The sun hung like a disappointed parent in the cloudless sky, silently judging the four flame-haired women staring at a forking path that, according to their now dubious map, should have been a straight road.

"I told you we should've turned at that weird tree that looked like an old man dropping his pants," Kindle insisted, bouncing on her heels with restless energy. "The one with the knot that looked exactly like a—"

"Yes, thank you for that anatomically precise observation," Ember cut in, pinching the bridge of her nose. A dull throb had taken up residence behind her eyes, like a tiny blacksmith determined to forge a headache into something truly spectacular. "But according to the map, there shouldn't even be a fork here."

"Perhaps the map predates recent geological events," Ash suggested, her flames curling into contemplative spirals that now occasionally sparked with amber—a visual echo of their recently dissolved companion. "Paths change. Rivers redirect. Mountains, given sufficient time, become pebbles carried in a child's pocket."

"Very poetic," Ember sighed, "but not particularly helpful for getting to Ebran before nightfall."

The four of them stood motionless, a quartet of identical faces wearing distinct expressions of frustration. They'd made excellent progress for the first hour after the Ankheg incident, covering nearly another seventy miles before the terrain grew increasingly unfamiliar.

What had begun as a minor navigational disagreement had evolved into the reluctant admission that they were, in fact, completely and utterly lost.

Kindle squinted at the map, turning it sideways as if a change in orientation might reveal hidden pathways. "Maybe if we just pick a direction and run really fast, we'll eventually hit something we recognize?"

"An excellent strategy," came Ember's reply in a tone so dryly sardonic it could have dehydrated a swamp, "if our goal were to become even more spectacularly lost." She blinked, startled by her own response. "Sorry, that... wasn't entirely me."

"Cinder," Ash observed quietly. "Her essence is manifesting in our speech patterns already."

"Great," Ember muttered, massaging her temples where the pain steadily intensified. "So now I can look forward to insulting myself with someone else's personality."

"Not insulting," Kindle corrected brightly. "Constructively critical with style!"

A wind gusted across the plains, carrying the scent of distant rain. The sky toward the east had begun to darken ominously, clouds gathering like gossips at a particularly juicy scandal.

"We should make camp," Ember decided, eyeing the approaching weather. "Running at high speeds through unfamiliar terrain during a thunderstorm seems like an excellent way to discover if we can survive impalement on a lightning-struck tree."

"Another Cinderism!" Kindle pointed out helpfully. "You're getting really good at the whole sardonic thing."

"I'll add it to my resume," Ember replied flatly, then grimaced. "This is going to get old very quickly."

Ash, who had wandered several paces ahead to survey the surrounding landscape, pointed toward a small cluster of trees about half a mile distant. "That copse offers natural shelter and a potential water source. The elevation should provide protection against flash flooding should the storm prove severe."

"Did you just analyze terrain defensibility without being asked?" Kindle asked, her golden eyes widening in surprise. "That's not very Ash-like."

"I find myself considering practical variables with greater priority than theoretical musings," Ash admitted, looking faintly perplexed by her own behavior. "Quite... disconcerting."

"Welcome to the Cinder-fusion club," Ember said, already starting toward the trees. "At least your headache has company."

Kindle's pace matched hers, flame-colored hair bouncing with each step. "Do you think her sarcasm is genetically transmitted, or is it more like a magical contagion? Like, if we sneeze, do we expel tiny Cinder-particles? Can sarcasm be airborne?"

"Please stop," Ember requested, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I'm trying very hard to be properly concerned about our situation."

"Which part?" Kindle asked. "The being lost part, the incoming storm part, the having absorbed our melted companion part, or the slowly developing cranial agony part?"

"Yes," Ember replied simply.

By the time they reached the copse, fat raindrops had begun to splatter against the dusty ground, leaving dark pockmarks like inverse freckles across the earth's face. The trees—a mixture of sturdy oaks and slender birches—clustered around a small hollow where a spring bubbled up to form a clear pool before continuing downslope as a cheerful brook.

"Defensible. Sheltered. Water source. Limited visibility from the road," Ember assessed automatically, then frowned. "And now I'm doing it too."

