The tenth day ended like the others—with aching legs, empty lungs, and the peak still too far away.
But this time, Kaelin found shelter worth the climb.
A rock overhang, deep enough for two, sheltered from wind, with a flat floor of packed volcanic ash. Beckett circled twice, declared it "acceptable for peasants," and landed on the highest point to supervise.
BECKETT: Fire pit. You should make a fire pit. Proper campers have fire pits.
"We're not campers. We're fugitives."
BECKETT: Fugitives with standards. Fire pit. Now.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: She's bossy.
AZRAEL: She's opinionated.
MAMMON: Same thing.
AZRAEL: Not the same thing. Opinionated means having opinions. Bossy means forcing them on others.
MAMMON: And she's doing both. That's called efficiency.
IRIS: Mammon's logic: flawed but internally consistent. Fire pit construction will take approximately 12 minutes. Recommend compliance.
---
Kaelin built the fire pit.
Twelve minutes exactly. IRIS timed it.
Then came the question: fuel.
The mountains had no wood—just rock and scree and the occasional hardy scrub too green to burn. But the spatial bracelet held 100 cubic meters of carefully organized supplies, and among them were branches. Dozens of them. Collected during the forest days, dried in the bracelet's strange preserved environment, ready for exactly this moment.
BECKETT: (inspecting the pile) You saved wood. In magic space. For months.
"Yes."
BECKETT: That's either brilliant planning or hoarding behavior. I haven't decided which.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: It's brilliant planning. Obviously.
AZRAEL: We had 100 cubic meters. Using some for fuel was logical.
IRIS: Wood storage: 0.7 cubic meters. Estimated burn time per night: 2-3 hours with optimal conservation. Current supply: 12-15 nights.
MAMMON: See? Brilliant.
AZRAEL: Logical.
IRIS: Efficient.
---
Kaelin arranged the wood. Small pieces first, then larger, the way Ghoran had taught her—"Fire needs to breathe. Give it space. Give it time."
But something was missing. Something to make it catch.
BECKETT: (tilting head) You're doing the thing where you stare at the wood like it owes you money.
"I need something to start it. Dry grass. Tinder. Something."
BECKETT: And you don't have that in your magic space? Poor planning. Very poor planning.
---
[INSIDE]
IRIS: Tinder status: not stored. Oversight acknowledged. Alternative solutions—
MAMMON: THE BRICKS.
AZRAEL: What?
MAMMON: THE BRICKS. GIZMO'S MACHINE. THE FLAMMABLE ONES.
IRIS: Accessing catalogue. Mk. VII brick production log: Days 3-7 produced experimental batch classified as "highly flammable - do not store near open flame." Quantity: 8 bricks. Location: Section C, Subsection 4, behind the dried meat.
MAMMON: I TOLD YOU THE BRICKS WERE USEFUL.
AZRAEL: You said they were "pretty colors."
MAMMON: AND USEFUL. I DEFINITELY SAID USEFUL.
---
Kaelin reached into the bracelet. Past the meat. Past the tools. Past the 47 regular bricks stacked neatly in the corner. To the back, where eight bricks sat in their own labeled container.
They were... beautiful, actually. Swirls of color—red and orange and yellow, like fire frozen in clay. Gizmo's machine, in its infinite unpredictability, had created art.
BECKETT: (landing on her shoulder) Those are pretty. Are they food?
"No."
BECKETT: Are they treasure?
"They're bricks. Flammable bricks."
BECKETT: long pause That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I love them.
---
One brick went into the fire pit, surrounded by wood. Kaelin struck steel to flint—once, twice, three times.
Stolen novel; please report.
The brick ignited like it had been waiting its whole life for permission.
Green flames first. Bright, impossible green, lighting the overhang like a forest on fire. Then blue, deeper than sky, than sea, than anything. Then orange—ordinary, beautiful, warm orange—and the wood caught, and the fire was fire, and Kaelin sat back with something that might have been wonder.
BECKETT: (from a safe distance) That's... that's not normal fire.
"No."
BECKETT: That's Gizmo fire.
"Yeah."
BECKETT: I like Gizmo. Gizmo makes good things. We should find Gizmo again.
"We will."
BECKETT: Promise?
