Before the first hearth, before the struck flint, before anyone thought to keep it, Sorvethikál let it go.

Chose the wood that wanted to be light.

Worked by offering, by the way a thing surrenders when it's ready.

Left the ash where it fell.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the fire was dying sat at its edge and said.

Not warning, not invocation, just a word. Any word.

Here. Smoke. Gone. Still.

Still came back first. Risen. Changed.

Waited for it to return again.

It always returned hotter. Briefer. More certain.

Once, it came back as light without heat.

Like something the fire had separated out and was only now willing to offer cleanly.

This is how Sorvethikál learned that tending a diminishment and speaking into it anyway and staying is the same as being kept.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods fed their fires.

Sorvethikál just kept watching them go.

Listening.

Or being listened to.