Before memory, before voice, before even the gods had faces—
there was fire.
It burned where nothing else dared to stand.
It breathed where the wind died screaming.
And it never looked back.
Until one night…
it did.
---
The cave was shallow and scarred. Its entrance split the black cliff like a fang. Wind howled past it, carrying the scent of rot and rain. Lightning rolled behind the clouds but did not strike.
Inside, a woman lay on stone.
Her back arched, her skin streaked with dirt and blood, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her hands gripped the earth like it might pull her back together.
No one moved to help her.
Not the bone-marked men.
Not the ash-covered women.
Not the children crouched in fear.
They watched with still eyes. As if the child inside her did not belong to her alone…
but to something older.
Something waiting.
---
Fire crackled in the center of the cave.
Not gently.
Not protectively.
It hissed like a thing alive.
Its light struck the cave walls in sharp angles, casting beast-shaped shadows across every face. The flames bent low, restless. Angry. Alert.
Like it knew what was coming.
---
The woman did not speak.
There were no words in this age.
Only grunts. Breath. Bone.
And the echo of thunder in the chest.
But she felt it—
the end of her strength
and the beginning of something else.
She gave one last cry—
raw and wordless.
And then…
a sound answered.
---
It was not the cry of a newborn.
It was not the wet, gasping panic of something unsure it wanted to live.
It was a breath.
Sharp.
Steady.
Claimed.
---
The fire flared.
Not high.
Inward.
Toward the sound.
---
The child did not cry.
He opened his eyes.
And the flame bent.
Not from wind. Not from breath.
As if it had seen something it had never seen before.
---
The tribe stepped back without meaning to.
Not in fear.
In awe.
Not of the child.
Of what the fire had just done.
---
The woman's body trembled, but her eyes never left the boy in her arms.
He was slick with blood. But his gaze was clear. Still.
He did not twitch.
He did not blink.
She touched her chest.
Her lips moved, broken and dry.
She breathed in—
"Ahh…"
Then touched his.
"...shur…"
Her voice cracked like embers beneath her tongue.
"…Ashur."
---
The flame bent again.
Like it understood.
Like it agreed.
---
The name hovered in the air like smoke that refused to vanish.
And something inside the fire changed.
---
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
Except him.
Ashur.
---
A shape stirred at the cave's edge.
Not a beast.
Not quite man.
He stood apart—tall, broad-shouldered, his body wrapped in hide and scar. A necklace of fang-bones hung over his chest, each one earned in blood. In his right hand he held a curved shard of lizardbone, sharpened to a brutal edge.
He had no name. But all feared him.
He was the one who killed what others could not.
He did not smile. He did not grunt.
He looked at the boy. Then at the fire.
And for the first time in years…
he narrowed his eyes.
---
Outside the cave, the wind fell silent.
And in that silence, something listened.
---
A sound rolled beneath the jungle floor—
not footsteps.
A ripple.
A call answered.
From the shadows beneath roots and bone, six eyes opened in the dark.
Yellow. Cold. Remembering.
They had felt it.
The moment the fire turned.
They had been waiting for it.
---
In the cave, the flame dimmed slightly, shrinking low as the night grew heavier.
The boy blinked once.
Then again.
Then reached out—
not for food.
Not for warmth.
For the fire.
---
His fingers hovered just above the coals.
He did not flinch.
The flame pulled toward him—softly.
As if greeting an equal.
---
Behind him, the warrior stood slowly.
He looked toward the jungle.
Something was coming.
Not because it hungered.
But because something had been born that was not supposed to exist.
---
He crouched low, gripping the fang-blade tight.
He would not shout.
There were no warnings in this world.
Only those who fought…
and those who were forgotten.
---
The flame hissed one last time.
And in the windless dark,
the old world exhaled.
---