Kaelin looked at the flames—green fading to blue fading to orange—and thought of a gnome with singed hair and a magnified eye and 122 years of loneliness.
"Promise."
---
The meat came out next.
Mountain cat, cut into strips, seasoned with salt from the bracelet (Mammon's insistence, IRIS's grudging confirmation that "seasoning improves caloric intake compliance"). Kaelin speared pieces on green sticks—also saved from the forest, because IRIS was thorough—and held them over the flames.
The smell was immediate. Intense. Meat and fire and something wild that made Mammon's commentary inevitable.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: SALT. WE NEED MORE SALT.
IRIS: Salt levels are optimal for preservation and taste.
MAMMON: OPTIMAL ISN'T ENOUGH. WE KILLED A CAT. WE EARNED EXTRA SALT.
AZRAEL: We have limited salt supplies.
MAMMON: THEN WE USE THEM. FOR THE CAT. THE CAT DEMANDS SALT.
IRIS: The cat is deceased. It demands nothing.
MAMMON: THE CAT'S SPIRIT DEMANDS SALT.
AZRAEL: Devils don't believe in spirits.
MAMMON: I BELIEVE IN SALT.
---
Kaelin added more salt.
The meat sizzled. Fat dripped into the flames, making them jump and dance. Beckett edged closer, eyes fixed on the cooking strips.
BECKETT: How long?
"Few more minutes."
BECKETT: Minutes are too long. Minutes are oppression. Minutes are—
"Cooking takes time. Even for crows."
BECKETT: mutters Time is a human invention. Crows live in the eternal now. And the eternal now wants meat.
---
The first piece finished. Kaelin pulled it from the fire, blew on it, tested it with her teeth.
Perfect.
Smoky and rich and wild, the salt doing exactly what salt does, the fire doing exactly what fire does. Meat. Real meat. Food they'd killed and cooked themselves.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: speechless for a full three seconds That's... that's the best thing I've ever tasted.
AZRAEL: It's certainly... satisfying.
MAMMON: SATISFYING? It's GLORIOUS. It's TRIUMPH. It's—
IRIS: Protein. Fat. Calories. Nutritionally adequate.
MAMMON: You have no soul.
IRIS: Correct. But I have taste sensors. The meat rates 8.7 out of 10.
MAMMON: 8.7? EIGHT POINT SEVEN?
IRIS: Texture: 9. Seasoning: 8. Presentation: 7. Overall: 8.7.
MAMMON: PRESENTATION? WE'RE IN A CAVE. WE'RE FUGITIVES. PRESENTATION DOESN'T—
AZRAEL: quietly amused The machine has opinions on plating.
IRIS: All data is worth collecting.
---
Outside, Kaelin laughed around a mouthful of meat. Beckett snatched a piece directly from the fire—burned her beak, didn't care, swallowed it whole.
BECKETT: Worth it.
"You burned yourself."
BECKETT: Worth. It.
---
They ate in silence for a while—the good kind of silence, full and warm and shared. The fire crackled. The wind outside couldn't reach them. And for the first time since leaving Thornwell, Kaelin felt something close to peace.
BECKETT: (quiet, full) I remember fire.
Kaelin looked up. "What?"
BECKETT: Fire. From before. From when I was... someone else.
---
[INSIDE]
IRIS: Attention level: maximum. Beckett origin data potentially forthcoming.
MAMMON: whisper Don't interrupt. Don't scare her. Let her talk.
AZRAEL: Ok.
---
Kaelin stayed very still.
Beckett stared into the flames—really stared, the way crows do when they're seeing something beyond the present.
BECKETT: I was someone's. A long time ago. Before I was a crow. Before I was... this.
"Someone's what?"
BECKETT: Not sure. Companion? Friend? Possession? The words don't fit anymore. But I remember fire. Fire and stone and someone who talked to me like I mattered. Like I was real.
"What happened to them?"
BECKETT: long pause Gone. Like all things. Like all ones. Gone.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: very quiet That's... that's sad.
AZRAEL: That's grief.
IRIS: Beckett's emotional profile: grief probability 89%, loss confirmation 76%, current coping mechanism: deflection and humor.
MAMMON: Don't analyze her. Not now.
IRIS: pause Noted. Emotional observation only: Beckett is hurting. We should... we should be gentle.
