The air in the village didn't just turn cold; it turned silent.
As I stepped out of the old lady's hut, Ignis followed a half-step behind me. The "Great Burn" she originated from radiated a heat so intense it distorted the air, making the huts and the storage racks look like they were underwater. But the reception we got? That was pure permafrost.
The Elder—a man whose face had more wrinkles than a dried plum—was already standing in the center of the clearing. Behind him stood the warriors of the Bone-Tooth tribe, their spears leveled and their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and genuine terror.
The Presentation of the Spoils
The old lady didn't say a word. She simply pointed a gnarled finger toward the outskirts of the camp. There, slumped in the tall grass where I'd dragged them earlier that morning, were the carcasses of the five Dire Cheetahs.
Their fur was scorched to a blackened crisp, but their skeletons—those terrifying, reinforced bone structures—had been melted into slag. They didn't look like they had been hunted; they looked like they had been hit by a falling star.
Internal Monologue: "They're looking at me like I'm a god. Or a very dangerous disease. I'm leaning toward the disease. Note to self: Stop smiling. It makes the 'Potato with a nosebleed' look even more suspicious."
The Silent Test
The Elder stepped forward, his gaze shifting from the melted predators to the shimmering, liquid-light girl standing at my shoulder. Ignis let out a low hum, the sound of a power transformer about to blow.
"You brought a Guest into our home," the Elder whispered, his voice cracking. "A Guest of the High Sun."
"He didn't just bring her," the old lady cackled, stepping into the light. She kicked one of the Dire Cheetah's skulls, which shattered like glass. "He fed her his own rot to buy her. He killed the five ghosts of the plains before the sun even hit its peak."
The tribe didn't cheer. They recoiled. In their culture, killing a Dire Cheetah was a rite of passage for five men. One boy doing it to five cats using a spirit of plasma? That wasn't a victory; it was an omen of the end of the world.
The Cold Vibe
The "coldness" wasn't just the atmosphere; it was the way the children were pulled back into the shadows of the tents. It was the way the warriors gripped their obsidian daggers, knowing their blades would turn to liquid before they even touched Ignis.
The Stand-off Dynamics:
The Tribe: Sees me as a ticking time bomb.
The Elder: Calculating if I'm more useful as an ally or a sacrifice.
Ignis: Currently looking at the village's grain silo and wondering aloud if it would "pop like corn."
Me: Trying to remember how to breathe while my memories of "Saturday Morning Cartoons" are being incinerated to keep Ignis from melting my boots.
The Breaking Point
The Elder finally looked me in the eye. "If you have the power of the Sun," he said, his voice hard as flint, "then you have the responsibility of the Sun. The Northern Pass is blocked by the Frost-Walkers. They have taken our hunters."
He gestured to the mountains, where a blizzard was brewing despite the season.
"Take your 'Guest,'" he spat the word like a curse. "Show us if you are a protector or just a very bright fire about to go out."
Current Status:
Old Memories Left: 64% (Losing "The lyrics to the Macarena" as we speak).
Ignis Mood: Bored. (Danger Level: High).
Mission: Rescue the hunters from the Frost-Walkers.
Would you like to head straight for the Northern Pass and see how Plasma handles Ice, or should I try to negotiate with the Elder for better gear (and maybe some actual pants) before we leave