Year 59 of the firefolk era, the night of the spring equinox.
Xiaoman, a seven-year-old boy from Ruin Abyss Lane, slept on the earthen kang, his head resting on the cloth tiger his granny had sewn, his feet in torn cotton shoes, half a cold flatbread still clutched in his hand.
He had a dream.
In the dream, he stood upon a river.
The river held no water, only light—a vast, surging river of light that wound through the depths beneath the earth, threading the Nine Provinces like blood vessels. Glimmers floated upon its surface, like lamps, like stars, like the light in human eyes.
"This is the Heart Flame River," a voice said. It sounded nothing like human speech, yet entered his heart.
He looked down and saw the land of the Nine Provinces beneath his feet. He saw: the well in Ruin Abyss Lane had dried up, the hearths on West Street had gone out, the veins of the Northern Border had broken, and the springs of Southern Island had run dry.
"The flame seeds will die, the well veins will run dry, and the Nine Provinces will grow cold."
"Who will save them?" he asked.
"You."
"Me?" He looked down at himself, at his little hands and feet. He could not even split firewood.
"The flame seed lies not in strength, but in the heart," the voice said. "What you have seen in your dreams is the flame seed."
Suddenly, he understood—this river of light was the heartbeat of the Nine Provinces.
He reached out to scoop up a handful of light, but the current slipped down his fingers and seeped underground, tracing a vein through the soil—like roots, like rivers, like the warp and weft upon a loom.
He jolted awake, drenched in sweat, a patch