AZRAEL: Agreed.
MAMMON: Agreed.
---
Kaelin reached out—slow, careful—and touched Beckett's wing. Just a touch. Just enough.
"I'm sorry."
BECKETT: (shaking herself, feathers ruffling) Don't be. Was long ago. Was before. Now is now. Now has fire and meat and a very strange purple child who talks to herself.
"I don't talk to myself. I talk to—"
BECKETT: I know what you talk to. I can hear them sometimes. Faint. Like echoes. The angry one. The proper one. The calculating one.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: She can HEAR us?
AZRAEL: Apparently.
IRIS: This explains her direct address in previous incidents. Beckett's perception exceeds normal parameters.
MAMMON: That's... that's actually kind of nice. Being heard.
AZRAEL: Indeed it is.
IRIS: Agreed.
---
BECKETT: (to the air, not Kaelin) You're welcome. All three of you. Stop being so surprised. Crows know things.
---
The fire burned on. Green and blue and orange, Gizmo's gift, lighting the cave like a small piece of home.
BECKETT: (settling against Kaelin's side) Tell me about the gnome again. The brick one.
"Gizmo?"
BECKETT: Yes. Gizmo. Tell me about his workshop. His machines. His owl.
"The owl's taxidermied. It rotates."
BECKETT: delighted Rotates? Like... on purpose?
"Seventeen positions. He showed us."
BECKETT: I would have liked this gnome. I would have stolen things from him. He would have pretended to be annoyed.
"He would have loved you."
BECKETT: smug Obviously.
---
The story unfolded—Gizmo's workshop, the Mk. VII, the bricks, the escape, Gerald the doorstop's sacrifice. Beckett listened with complete attention, interrupting only for clarification on important details ("The doorstop talked?" "For a while." "And then it died holding the door?" "Yes." "That's the most heroic thing I've ever heard.").
By the end, the fire was lower, the meat was gone, and the peak outside glowed faintly through the cave entrance.
BECKETT: (sleepy, full) We're going to make it, you know. To the volcano place. To the sword people.
"You sound sure."
BECKETT: Crows are always sure. It's one of our things. We're sure, and we're loud, and we steal shiny objects. It's the crow way.
"And you're sure about this?"
BECKETT: pause The mountain's been watching us. The whole time. Not in a bad way. In a... waiting way. Like something knows we're coming.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: The mountain's watching us?
AZRAEL: She said "not in a bad way."
MAMMON: Mountains shouldn't watch. Mountains should sit there being rocky. That's their job.
IRIS: Beckett's perception has proven accurate before. If she senses observation, observation likely exists.
AZRAEL: The Order. They might have scouts.
MAMMON: Or ghosts. Or mountain spirits. Or—
IRIS: Or scouts. Most probable explanation.
---
BECKETT: (already half asleep) Doesn't matter. Whatever's watching... let it watch. Let them all watch. We're still climbing. We're still going. We're still... us.
Kaelin looked at the peak. At its bare, burning slopes. At the structures she could almost see now, carved into stone, waiting.
"Yeah," she whispered. "We're still us."
---
The fire crackled lower. Beckett snored—small crow snores, ridiculous and endearing. Lycos's presence pulsed faint and warm in the distance, and Kaelin sent back what she could: Safe. Warm. Full. Missing you.
The response came back, wordless but clear: Pack-strong. Pack-wait. Pack-proud.
---
[INSIDE]
MAMMON: very soft We're going to see them again. Right? Ghoran. Lycos. Mira. Greta. Gizmo. All of them.
AZRAEL: I believe so.
MAMMON: You believe, or you know?
AZRAEL: pause I believe. Which is different from knowing. But sometimes... sometimes belief is enough.
IRIS: Statistical probability of reunion: unknown. But probability of trying: 100%. Probability of hoping: 100%. Probability of—
MAMMON: Don't. Don't analyze this. Just... let it be.
IRIS: long pause Agreed. Letting it be.
AZRAEL: That's growth.
IRIS: That's... something.
---
Outside, the wind shifted. The peak glowed. And somewhere on the mountain, something that might have been a scout, might have been a watcher, might have been the Order itself, noted the small fire in the small cave and marked it as significant.
They're coming.
Let them come.
