A jagged fissure tears through the Nekanzi Jungle from north to south, following the path of the Yolus fire leyline where it runs close to the surface. The Neka call it the Firespine because it resembles exactly that—the exposed vertebrae of something colossal and long-dead, glowing with residual heat.
The fissure varies in width from a few feet to gaps wide enough to swallow a house. Smoke seeps from the narrower sections. The wider gaps exhale gouts of flame at irregular intervals, and the rock along the edges glows dull red even in daylight. The temperature near the Firespine runs twenty degrees hotter than the surrounding jungle, and the air tastes of sulfur and hot stone.
Fire spirits emerge here. Not constantly, but frequently enough that the Neka have developed an entire tradition around managing them. Most are minor elementals—flickering humanoid shapes, serpents of living flame, floating motes of malicious heat. Occasionally something larger pulls itself from the fissure. The Neka don't discuss those incidents with outsiders.
The leyline's power makes fire magic significantly more potent within a mile of the Firespine. Neka fire-speakers can accomplish workings here that would exhaust them elsewhere. Foreign pyromancers who've visited (the few who were permitted) describe it as intoxicating—and dangerous. The power comes easily, but it doesn't want to stop.
The Buried Serpent
Neka oral tradition holds that the Firespine is literally what it appears to be: the spine of a titanic fire-serpent struck down in the first age of the world. They call it Yolu-Kazyn, the Burning One Who Fell. Whether this is mythology, corrupted history of an actual entity, or simply a convenient explanation for the leyline's existence, the Neka treat it as foundational truth.
According to the stories, Yolu-Kazyn was neither good nor evil—it simply was, as fire simply is. It burned across the world until something (the stories vary: a rival titan, a coalition of gods, its own hubris) brought it low. It fell into the sea and the land rose around it, but it never truly died. Its spine still glows. Its blood still burns. And its children—the fire spirits—still emerge from the wound, confused and hungry, looking for their parent.
The Neka see themselves as inheritors of this legacy. They didn't slay Yolu-Kazyn; they weren't even born yet. But they've made peace with its remains, learned to speak to its children, and earned the right to carry fire in their blood.