"It's fascinating how Cinder's essence distributes across our collective consciousness," Ash observed, already gathering fallen branches for a fire. "Her practical nature divides according to our existing tendencies. Ember adopts the strategic assessment, I incorporate the situational analysis, while Kindle absorbs the blunt delivery mechanism."

"You mean I get her charming way with words?" Kindle grinned, dropping her pack beside the spring. "Awesome. I've always wanted to tell someone their idea was so bad it made rocks look intelligent."

"Let's focus on shelter before the real downpour hits," Ember suggested, surveying the trees for suitable branches. "Ash, how are you on shelter construction these days?"

"Theoretically proficient," Ash replied, her brow furrowing. "Though I note an unusual certainty regarding load-bearing requirements and optimal angle calculations."

"Cinder-math," Kindle nodded sagely. "Bet you could build a bridge now if someone asked nicely."

Within an hour, they had constructed a surprisingly sturdy lean-to from branches, leaves, and Ash's unexpectedly architectural knowledge. A small fire crackled merrily beneath the shelter's overhang, protected from the steadily increasing rainfall that drummed against their makeshift roof.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The headaches had intensified proportionally with their exertion. What had started as a dull throb had evolved into a persistent pressure that made complex thought increasingly difficult.

They sat close together around the fire, each managing the discomfort in their own way—Ember with stoic silence, Kindle with increasingly nonsensical chatter, and Ash with meditative breathing that occasionally slipped into winces.

"We need to talk about this," Ember said finally, gesturing vaguely at her own head. "The pain is getting worse."

"Four point six percent worse per hour, by my estimation," Ash supplied, then blinked in surprise. "That was... oddly specific."

"And oddly Cinder," Kindle added, poking the fire with a stick. "She loved her percentages. Remember when she calculated the exact probability of Pyra setting that garden gnome on fire?"

"Ninety-seven point three percent," all three said simultaneously, then exchanged startled glances.

"Okay, that was weird," Kindle admitted.

Ember nodded, rubbing her temples again. "So, now we're just gonna have to wait until we get that feeling again, when we can reconstitute her, just like we did with Pyra."

"The question becomes: how?" Ash posed, her usually dreamy gaze suddenly sharp with a practicality that felt borrowed. "Pyra's reconstitution occurred after an energy release. We don't know if that was causation or correlation."

Rain pattered against the leaves overhead, creating a gentle percussion that contrasted with the occasional rumble of distant thunder. The fire popped and hissed as droplets found their way through the canopy, each one creating a brief, protesting sizzle.

"We could try to just... I don't know, push her out?" Kindle suggested, making a shoving motion with her hands. "Like, concentrate really hard on making her physical again?"

"Because 'concentrate really hard' has proven such an effective magical technique in the past," Ember replied, the words emerging with Cinder's characteristic acerbic delivery despite her attempt to soften them. "Sorry. That came out more... her... than intended."

"This must be how mitosis feels," Kindle mused, stretching her legs toward the fire. "Except instead of splitting into two cells, we're trying to expel our sarcastic roommate who's currently living rent-free in our collective brain-apartment."

"An imperfect yet oddly apt metaphor," Ash acknowledged.

The rain intensified, transforming from a gentle patter to a proper downpour that turned the world beyond their shelter into a gray curtain of water. Occasional gusts of wind sent sprays of droplets under their lean-to, hissing as they struck the fire and creating momentary plumes of steam.

"We should take shifts sleeping," Ember decided, scooting closer to the fire as the temperature dropped. "Four hours each, rotating watch. Even if we're off the main road, I don't trust this place."

"Another Cinderism," Kindle pointed out. "She never trusted anywhere."

"For good reason," Ember countered, then paused, examining her own response. "Though I'm not entirely sure why I'm so certain of that."

"Memory transference," Ash suggested. "Not merely personality traits, but experiential data. Fascinating."

Kindle hugged her knees to her chest, flames brightening momentarily before settling back to their usual golden hue. "So we're not just getting her snark—we're getting her reasons for being snarky?"

"Which raises interesting questions about personhood and continuity," Ash murmured. "If we contain her memories and aspects of her personality, in what sense is she gone? In what sense was she ever separate?"

