The withered stalks offered no resistance, letting go of whatever imitation of life they had left, as his sandal came down atop them. Each crunch knotted Fain’s stomach tighter. Sneaking out to the fields used to be one of his favorite pastimes, especially if it was night. The moonlit sky, uninterrupted by shadows cast by glowstone or lanterns, offered a surreal view the stars. It might have been in his head, but he could swear they were more distinct out in the open pastures of the Middle Rings. His father, and later Lyra, had tried to stop him from sneaking out at night. Apparently, anywhere outside of Keep Estrelle was wrought with danger. Luckily, a great benefit of the keep being positioned right next to the wall dividing the two rings was there were far too many connecting tunnels to place a guard at each. Of course, with Lyra still barely conscious for an hour each day, making his way here had been laughably easy. Today, he had chosen the passage leading out of the storage room next to Lyra’s. Usually a bold choice, it was simply the most convenient this time. Made it easy for him to go right back to Lyra’s bedside when he was done.

His stomach made another twist. The fresh air hadn’t done as much good as he was led to believe. She would be all right, this was Lyra after all. That’s what I thought about Father too. His sketchbook rested in his curled fingers, weighing more than usual. For the first time since Father’s death, with the stars mocking him from clear skies, he didn’t have the heart to reach for his pen. He craned his head up, until the back of his head rested firmly between his shoulders. They were so magnificent, so large they threatened to dwarf everything else in insignificance. Yet, they couldn’t give him a single answer, hint, or damned clue about what to do. He grit his teeth and shoved down a scream that would make the unruliest of toddlers proud.

The blackened crops around him, Lyra bedridden, and the looming expedition were all collapsing upon him and his dearest friends offered no help. Fain let his neck down, quickly scanning the acres of wizened stalks around him. Even now, late in the night, he could see a man leading a turren painstakingly down the field. The poor creature was emaciated, trudging slowly as it pulled the plow down a line of crops. Its three eyes, usually unerring, were only a dull red, no pupils in sight. The beast of burden looked forward in an expression that almost seemed hopeless. It was an apt mirror of the beast master’s demeanor. Behind the cleared land, two Blooms had their hands dug deep in the ground, everything from the elbow down obscured. Fain couldn’t make out their expressions, but that they were out here spoke volumes.

An emotion swelled in his chest; one he didn’t run into much these days-pride. His people still worked for a solution. In Molanter’s darkest hour, the common folk were actually pouring their lives into the dirt to help. It wasn’t the riots that Sacriel and the lords feared. It wasn’t even the ignorance or indifference that a nagging part of Fain expected. Instead, these people slumped, worn, and starving showed strength- and belief in brighter days. He couldn’t wander here, cursing the stars, bemoaning the situation. He owed these people more; he owed them a better lord than himself. The best he could do now was try to become that person. Thankfully, he had their, and Lyra’s, support to help him get there.

Pride still swelling, lifting his shoulders taught and head straight, Fain swept aside the decrepit stalks in his path and marched towards the wall to his back. Keep Estrelle-no, his keep- loomed over the wall, almost a full level taller than the wall. His bag felt lighter, each step easier was easier to take than the last. Thoughts racing, Fain barely noticed that he was sprinting by the time he reached the wall. Running his fingers along the fifth row of bricks, Fain moved along the edge until he felt a soft indentation. Out of habit, he traced the marking, his fingers drawing a faint outline of a grossly oversimplified star. The motion was natural to him, one he thoughtlessly etched on doors, parchment, and, long ago, this brick.

However, this brick was of little importance. He bent down to the second row of bricks under the engraved one and gave it a tentative shove. It smoothly gave way, sliding past a flap hidden behind it and landing with a loud thunk. He pulled the one to right out, quieting the child in him, begging him to flee before the whole wall collapsed. It didn’t, another testament to weedsprout sap. He repeated this with the two beneath, leaving a gap revealing a pale yellow flap in his wake.

