The fire died slowly, as charcoal fires always do.
By midnight, the small heap of dwarf-pine twigs had burned down to a glowing heart of crimson embers nestled in the pale ash. The wind outside had dropped from a howling gale to a low, mournful sigh that brushed the outside bricks of the kiln like dry leaves against a tombstone.
Inside the brick dome, the breathing of the household had settled into the quiet rhythm of rest.
Mira lay asleep upon her bed of dry heather, her wool blanket pulled to her chin. In the dim crimson glow, her face was soft, untouched by the terror of the falling gantries or the screaming steam.
Beside her, seated upright against the foundation stones like an ancient iron idol in a forgotten temple, sat Unit Ren.
The machine-man didn’t sleep—his clockwork chassis possessed no gearwork for dreams—but his internal fires were damped to minimal upkeep pressure. Every forty seconds, his chest control valve gave a single, muffled click—tick... Ka-thunk—venting a thimbleful of warm air that kept the frost from gathering on Mira’s blanket. His human right hand rested upon the floor beside her head, his calloused fingers curled in a motionless, protective arc.
