Two years in the Wani Mountains had stripped the soft edges from Kael Thorne. At eight years old, he was a creature of bone and sinew, his body wiry and toughened by the relentless thinness of the air.
He moved with a strange, fluid grace that seemed at odds with the jagged obsidian slopes, his feet finding purchase on ice-slicked ledges where even the mountain goats stumbled.
They survived on the margins. They hunted the white-furred hares of the high peaks and traded their pelts at Osu, a remote village tucked into a crevice of the mountain like a stubborn lichen. To the villagers, they were simply the "Ash-Men"—drifters who smelled of old smoke and carried a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight.
Vane Thorne was a fading ember. He had stopped trying to force the fire out of Kael. The "Proper Path" had been abandoned, replaced by a weary, weighted silence. His health was failing; the "simmer"—the constant, low-level bending he used to keep them from freezing in their sleep—was draining his very life force. His skin had turned the color of ash, and he moved as if his limbs were made of lead, every step a calculated battle against gravity.
The afternoon the world caught up with them, Kael was in the Osu market square. He was haggling with Suki Ren, a woman with hands as rough as sandpaper, trading a fox skin for a meager bag of grain.
"The fur is thin this season, boy," Suki muttered, her eyes narrowing. "Barely worth the salt to cure it."
"It's from the high ridge," Kael replied, his voice grounded and calm. "The cold makes the coat tighter. It'll hold heat better than anything from the valley."
Before she could retort, the air in the square shifted. It wasn't a wind, but a sudden, sharp tension that made the hair on Kael's neck prickle. A group of men entered the square, their boots striking the cobblestones with a rhythmic, military precision. They weren't the local militia or the Fire Nation Enforcers.
These men wore the dark, armored robes of the Takka Syndicate—Makoa Vane's personal hounds.
At their lead walked Zane Arlo. He moved with a predatory elegance, though Kael noticed a slight, hitching limp in his stride—a permanent souvenir from the fall in the Undercity two years ago.
Kael didn't hesitate. He dropped the fox skin and ducked behind a stack of heavy grain sacks, his heart hammering against his ribs. The Shiver responded instantly, a cold, slick film of sweat covering his palms.
"We're looking for a man and a boy," Zane said, his voice like silk sliding over a blade. He stood before the village elder, a stooped man named Hoto. "The man is a disgraced soldier. The boy... the boy is something unique."
Hoto leaned on his staff, his eyes milky with age. "We see many drifters, traveler. We don't ask for names. We only ask for trade."
Zane's smile was a jagged thing. He reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a small glass vial. He uncorked it, pouring a single drop of luminous blue liquid onto the frost-covered ground. The liquid didn't soak into the earth. Instead, it vibrated, pulsing with a rhythmic light before stretching out into a needle-like point, aimed directly toward the mountain path.
"Spirit-water," Zane murmured, his eyes tracking the light. "It hums when it's near its own kind. They're up there."
Kael didn't wait to hear the rest. He slipped through the back of the market, his movements a blur of practiced agility. He ran, not with the heavy stomp of a soldier, but with a light, skimming touch, his lungs burning as he ascended the steep, winding trails toward their cave.
He reached the sanctuary just as the sun began to bleed orange across the peaks. Vane was sitting by a pathetic, flickering fire, his eyes closed and his breath coming in shallow, wet rattles.
"Father! We have to go! They found us!"
Vane opened his eyes. They were cloudy, the fire in him almost extinguished. "Who?"
"The Syndicate. Zane Arlo. They have spirit-water, Father. They're tracking me."
Vane stood up. It was a slow, agonizing process. His joints popped like dry wood, and he had to lean his full weight against the stone wall to keep from collapsing. But as he looked at Kael, a spark of the old sergeant returned to his gaze—a flash of iron-willed discipline.
"How many?"
"Five. Maybe more. They're already halfway up the pass."
Vane looked at his hands, then at the narrow crevice at the back of the cave—the only exit. He grabbed his old military cloak, the heavy wool draped over his shoulders like a shroud.
"They aren't here for me, Kaelen," Vane said, using his son's full name for the first time in years. "To them, you're a weapon. A tool to be forged or broken. To me... you're just my son."
He pushed Kael toward the crevice. "Go. Find the tea-merchant in the valley of Zhu. Tell him you're the son of the man who saved him at Garsai. Run, Kael. Don't look back."
"I'm not leaving you!" Kael's voice broke, the Shiver inside him thrashing with grief.
"You're a Thorne," Vane growled, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "Now act like one. MOVE!"
Vane stepped out onto the ledge just as the first of the Syndicate hunters rounded the bend. The man, a broad-shouldered brawler named Jiro, didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, swinging a heavy, spiked mace.
Vane moved with the ghost of his former speed. He caught Jiro's wrist, the heat of his palm scorching the man's skin. He used Jiro's own bulk against him, pivoting his weight and slamming his elbow into the man's throat. Jiro gagged, dropping the mace, but two more hunters, Caspar and Soren, were already on the ledge.
Vane let out a guttural roar, his hands erupting in a blinding, desperate orange flame. He threw a series of rapid-fire punches, the heat so intense it cracked the obsidian rock behind him. Caspar took a blast of fire to the chest, the smell of burning wool filling the air as he was blown backward into the snow.
But Vane was flagging. Every strike cost him. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and his movements were becoming heavy and sluggish.
Zane Arlo stepped onto the plateau, his hooked blade gleaming in the moonlight. He didn't join the fray immediately; he watched, a predator waiting for the prey to bleed out.
"You're fighting for a corpse, Vane," Zane called out, dodging a stray gout of flame with a contemptuous tilt of his head. "Give us the boy, and I'll make your end quick."
"Go to hell," Vane spat. He lunged at Soren, the leaner of the two remaining guards. Vane caught Soren in a clinch, his hands glowing white-hot as he tried to sear through the man's leather armor. Soren screamed, stabbing a short-blade into Vane's thigh.
Vane didn't flinch. He twisted, using his failing bulk to drive Soren toward the edge of the cliff. They grappled at the precipice, their boots skidding on the treacherous ice. Vane slammed a final, concussive palm-strike into Soren's chest, sending the man spiraling into the abyss, but the effort left Vane on his knees.
Kael watched from the shadows of the crevice, his fingers digging into the rock until his knuckles turned white. He saw his father, a broken lion, surrounded by the remaining hunters.
Zane Arlo walked forward, the tip of his blade tracing a line in the snow. "Enough of this."
Vane looked up, blood trickling from his mouth, a tired smile touching his lips. He looked past Zane, locking eyes with Kael for one final heartbeat. He didn't say anything, but the message was clear: Survival is the only duty.
With a final, explosive burst of will....