Morning came on a bed of ash and distant thunder, though the sky above Blackridge remained stark and unmoving. Riku climbed the obsidian tower in silence, the familiar heat of his forge glowing behind him. Somewhere in the basin below, the mist curled against his fire-wall, taunting him with its cold persistence. Today was meant for diplomacy.
The emissary's arrival wasn't heralded by trumpets or banners. Instead, he walked through the mist alone, stepped through the dome's shimmer, and stood unannounced at the foot of the tower. Riku descended to meet him.
Tall and lean, the stranger wore layered hides of washed-grey leather ornamented with iron studs. His eyes—unshielded—settled on Riku, calm, assessing. Riku recognized the Highland Draganoid markings on his shoulders: jagged mountain peaks ringed in silver. He offered his hand—no warmth exchanged, just formality.
"Emissary," Riku said.
He nodded. No hint of a name.
Sira stood guard just inside the barrier. Kael followed behind them, scroll in hand. Tharn and two elite guards lingered nearby, weapons at rest—but ready. They'd been rehearsed for this: a meeting on neutral ground, no ceremony, no conditions unless offered.
The emissary's gaze flicked to the weapons hanging on Riku's wall, then to the forge smoke rising. He waited a respectful moment.
"I come with offer and warning," he said quietly.
Riku gestured. "Speak."
The emissary pulled back his sleeve to reveal a black-etched band around his wrist—symbols Riku didn't recognize. "We offer—non-aggression, trade of fire-root and seed stock. In return, we ask knowledge—your techniques with metal and heat."
Riku considered. A trade? But fire-root seeds were rare, and his forge improvements were closely guarded. If he shared too much now, he lost the edge he'd claimed. Yet refusal risked turning friendly scouts into foes.
"So," he replied slowly, "you want knowledge. But I ask instead—how many of your people have seen our defenses?"
The emissary's tail coiled loosely. "A dozen. Through mist. But no breach. We tested. You held."
Riku nodded. That much was visible—and enough. "Then I would speak after trust is built. I'm not trading what makes us strong for tendrils of diplomacy."
The emissary's bronze eyes glinted. "And yet our gods would say fire is meant to be shared—so others may choose warmth instead of waste."
Words layered like embers in a hearth. Riku watched carefully. He smelled compromise, perhaps even allegiance, flickering inside. But he didn't act.
"Return at dusk," he said. "If your scouts only glimpse smoke and steel, I will let you walk back with seeds—but you leave no marks you walked here."
The emissary inclined his head. Then, before he left, he said softly, "Beware names. East of here, they bind tribes—so the name holds their fate."
Riku's throat tightened. He said nothing beyond a slow nod.
The emissary stepped into the mist and vanished.
Riku turned, breathing out slow ash-filled air. He didn't immediately go to the war table. Instead, he walked through the camp—by the livestock pit, still empty, by the forge where Kael and two Draganoids chipped iron off the new second chamber. No one spoke. They all felt the shift. Hopes for stability, an emissary was a gamble.
By midday, he convened a small gathering inside the hall: Kael, Sira, Tharn, and two elite fighters. No one else.
He laid flat a hide scroll, revealing draft schematics of two wall designs—one for strengthening the fire barrier, one for an interior fallback. Flicks of charcoal showed vent lines reinforcing every vulnerable edge.
"I won't commit to alliance," he said steadily, "but I'll share enough knowledge to keep us stronger still. Let them calibrate forge streams with fire-root. Let them understand shifting stone. But no seed of ours becomes crown of theirs."
Kael traced a finger over the charcoal. "We can start with vent calibration tonight. Give them data—they test, refine, come back."
Tharn nodded. "Trust earned by example."
Sira added softly, "We still hold the edge."
His people were ready—to build, to trade, or even to wage war. He weighed each option against the rift he sensed beyond the ridge. Alliances were fragile. Names—he remembered the wounded wanderer's whisper. Names could mark or bind souls that would rather walk free.
That evening, the emissary returned alone, wearing a pouch of fire-root seedlings. Riku watched him deposit the gift between the logs in the forge hearth. Not planted. Observed.
"Test," the emissary said. "Then decide."
Riku nodded once, eyes flickering with cautious resolve.
When night fell, Riku sat alone before the forge. Kael had already begun calibration tests using the root-fed ember flame. Smoke danced in narrow channels. Sparks caught in folded copper wires.
And then, stillness.
He checked the supply rack.
The fire-root seedlings—once twelve—were now eighteen.
Each one rooted at the base of the fuel trough.
No prompt. No overt sign.
Just more.
[Item Folded – Fire-Root Seedlings | Original Quantity: 12 | Multiplier: x1.5 | Final: 18]
Trade had begun.
But the fire—his fire—would remain his to shape.