Burnscar circled the museum three times, marking the cobblestones with ember-prints from her hooves. Inside those walls, her sister's bones hung on display behind glass. Thirty silver per hoof, twenty for antlers, fifty for a beating heart—she had memorized every price from the merchant ledgers before burning them. Three hundred years of watching, waiting, studying the humans who forgot the old pacts and slaughtered her kind. Now she would make them remember. She shifted to smoke and slipped through the museum's keyhole. The display cases gleamed in the darkness. Her sister's skeleton stood mounted on metal rods, posed like a curiosity. Burnscar's flames flickered purple with rage. She needed answers before she could take revenge—needed to understand why the humans broke their blood oaths and turned on the centaurs who had taught their children star-songs and shared healing herbs. A leather-bound book sat on a pedestal near the entrance. Its pages held human stories, illustrations of spirits and creatures from the old times. Burnscar solidified and pulled the tome toward her, scanning each page with burning eyes. There, in faded ink—a drawing of celestial whales above a forest. Words beneath spoke of broken promises and fear. The humans had been afraid. They thought the spirits would consume them, so they struck first. Lies spread like disease, and the pacts carved in sacred bark meant nothing against terror. She closed the book and let embers fall from her mane onto its cover. Fear. That was the weapon they'd used against her people. Burnscar tucked the tome under her foreleg and turned back to smoke. She had one more stop tonight. The ravaged lands where centaurs once grazed still bore the scars of human greed. She needed proof of what they'd done, evidence she could show to the other spirits who still slept beneath the earth. Outside the museum, she found a stone bucket with a handle near a well. Perfect. She would fill it with poisoned soil from the old grazing grounds, dirt that wouldn't grow healing herbs anymore. Three hundred years of preparation, and now her work truly began. The humans would answer for every broken oath, every stolen bone, every lie they spread. And when the celestial whales sang again over Cliffside Shores, they would witness her justice. But she needed a place to work, somewhere the humans had already abandoned. Burnscar drifted through empty streets until she found it—a lopsided smith shop built from black stone. Purple embers still glowed in its ancient forge, as if the building itself remembered fire. The structure leaned to one side, forgotten by the merchants who now worked in newer buildings. She circled it once, twice, three times. This would be hers. Inside, she could spread out the stolen tome and study every lie the humans had written. She could store the poisoned soil and gather more evidence. The forge would burn again, not for human tools, but for her planning. Here she would map out every merchant who had profited from centaur bodies. Here she would prepare the spirits' return. The old ways demanded patience, and Burnscar had three hundred years of it stored like coals waiting to ignite.

Burnscar spread the stolen tome across the forge's iron surface, her hooves scraping against soot-covered stone. The pages showed celestial whales, broken treaties, lies about spirits who only wanted peace. She needed to understand the merchant network first—who traded, who profited, who still lived. Her flames cast dancing shadows as she traced routes between the harbor and merchant quarter with one claw. The third building from the harbor was ash now, but others remained. She would need to mark each location, document every transaction, map the flow of silver that paid for centaur parts. This was how revenge began—not with fire, but with lists. But lists weren't enough. She needed witnesses, voices from before the slaughter. Burnscar pulled a black wax candle from her satchel, its surface studded with purple gems that caught her flame-light. The old ways taught that such vessels could reach spirits buried deep in the earth. She carried it outside to a flat stone near the forge. Three circles of ember-prints marked the ground around it. Burnscar lit the candle with a breath, watching purple smoke curl upward. She waited, patient as she'd been for three hundred years, for the ancient ones to answer. The smoke twisted and formed shapes—fragments of memory, whispers of testimony. Centaurs teaching children songs beneath whale-blessed skies. Merchants meeting in secret, spreading fear like poison. The spirits showed her what she needed: proof that humans chose greed over peace, chose lies over blood oaths carved in sacred bark. Burnscar let the candle burn down to nothing, absorbing every detail into her memory. Now she had her first witnesses. The path to justice was forming, one careful step at a time.

Burnscar carried the cooling wax from the witness candle back inside the forge, placing it beside the stolen tome. The ancient spirits had shown her memories, but memories weren't enough to wake the others still sleeping beneath the earth. She needed a map—something that showed where the old pacts had been carved, where centaur bones might still be buried in unmarked graves. The merchant quarter held records, but those buildings crawled with humans even at night. Burnscar's flames flickered violet as she considered her options. The forest beyond Cliffside Shores stretched for miles, holding sacred bark trees that once bore treaty carvings. If any still stood, they would prove the blood oaths existed before humans claimed otherwise. She would search there next, gathering evidence piece by piece until no one could deny what had been stolen. But first, she needed to call for help. The old spirits couldn't answer if they didn't know she was working. Burnscar gathered purple-burning logs from the back of the forge and carried them outside. She arranged them in a circle, then breathed fire until they caught. Orange smoke spiraled upward, thick and bright against the dark sky. Any spirit passing through would see it. Any traveler who remembered the old ways would recognize the colors—purple for mourning, orange for action. She circled the fire three times, marking her claim. This was her signal, her announcement that the work had begun. The flames crackled and sent sparks into the air. Burnscar watched the smoke rise, carrying her message across Cliffside Shores and into the forest beyond. She had the tome, the witness candle's memories, and now a beacon to draw allies. The humans thought they'd buried the past, but Burnscar was digging it back up, one piece at a time. Soon others would join her, and together they would make the humans answer for every broken oath.

Burnscar stood at the forest edge where pine trees met scorched earth, her flames casting orange light across bark scarred with old carvings. She traced a symbol with one claw—three circles interlinked, the mark of binding from before the slaughter. The treaty had been real. Humans couldn't deny what was carved into living wood. She memorized each line, each curve, burning the pattern into her mind the way she'd burned the merchant's ledger building to ash. This was evidence, proof that blood oaths existed before greed turned neighbors into hunters. Her hooves scraped against exposed roots as she moved deeper into the trees, searching for more sacred bark. The work was slow, methodical, but revenge demanded patience. Each carving she found was another piece of truth the humans couldn't erase. A crooked arrow caught her eye, jutting from the ground at an odd angle. The wood was purple, bright against the dark soil. Burnscar approached it, suspicious. The color meant something—purple for mourning, like the candle she'd burned. She circled it once, then twice, studying the grain. The arrow pointed deeper into the forest, away from human settlements. Someone had placed it here, marking a path. Her flames flickered violet as she followed its direction, finding another arrow twenty paces ahead. Then another. Each one pointed to places where trees bore the oldest carvings, where the bark showed treaties and blood oaths from before the whale-song ended. This was a map left by someone who remembered. Burnscar memorized the trail, adding it to her collection of evidence. The humans had tried to erase the past, but the spirits had marked it in purple wood. Now she knew exactly where to search next, and revenge felt closer with every step.