Fain couldn’t stop his face from scrunching into a grimace. This was the messy part. He dropped prone to the ground, soil taking up new residence on his white cloth garb. Why did I pick these clothes? He began crawling, elbow after elbow through the flap. After his body had made it all the way through, he reached his hand out blindly past the flap, reaching for the bricks he had left behind. There has to be a better sequence for this. A few moments of blind grasping had passed and he finally managed to secure all four treasures. Slowly placing them in their rightful spots, all evidence of his secret erased, Fain stood and braced his hand against the right wall. He looked forward, if what he did could be counted as looking. The inside of the wall was pitch-black, allowing not even shadows to enter.

Hand still flat against the wall, Fain began moving blindly down the passage. The rough sensation of the stone disappeared from his presence at one point, but he faithfully carried on until it returned. This happened four more times, but Fain was undeterred. He knew this path inside and out, he didn’t even need to carry around a glowstone anymore. The next time the stone’s touch disappeared, Fain turned right, part of brain still concerned about walking face first into a wall. After that was another right, and then a long walk leading to a dead end. Faint light leaked out from the wall of the dead end, encouraging Fain to quicken his pace towards it. He let out an exhaling, silencing the part of him worried about getting lost.

Just as he had done when he entered the wall, he pushed out a lower brick and made a small crawlspace. There was no flap after this one though, instead it just led into a slightly less imposing darkness. The faint light in this room was almost blinding after walking the walls. Dimly lit boxes rested, collecting dust from years of abandon. It was an interesting twist of fate that they had placed his father’s personal effects in the storage room with a passage. Fain almost reached to open one and reminisce, but there was a time and place for that. Stepping towards the flap, Fain reached out to move it aside.

“Back so soon? I expected to wait here another hour. Pi-“

Fain whirled around, a scream for help clawing its way out of his throat. His fingers twitched, looking for something to throw at the voice- nothing of use. Instead he turned again, and burst through the flap into hallway. He landed on his knees, toppling over from the off balance sprint. Lyra was next door! He had to find some guards.

A figure calmly exited the flap behind him. Fain scooted backwards, eventually hit the wall. Then he spotted the dull red hair. He jumped up and leapt at the figure, feeling relieved in more ways than one.

“Lyra!” She hugged him back, radiating familiar warmth. After taking a moment to remind his heart there was no danger, he spoke again, trying his best to sound irked. “Why would you do that?! Almost scared me into Decay’s arms!”

Her mouth quirked in amusement. “Figured it would be a better lesson than simply telling you to stop sneaking out.”

Fain let go, still unable to find the air of annoyance he wanted to give her. He felt too relieved, some of the weight on his shoulders lifting.

“How are you feeling? Need anything?”

Lyra reached her hand up on top her head and pulled her neck to one side until there was a faint pop, followed by a groan of relief. She repeated this for the other side.

“I’m tired, and very stiff. I could use a walk.”

He gestured down the hall. “Kitchen? I could get you some firespice tea.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to make it?”

He flushed, a little embarrassed at his wording.

“I meant I would ask a servant to make some.”

“It’s a good suggestion. Don’t wake the house staff at my expense though. I can make it just fine.”

“If you’re not up to it, I could do it myself. How hard could it be? You put the spice in hot water, right?”

She smiled and gave a weak laugh. “A nice gesture, my lord. But I’d prefer not to be poisoned so soon after my recovery.”

It would’ve sounded dismissive coming from most, but from Lyra’s lips it was refreshing. Clearly, her prowess at mockery was unharmed. A grin split his face as he fell into stride next to her, walking slowly towards the kitchen. For the first time all week, things felt right, if only for the moment.

Fain watched as Lyra sipped the steaming mixture from an ornate ceramic cup. It made sense that Wicks loved the drink. The stuff was foul, worse even than liquor. The one time he had tried the brew, it burned in his stomach, making him feel as if something was very wrong. The feeling faded after a few minutes, but it was enough to deter Fain from touching the stuff again.

A strange silence had filled the space between the two. It was the kind found between close friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time; the bonds were there, but something felt off. Lyra set the cup down and it twanged hollowly against the stone.

