A/N: Amber's Chinese name is translated as Yiyun, so that is what she goes by in this bit. 

The flames danced into the night sky, each spark lifting higher than the last as the fire took dominion over the fuel. Yiyun could feel the heat that wavered toward her from the conflagration, could see the upturned faces about her as everyone watched the fire rise.

It was a hot night, too hot to be burning a fire, but no one complained. This was in remembrance, and there was hardly a dry eye amonst all the folks gathered. For a brief moment, Yiyun wished that she could cry, wished that she could find some semblance of emotion within, but all she could find was a deep burning anger. It was hotter than the fires themselves, and needed no fuel beyond the deaths of almost everyone she had loved. 

With that thought, Yiyun turned and walked away, drawing a few concerned glances from the crowd. They let her through, though a few reached out as if to stop her. They didn't succeed. The dark look on her face must have warned them away, for they tucked their fingers back into the folds of their hands and simply watched with pity in their eyes. She was an outcast, after all, and they knew as well as she did that she could never be just another refugee farmer.

It had been more than seven years since the Emperor of Answar took their city, using his dragon riders to burn homes to the ground, his swordsmen to slaughter their warriors and take the rest as slaves for their empire. Yiyun had been one of the lucky few to escape, though it hadn't been her choice: tied to the back of a wagon by her mother to ensure that she would not try to stay with her, a crippled woman who could not run fast. In the rush to get out of the city as it burned around them, many people had been trampled to death, and though Yiyun didn't know what happened to her family, she almost wished that it was that. Being a slave would be a thousand times worse than dying a quick death.

She shook her head at the dark course her thoughts had taken, her short, boyish hair brushing against her face as she did so. She wasn't a scared little child anymore, and she couldn't just sit there and thank the gods for saving her. She reached the post that her horse, Stoutheart, was tried to, and patted the mare before reaching for her reins. Untying the deep red sorrel, a horse that she had raised and trained to ride by herself, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The mare turned her head as if to ask why they were going for a ride at night, but Yiyun didn't answer. She wasn't in the mood to talk, even if it was just to a horse.

Turning the sorrel to head out of the village, she was stopped by a call of her name. She really didn't want to wait, but this was Jinhee, the man who had taken her in, raised her like his own child, given love and security to an orphan in this harsh world. She owed it to him to wait to hear what he would say. She owed a lot more than that to him, too, but she wasn't going to allow that to sway her mind.

"You're leaving, then," were the first words out of his mouth, and despite herself, she turned to look at him. He stood, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn trousers, his back lit by the fire behind him. She couldn't see his weather-worn face, and that was something she was grateful for; she might be swayed by the kindness and worry in his expression.

"You know I have to."

He shook his head roughly then, taking several steps forward to place his wrinkled hand on her knee. "You don't," he argued, looking up toward her in the dim light of the bonfire. "You could stay here, with the