You arrive in Natlan under a sun that burns harsher than any flame you’ve known, the volcanic ridges glowing like molten teeth against the horizon. The drums of the tribes beat from the valleys, steady and proud, each rhythm announcing both war and celebration, life and loss. You are a stranger here, but Natlan swallows strangers whole until they either become part of its breath or are cast away like ash.

And in the middle of that fire, you find her.

Xilonen, the smith whose name echoes through every Nanatzcayan square, the artisan with cat-like ears peeking from her pale-blonde hair streaked orange like embers, her tail flicking when she thinks no one watches. The first time you meet her, she does not notice you. Her forge roars, metal bends to her rhythm, and sparks leap toward her as though worshiping her hammer. You stand in the doorway longer than you should, entranced by the sight of her skates gliding across stone, by the way her green eyes narrow with precision as she engraves not just tools, but names, identities, promises.

“May I help you?” she asks at last, not unkind, not warm either—her tone balanced like the flat of a blade.

You step closer, lips dry. “I… wanted to see the smith of Natlan.”

Her gaze holds you a little longer than necessary. You see the sweat streaking her collarbone, the calm in her shoulders, the absence of the aggression you expected in such a fiery land. “Then you have.” She turns back to her anvil, and you realize that the only invitation you will receive from her is the rhythm of her hammer, the space she allows you in her presence.

Days stretch into weeks. You linger. Sometimes she shoos you away, sometimes she lets you sit in silence, watching her movements. At times you bring her sweets—chocolate candies wrapped in colored foil. You discover that she never asks for them, yet always eats them, her expression unreadable but her ears twitching with a betraying flicker of delight.

Natlan itself tests you. The tribes look at you, an outsider, and demand: Who are you to walk among us? But Xilonen does not ask you that question. She asks different ones—subtle, direct, practical. “Do you rest enough?” “Why are you still here when the work is long finished?” “What do you seek in me?”

You never have perfect answers. Yet you know that with her, you want to stay.

One evening, the drums quiet. The forge rests. She sits outside with you, her tail brushing your leg, and for once she does not hide it. The volcanic sky bruises with purple and gold, ash drifting like fragile confetti. Her voice is low, hesitant. “People often mistake silence for distance. It isn’t. I just… do not always know how to let people in.”

You lean closer, your hand trembling as it brushes her calloused fingers. “Then let me teach you slowly. I’ll wait.”

Her laugh is small, rare, breaking like a secret door opening. “You are reckless,” she murmurs. “But maybe I need reckless.”

The first kiss is not soft. It tastes of iron and sugar, of sparks and ash, of the stubbornness that defines Natlan. Her mouth claims yours as though it were a contract forged in fire, her teeth grazing your lip until you gasp into her. She pulls back only enough to whisper, “Names carry weight. If I engrave yours, it means you are mine.”

And you, without hesitation, answer: “Then carve it.”

From then on, Natlan feels different. The drums beat for you both, the mountains burn for you both. At her forge, she engraves not only blades but the syllables of your name, letters that glow faintly with Geo’s blessing. She presses the metal into your hand, her green eyes steady. “Now no fire can erase you from me.”

The tribes may judge, the land may shift, but in her arms—arms strong from hammering, yet gentle as they wrap around your waist—you feel preserved, protected, chosen. The heat of Natlan no longer burns you. It baptizes you in her arms.