Year twenty-three of the Firefolk Era, the spring equinox.
The old locust tree in Gray Ridge Village suddenly burst into flame before the morning mist had cleared.
The fire began at its roots and spiraled up its trunk, yet there was no thick smoke, no crackling, no scorched stench. Its faint red hue seemed steeped in sunset clouds, its light gentle as the spring sun. Rather than burning anyone, it brought warmth, like a soft embrace.
The villagers panicked and tried to put it out, but the old village head raised a hand to stop them. "Leave it be—this fire harms nothing. It only gives warmth."
Sure enough, the flames licked the tree without scorching its branches or leaves; instead, its buds blossomed. The old locust had already been half dead, yet that morning it put out fresh green shoots, its branches laden with blossoms like a covering of snow. In the firelight, its shadow swayed, and a woman seemed to stand within it, stroking the trunk and whispering like the wind: "Where spring burns to embers, the lingering fire never dies."
The sick came when they heard.
A hundred li away, someone afflicted with "Cold Bone Disease" had lain bedridden for years, limbs stiff and cold, beyond any physician's help. Hearing of the "warming tree" in Gray Ridge Village, the family carried the patient there. Beneath the tree, they removed the quilt and laid the patient where the firelight fell. Within moments, warmth returned to those limbs, and rigid veins loosened. Tears fell as the patient sighed, "I... I feel as though I'm back in my mother's womb."
In another village, an epidemic raged, leaving the sick with relentless fevers and clouded minds. The physicians had exhausted their remedies; only an old woman brought her grandson there, his face