The first fire did not begin with intention.
It began with sound.
A sharp crack split the quiet near the edge of the forest—stone against stone, harder than before, struck in frustration rather than care. One man recoiled as a spark jumped, bright and brief, dying before it touched the ground.
He froze.
So did the others.
Melina felt her breath catch. "Did you see that?"
Boris nodded slowly. "Yes."
The man struck again.
Another spark leapt free. This one landed in dry leaves and vanished instantly, leaving behind only a smell—sharp, unfamiliar, biting at the nose.
The humans murmured.
They leaned closer.
Curiosity pressed forward.
The third strike lingered.
A thin thread of orange flickered, fragile and alive, licking at the leaves as if tasting them. Smoke rose—thin, pale, uncertain.
Melina covered her mouth. "Fire."
The humans stepped back at once.
Not fear—recognition of danger without understanding it. Heat pushed outward. Light pulsed strangely, moving on its own, refusing to stay still.
One of them reached forward with a stick.
The flame leapt.
The stick blackened, curled, and began to glow.
The man dropped it immediately, hissing in pain, shaking his hand violently. His skin reddened where heat had kissed it.
The others reacted—not by retreating, but by copying.
Sticks were thrust toward the flame. Withdrawn. Thrust again. Laughter broke out—short, sharp, unsteady.
Melina's voice was tight. "They're playing with it."
"They're mapping it," Boris said. "Distance. Heat. Reaction time."
The fire grew.
Someone fed it leaves. Another added twigs. The flame responded eagerly, rising higher, brighter, more confident.
The forest smelled different now—dryness giving way to something acrid and heavy.
Melina took a step back instinctively. "This is going to get out of control."
The humans didn't notice.
They were too busy watching how the fire moved—how it ate without chewing, how it consumed without swallowing.
One man screamed suddenly.
His bark covering—freshly torn from a fallen tree earlier that day—had caught fire.
It happened instantly.
The dry bark flared bright orange, flame racing across his torso faster than his body could react. He staggered backward, slapping at himself, confusion turning to panic.
The group scattered.
He fell.
The fire clung to him.
Melina screamed. "Oh my god—"
Another human rushed forward instinctively, grabbing at the burning bark. The fire transferred.
Now two were burning.
The smell changed again.
Boris turned away for a moment, jaw clenched. "This is why fire takes centuries to master."
One of the burning men rolled wildly on the ground. Dirt smothered the flames unevenly, patches of fire dying while others persisted. His screams fractured into raw, broken sounds.
The second collapsed, unmoving.
Silence fell abruptly once the fire consumed itself.
Smoke drifted upward, slow and indifferent.
The humans stood frozen, staring at the bodies.
No one touched them.
No one approached.
The man who had rolled free was still alive. His skin blistered. His bark covering was blackened, fused to flesh in places.
He breathed—ragged, shallow.
Melina felt tears burn her eyes. "They don't know how to help him."
"No," Boris said softly. "They only know what not to repeat."
The group shifted, uneasy. Some backed away from the fire. Others stared at the bark still smoldering on the ground.
A murmur spread—confusion, not blame.
No one tore off their own bark coverings.
Melina blinked. "They don't think the bark caused it."
Boris watched closely. "They saw the fire move. The bark didn't move on its own."
One of them approached cautiously and nudged the fallen bark with a stick. It did not ignite again.
The fire itself was avoided now.
Distance recalculated.
The living man was left where he lay.
Not abandoned—simply… no longer the focus.
He would either live or die. The group had no concept of tending burns. No salves. No water application beyond instinct.
They watched him breathe until they lost interest.
Then they moved on.
Melina's voice shook. "They're just… leaving him."
"They don't know what else to do," Boris replied. "Intervention ended in death minutes ago."
The dead man lay where he had fallen, body already stiffening. No one touched him. No ritual formed. No attempt at burial.
The forest would take him back.
Insects already gathered.
Melina swallowed hard. "In our time… we would cremate. Or bury. Or—"
"In theirs," Boris said, "the body returns to where it stopped moving."
They did not mark the place.
They did not remember it out loud.
They adjusted.
Later, as dusk crept in, the survivors approached the fire again—carefully. Someone used a long branch to pull embers closer together. Another fed it smaller pieces this time.
No bark.
Only stone-lined ground.
The flame obeyed.
Melina exhaled shakily. "They learned."
"Yes," Boris said. "But not the lesson we would teach."
The fire warmed them as night fell.
Bark coverings were adjusted, not removed. Tighter. Looser. Away from the flame.
Pain had refined behavior.
The dead remained where they were.
The living ate, warmed, and watched the light flicker.
Melina looked away, exhausted. "They don't call it a sin."
"No," Boris said. "They call it consequence."
The fire crackled softly.
Somewhere beyond the light, the forest waited.
And humanity moved on—scarred, fewer, and wiser in the only way it knew how.