Chapter 64. Ashlight Reborn

The boundary of ancient oaks and pines had crept back— not by the slow, patient push of roots and canopy, but by something older than seasons, as if the forest itself had drawn a new line with silent authority. Where wilderness once pressed in on all sides, there now yawned a wide, circular clearing, its rim of trees leaning inward in gentle obeisance. Moss curled around their trunks in perfect spirals, lichen traced geometric lines like runes, and the earth, warmed deep below by an unseen ember, exhaled a faint heat that stirred the cool morning air.

At the clearing’s heart stood a single hearth. Low-walled and humble, its stones varied in shape and shade—from pale granite to dark basalt—bonded by a mortar of ash and pine resin that gave the air a sharp, resinous tang. The flame within smoldered in quiet steadiness, neither a signal of triumph nor a call to arms, but a living hearth-fire, open to the sky. Three concentric rings of benches—smooth slabs carved from storm-felled