The day starts with a knife of cold wind. Mai Nakano, seventeen, wakes under the open sky. There’s no roof, only sky and the pale arch of driftwood trees. She cups her hands. Her breath mists as tiny crystals. No one’s sure if there’ll be food today. Last night eight rats, supplies lost. Who’s at fault?
Makoto, calm as sleep, hands out the morning ration—barely a palm of berries. It’s not enough. ‘We need the traps back,’ Mai notes. ‘I’m working on it,’ Makoto replies, tired hint cut in steady voice. They share a look—a pact, wordless. That’s the bond that keeps them at Ashen Haven. We’re strangers banded by time and scraps. Would you trust someone this quick? Could you?
Night is worse now. Feral calls circle their tents. Is there something out there, or is the dark hollow with lies? Sora and Dai, twins half-Mai’s size, squabble. Their argument snaps in the quiet. ‘You took it!’ ‘No way, I saw—’ ‘You’re both wrong!’ Ken groans. He’s run the far furthest this week, scouting for the vanished river. If the spring’s gone, the camp dries with it. Could you sleep if your next drink was never sure?
‘Why don’t we light the signal?’ asks Sora. ‘It’s wasteful,’ Ken says. ‘But a ship could spot it.’ Sora’s brave—wants hope—but fear darkens her eyes. They’re stuck, five in an old trawler beached in the silvery ash flats of Ishiga Isle. Supplies dwindling, shelter crumbling. How long does hope last out here?
Mai’s plan is risky. If the group heads out by the salt crags, they might find the old trader’s cache. Or it’s a trap; last season, the cliffs fell and almost crushed Ken. Still, each bird that flicks past, or howl at dusk, reminds them what’s at stake. The tale of what happened three days before—when someone’s lantern almost cost the dry meal batch—lingers. Who lit it? No one would admit. Not with rules this strict. What mistake would you be willing to make?
The group walks in silent pairs at dawn. Makoto can spot danger in every shape: twisted wire, a trick pool of fresh water gone slug-thick, odd nettles stinging skin. ‘Careful,’ he mutters. ‘Your step, Mai—wait.’ There’s movement through the ash. Quick—two red-patched wolves sniff at their line. They pause, raw hunger in yellow eyes. Neither trainer nor soldier here, only kids and a few rusty pans as shields. It’s a stand still; pure pulses. Would you hold your breath or bolt?
Sun splits clouds low as the wolves turn away. Prey gone dry, they vanish into mist. The gang shares relief, shock, maybe shame. There’s always a threat outside their line, but just how close did they come? Is one slip, one panic, death on the air?
Noon’s haul from the crags: hungry limpets, dull glass beads, an old crow’s feather. Loom’s broken, but Mai weaves the feather into her cord. Is there hope built on such small finds? She thinks so, bites at dry jerky. ‘I’m not giving in,’ Mai whispers, to herself, anyone within ear. Just then, Ken says, ‘Fire!’—a spiral of thin smoke beyond camp. The tension rips each face wide. Are they not alone after all?
No decisions; they run. Trees edge the open ash valley. Makoto leads, Mai swerves. Sora and Dai hug old roots, Ken pulls a grimy club free. The scene ahead: not a rescue signal—an animal pyre, its edge traced with scrawled marks. Fresh, warm. Human hands. Or is it a warning? Sora stares. ‘Is someone hunting us?’
They don’t have an answer. It hangs in the chill dusk. Should they hide or call out? Mai finds a scrap—cloth stamped with Kanji none can read, frayed but red with strange ash. The wind rides a voice none of them can catch. Dark falls. Barely safe, the group hurries back. Rival survivors—wild folk, or someone darker—are the cliffhanger at day’s drop. What would you choose? Silent, hidden, or break out and risk all? Next time: will a friend vanish from their little band, or does help wait in the new flame?
