Rasha was born during a drought.
The kind of summer where even the wind felt dry — where every breath tasted like ash, and the ground cracked beneath bare feet.
Her mother used to say it was an omen — that children born under a heat like that were either cursed... or chosen.
No one ever said which one Rasha was.
She grew up in the outer rings of the Fire Tribe, far from the great forges and warrior circles. Her home was a patchwork of scorched cloth and clay walls, surrounded by other lowborns who worked the ash fields or hauled water from deep, cracked wells.
Her father had once been a torchbearer — a messenger who ran between tribes with flame in hand — until his legs gave out. Her mother sold herbal pastes and fire-charms that never truly worked.
At thirteen, Rasha was tested for fire magic.
She remembered the elders' eyes: expectant, then confused, then disappointed.
A tiny ember had danced on her palm, flickered once, and vanished.
Still, she was marked.
Branded on the wrist with the Ember Sigil — meaning she had some fire in her.
Enough to serve.
Not enough to lead.
Now seventeen, Rasha knelt before the flame pit outside the warriors' training circle.
She wasn't allowed inside — but she watched every day. She memorized their stances, their breathing. Mimicked their movements with twigs behind her home, alone in the dust.
Today, though... something was different.
The flame in the pit had started whispering.
"You were not born for war."
The words weren't spoken aloud — they slipped into her mind like heat rising from coals, slow but certain.
You were not born for war.
Rasha blinked, her breath catching. She looked around, but no one had spoken.
The warriors in the ring continued their training, shouting and clashing, blades sparking and sweat flying.
No one had noticed the girl by the firepit — they never did.
She stared into the flames, heart pounding.
Again, the voice came.
Your flame is not meant to burn others. It is meant to light the unseen.
Her hands, resting on her knees, trembled — not from fear, but from something deeper.
Recognition.
As if the words had stirred a memory that wasn't hers, but belonged to something inside her.
Something older.
She reached toward the flame — not to control it... but to feel it.
It danced toward her fingers, curling around her skin without burning.
It felt warm.
Inviting.
And then — it entered her.
Not violently.
Gently.
Like being welcomed home.
She gasped and pulled her hand back, but the warmth remained in her chest — steady, centered.
Rasha stood, heart thudding in her ears.
Something had changed.
And it wasn't her magic.
She froze.
The voice inside her — within her — wasn't like before.
It didn't echo.
It didn't drift.
It resonated.
Deep in her chest, like it belonged between her heartbeat and her breath.
"Do you know who I am?"
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Her throat was tight.
Her body warm — but not from the sun.
From the fire that had seeped into her and claimed a space that felt like it had always been waiting.
I have been with your people since the first flame. I am not your weapon. I am your witness. And I have waited long for you, Rasha.
She dropped to her knees again, eyes wide with something close to reverence.
"Why me?" she whispered.
And the fire — the spirit within it — answered without hesitation.
Because you listened.
Rasha asked the flame within her:
So what does that mean for my people if you are with me now?
The warmth in her chest pulsed — not like a heartbeat,
but like a drum echoing through stone.
The flame responded — calm, but weighty.
It means your people will forget me...
Rasha's brow furrowed. Confusion flashed in her eyes.
...unless you remind them.
The heat behind the words wasn't anger.
It was sorrow.
Ancient sorrow.
They chase power. They forge weapons. They burn to conquer. But they have forgotten the first reason fire was given to them.
Not to destroy. Not to claim. But to connect. To guide. To awaken.
The fire inside her grew brighter — not hotter.
It filled her ribs.
Her spine.
Her throat.
She felt like a lantern being lit from within.
You are not the strongest of them, the voice said.
But you are the first in many generations to hear me clearly. That is why I am with you.
Tears welled in her eyes — not from pain, not from fear... but from knowing.
She wasn't broken.
She was chosen.
With the knowledge burning quietly inside her, Rasha decided:
She would go to the tribe leaders.
She would tell them what she had been told.