"That's a philosophical rabbit hole I don't have the headspace to explore right now," Ember said, gingerly massaging her temples. "The longer she's in us, the harder it is to think clearly."

"It's like a... Cinder overload," Kindle agreed. "Too much snark per brain volume."

Pyra, silent since their hasty shelter-building, looked up from where she'd been moodily prodding the fire with a stick. "Man, so this is what everyone felt like when I was the one who got vaporized."

The other three turned to look at her, brows arched in near-identical expressions of bemusement.

"Yeah, don't get used to it," she continued, gesturing broadly at them with the stick, its end now charred black. "As soon as Cinder's back and better, you know you're gonna be saying, 'Man, wouldn't it be great if Pyra was the dead one again?'"

Kindle's eyes went wide. "I'm experiencing an emotion I can only describe as... profound offense to that statement," she said. "Or is it... indignation? Resentment, maybe?"

Ash leaned closer, examining Kindle's face. "Does it include an underlying sense of incredulity that anyone could say such a thing?"

Kindle's eyes flicked skyward, searching her inner lexicon. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly it!"

Ember sighed. "Alright, alright. Let's just get some shut-eye and deal with this tomorrow. Ash, you take first watch."

As Ember stretched out under the lean-to and closed her eyes, Kindle sidled up to her, shoulder to shoulder.

"Think I could say something so insulting it'd make Cinder pop out, fully formed and indignant?" she whispered.

"Just try to get some rest, Kindle," Ember muttered. "You're gonna need it for your watch."

Pyra's soft chuckle carried over the sound of rain, and the four of them lapsed into silence. Outside, the rain drummed a steady rhythm against the leaves, punctuated by the occasional low grumble of thunder.

The next morning, they gathered around a large patch of bare earth. Rain still fell in a light drizzle, drumming softly against their gear and gurgling merrily in the small brook nearby. The clouds above had lightened, promising an end to the deluge and a return to more clement weather.

"Ready?" Ember asked, her boots scuffing at the mud as she shifted her stance.

"So," Pyra said once they'd positioned themselves in a triangle formation, "how exactly do we do this? Just... flame on?"

"Yup," Kindle replied, cracking her neck from side to side. "Then focus on pushing Cinder out. Picture giving her the boot, if that helps. We all blast at the same time, so you don't need to worry about power control. Just let 'er rip."

The four women squared their shoulders, each aiming their palms at the center of the designated central location. A gust of wet, chilly wind fluttered their hair and rustled the leaves above, casting a sprinkling of raindrops onto the grass around them.

"Remember," Ash cautioned, her gaze intent and focused in a way that reminded them eerily of their missing self, "concentrate on Cinder—her essence, her personality. Will her into being, just as you would any other objective."

"On three," Ember counted. "One, two..."

On "three," they unleashed their power, flames bursting from their hands to meet at the center of their makeshift training ring. Pyra's orange flame mixed with Kindle's yellow, Ember's red, and Ash's white-blue, the combined energy blazing into a roaring, seething ball of fire.

"Visualize!" Kindle yelled over the roar of the conflagration. "Push!"

Eyes screwed shut in concentration, the four women grunted with effort as they pushed more energy into the firestorm. The flames grew hotter and brighter, a churning maelstrom of conflicting temperatures and states of matter.

Inside the tumultuous inferno, a form began to take shape. Slowly, achingly, the flickering silhouette of a human emerged, rising from the heart of the flames. Arms stretched out, fingers spread wide, head thrown back as if in a defiant howl.

As the figure solidified, the firestorm began to dim, guttering down to a flickering tongue of flame that licked at the air before sputtering out with a wet, ashy hiss.

And there, standing in the blackened circle of earth, was Cinder, her hair flaming at the tips and her sharp eyes scanning her surroundings with an air of perpetual irritation.

She stood there, naked, hands on her hips, rain pattering lightly against her skin and fizzling into steam where it touched her. She coughed.

"Well, that was one hell of a trip," she croaked, her voice a little gravelly but unmistakably her own. "And I could really go for a milkshake."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.