Tatva walked behind the supply wagons, robes dusted white with sand and salt. He carried no weapon, only his satchel of instruments and a walking stick carved with three interlocking rings. Children trailing the camp called him the Flame-Talker. Some mocked. Most watched.
By midmorning, he stopped at the sound of coughing. A boy had fallen. Blistered hands. Fever-slick eyes. Tatva knelt, wiped the child’s face with vinegar, murmured a prayer. When he rose, he left a bead of charred amber around the boy’s neck. “Let the fire within guard against the fire without.”
Later, by the evening cookfires, he addressed a growing circle. Soldiers, herders, even one of the Queen’s deserters. He spoke slowly, his voice dry as dust but steady. “We Suhedi name three Purities. The Purity of Body. The Purity of Word. The Purity of Thought. Each is a flame. When all three burn together, they form a fire the false gods cannot look upon.”
Giti leaned back, arms crossed. “And what if one burns brighter than the others?”
“Then imbalance breeds ash,” Tatva said.
Gaspar joined quietly, arms folded. “Is that what you think we march toward? Ash?”
Tatva turned his head. “I think you march toward trial. And only the pure endure trial.”
Silence fell. Not from fear—from consideration.
Catellina offered Tatva water. He took it with a nod. “Many here believe their gods are watching. I say: the gods are not watching. They are waiting. And if this war opens a gate, it will not be one you can close with steel.”
Gaspar said nothing. He studied the fire. One log cracked.