembering."
Her voice carried calm authority now, the tone of one who no longer spoke alone.
As the morning stretched, people drifted away, returning to their homes with water jars filled and eyes wide with wonder. But a few lingered—Ye, Regbolo, Liron, and Micah. They stood together near the well as if unwilling to break the moment.
Micah finally spoke. "This is the beginning of something larger than us."
Elena nodded. "The Canticle called it the Faith of the Few. The Flame grows through those who remember. Ye has remembered. Regbolo too. Soon others will."
Ye's gaze was steady. "Then I'll keep the well."
She smiled faintly. "Then the well will keep you."
The group dispersed slowly. Liron walked with Elena along the fence line. The air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke. "You saw it, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "Your flame—how it moved without you."
"Yes," she said. "It's not mine to control. It's His to share."
"And you aren't afraid?"
Elena looked toward the mountain. The slope was quiet again, though clouds coiled like breath near its peak. "Fear hasn't left," she said. "It's just learned its place."
When they reached the edge of the courtyard, Evelyn was waiting. She held the Canticle of Fire pressed to her heart. "I've read the Second Song again," she said. "It speaks of mercy that burns brighter than gold. That's what I saw today."
Elena took the book from her hands and opened it. The parchment still smelled faintly of smoke and salt. She read aloud, her voice clear and low.
" Blessed are the merciful,
for their hands shall shine brighter than gold.
Blessed are those who hunger for righteousness,
for the Fire shall be their bread and their wine."
When she finished, the world felt still again, listening.
Liron turned to Ye, who lingered near the gate. "What will you tell the others?"
Ye rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "The truth," he said. "That the Fire remembers us. And that if they still doubt, they should come see the well."
He walked away before anyone could reply.
By midday, news had spread. People from neighboring farms came with jars and skins, curious at first, then reverent. They found the water warm, clear, and sweet. Some drank and wept; others crossed themselves and whispered names long forgotten.
Micah watched from the steps of his house. "It's beginning," he said softly.
"Yes," Evelyn replied. "But beginnings often look like endings first."
Elena remained by the well until the shadows grew long. The warmth of the water had not faded. When she dipped her hand in again, light rippled across its surface like gold dust.
She whispered, "Let it spread."
The breeze rose, carrying her words toward the forest. Somewhere beyond, the witches would feel the shift, the stirring of a flame they could not touch.
At dusk, Liron joined her again. He carried a lantern but did not light it. "No need," he said. "The air glows enough."
Elena smiled. "The Fire has found its echo."
They stood together in silence as the last light faded and the first stars appeared. For the first time in years, the night in Mahogany Village did not feel heavy. It felt alive.
And far above, the twin moons crossed paths once more, their light threading like silver and amber across the dark. The world of Astra breathed, and the Fire remembered.