"Master!" Kelsey’s tiny cry tugs at a stern hand.
Glenn Alvarez freezes, cloak whipping, sword idle at his side. He follows the sound into a narrow chute of cloud-stone where the ruins of an old supply cache smolder. Ash drifts like dust; a bundle of scorched cloth moves.
"Where did this come from?" a voice asks. Glenn's voice is steady. There is no softness in his tone, only a demand for facts.
The child answers by clinging tighter and sobbing. "Master, hungry," she says, voice small and furious at the same time.
"She's a child," Glenn says to no one. He kneels because he must. The child is three years old, hair singed, eyes sharp even through tears. Her fingers dig into the crease of his sleeve as if she owns the cloth.
"You call me that?" Glenn asks.
"Yes." She spits the word like a declaration. "Master."
Glenn's hand hovers, then closes. The grip is gentle and exact; the child smells of smoke and rice. He lifts her without pretense. The little weight is heavier than her size suggests.
"Name?" he asks.
"Kelsey." The answer is immediate. Her chin lifts. She is set in herself.
"You'll catch a cold," Glenn says. He adds, almost reflexive, "Come."
"Where are we going?" She pouts. She already knows the answer will be food.
Glenn moves. The path back to Cloud-step Pavilion takes them across carved stairways and mist terraces where senior disciples train with swords
