Year eight of the Firefolk Era, dawn on the spring equinox.
Across the Nine Provinces, grasses and trees had just begun to bud. The Starfire River wound like a silver ribbon, and the river of kindling flowed quietly through the mortal world. In streets and alleyways, lamplight had become an everyday thing—no longer a miracle, no longer a ritual, but a habit: light a lamp when traveling at night, leave a light when coming home, offer warmth to those caught in the cold.
Yet the true flame seed was never found amid brilliant lights, but in the darkest corners, the faintest heartbeats.
That day, outside Sand-Speech Town, in the slum alleys.
A child of about six crouched beneath a broken eave, holding a lamp pieced together from pottery shards—he had scavenged it from a rubbish heap. Its base was cracked, its wick charred black. There was neither oil nor crystal, only a little leftover charcoal.
Others laughed at him. "That lamp died long ago. You can't light it."
The child said nothing. He smeared a small piece of animal fat onto the charcoal, then took two strands of tinder from inside his clothes and carefully tucked them into the wick.
"My mother said... as long as the lamp stays lit, people won't get lost."
"She said someone would wait beneath the lamp for her to come home."
He lowered his head and struck the flint lightly—
Click, click, click.
Three soft sounds. Sparks scattered.
The lamp did not light.
He refused to give up, striking again, and again, and again...
His fingers split in the cold. Blood dripped onto the pottery shards, mingling with the charcoal ash into a dark red.
On the eleventh strike, the sparks finally caught the tinder. A wisp of blue smoke rose, the wick trembled,