Ember Wispborne pressed her palm against the burned timber. The ash came off black on her gray skin. She had tracked the arsonist through three towns already, always arriving too late. This village square looked just like her own had fifteen years ago—scorched earth and broken lives. Her amber eyes scanned the ground for boot prints. The fire had started at the grain store, just like before. He always chose the same target. She pulled a scorched piece of rope from the rubble and held it to her nose. Pitch and sulfur. The same smell from the night her home burned. One day she would find him. One day he would answer for what he took from her. She needed a place to work from. Somewhere she could study the patterns and prepare for the next strike. The old manor on the hill had been empty for years, its charred beams still standing after some forgotten fire. The locals avoided it, which made it perfect. Ember walked through the crooked doorway and set down her pack. The spirals carved into the wood seemed to glow in the dim light. This would do. By morning, she had nailed a poster to the town square wall. The sketch showed a thin man with sharp features and wild eyes. She had drawn it from memory, from glimpses in other towns. The charred edges of the paper matched the ruins around it. Someone had to recognize him. Someone had to know where he would strike next. Ember loaded her cart with jars for ash samples and tools for examining burn marks. The cart's wheels squeaked as she pushed it toward the scorched grain store. Each fire taught her something new about his methods. Each town brought her closer. She would find him before he burned again. Her village would have justice, and no other child would wake to flames.