“I take it you have a question?”

“More like a few dozen.”

She gave an uneasy chuckle at that. “Ask and I’ll try my best to answer.”

“What happened?”

“Sacriel betrayed us.”

Fain arched an eyebrow, fighting back his own smirk. “This is your best? I’m thoroughly disappointed.”

Lyra rolled her eyes, a more petulant gesture than she usually gave. “You know I’m a Wick. What’s the actual question here?”

“I knew you were a Wick, not Lady Heat herself! You exploded, Lyra. I’ve never even heard of a Wick doing something like that.”

“Is that really how you would talk to Lady Heat? Seems unwise.”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

She sighed, slumping over in a very un-Lyra fashion. “What do you remember about what Wicks are?”

Dammit. Fain had not been expected a test. “Uh, they are tuned to Heat.”

Lyra rolled her again, apparently waking up from a week long slumber did not leave her in a good mood. “Anything else?”

“They, uh, absorb heat?”

She scowled. “It appears you remember absolutely nothing about when we discussed Tuned.”

Fain set his jaw, making sure not to shrink back. She wasn’t going to shame him into giving this up. “Enough Lyra. Just tell me.”

Surprisingly, she actually smirked a bit at that response, like he had passed some sort of test after all. “Fine. You win.” She paused, a contemplative look crossing her face. “Don’t worry too much, that’s a common misunderstanding. To start, rub your hands together.”

Fain eyed her, skeptically. “More questions? I thought we were past this.”

“I’m getting there. Do it.”

Fain felt foolish as he put palm against palm and rubbed furiously.

“What do you feel?”

“Warmth. What’s the point?”

“That is. Movement becomes heat, and vice versa. Everyone has some amount of it they use to live. Wicks can just hold more than normal. It’s why we’re warmer, faster, and quicker.”

“What about making fires?”

“We let some of our excess heat into the environment. It’s not absorbing heat, it’s the opposite. In fact, absorbing heat is actually how Chills express their-”

Fain nodded his head, cutting off the tangent. “Ok, fine that makes sense. What about the explosion? Wicks make small fires, not infernos.”

Lyra furrowed her face, struggling to find the words. “It’s hard to explain. Think of it the ability like a muscle. As Wicks age and train, their ability to hold heat improves. What you call ‘the explosion’ is known as the Ignition. You take all the heat you’re holding and…” She gestured helplessly, uncharacteristically at a loss for how to explain something. “squeeze it?”

Fain couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”

She flushed, clearly flustered. It was a night filled with uncharacteristic reactions from Lyra. “Don’t laugh. If you were a Wick you would know what I mean. Extra heat builds here.” She pointed right between her ribs. “When I Ignite, I force that heat tighter and tighter and just…let it all out.”

Fain could see she was trying her best to explain it and decided to ease off the topic. It would surely be frustrating to Lyra to be unable to explain this. He wouldn’t to worsen her mood further.

“Ok, I get it…sort of. How did you learn that? Can you teach it to other Wicks?”

“I learned a while back, before I came to Molanter. And I could teach it…given a decade or so of instruction.”

Fain deflated, slinking into the hard stone bench. There went his hopes of bring a handful of Lyra’s on the expedition. It would’ve made the journey much less daunting. “I guess it can’t be that easy.”

She looked at him, noticing the idea die in his mind. Her expression softened, melted by pity. “Unfortunately not.”

“How long until you can Ignite again? Will you be ready by the time we leave to get what we need for Evergrowth.”

Lyra ran her fingers through her hair, looking ruefully. “Ignite like I did back then? Maybe a half dozen years. However, I’ll be back to myself in a week or so as I build heat.”

Fain nodded. Even if they weren’t the answers he wanted, it was nice to have them. It helped chip away at the confusion that plagued everything he did. “I don’t want to rush you before you’re ready. It’s just-“. His voice broke, not wanting to speak these words into existence. It would make it even more real. “The fields are all decayed. I just don’t know how much longer we have.”