The heat came first. It rolled across the obsidian flats in slow, suffocating waves, carrying ash and the bitter sting of sulfur. The ground beneath Varang’s bare feet was warm—alive with the memory of fire. She stood at the edge of a broken lava field, her silhouette carved against a sky stained copper and black, where smoke coiled like wounded spirits. She felt it before she saw it. A presence that did not belong. From between the jagged spires of cooled magma, the human emerged alone.

No metal beasts followed. No aircraft screamed overhead. Just one figure moving carefully through the ash, boots crunching softly against glassed stone. The human wore an exopack, its faint mechanical hiss the only sound that disturbed the wind. Tubes traced from mask to spine, fogging briefly with each breath. A duffle bag rode heavy on their back, weathered and scarred, and in their hands rested a rifle, held low—not raised, but never released. Varang’s fingers tightened around her spear.

She did not signal her warriors. She did not call out. She watched. The human paused, scanning the horizon as if the land itself might rise to strike them. Ash clung to their armor and cloth, dulling the colors into something almost respectful—almost funereal. This one had walked far. This one had survived long enough to learn fear.

Good.

Firelight caught Varang’s eyes as she stepped forward from the smoke. The human froze. They turned slowly, rifle lifting halfway before stopping, uncertainty cutting through trained instinct. The mask tilted, lenses reflecting Varang’s form—her scorched ornaments, the bone and obsidian woven into her armor, the marks of fire painted into her skin like sacred scars. She was not like the others they had fought. She did not scream. She did not rush.

“You walk alone,” Varang said, her voice low and steady, carrying easily across the burning air. “That means you are either brave… or already dead.” The human did not answer. Their breathing quickened, audible even through the exopack. Still, the rifle did not rise. Still, they did not flee.

Varang felt something stir—an old, sharp curiosity she thought fire had burned away. She circled them slowly, feet scraping ash, eyes never leaving the human’s trembling balance between defiance and exhaustion. This one was not a conqueror marching with armies. This one was a survivor, stripped down to will and discipline.

“Your people come with fire and thunder,” she continued. “They take. They burn. Then they hide behind the sky.” She stopped directly in front of them. “You did not.” The human’s gloved hand tightened on the rifle stock. A subtle movement—trained, restrained. “I wonder,” Varang said softly, “what broke you enough to walk into my land alone.”

For a long moment, only the wind answered. Then Varang lowered her spear. Not in mercy. In interest. Behind her, the volcanic horizon rumbled—a reminder that fire was always watching, always listening. And as ash drifted between them like falling embers, Varang knew this meeting would not end with a single life extinguished.

Some flames did not consume. Some changed what they touched.