---
The goddess did not sleep.
She had not slept in four hundred years. Sleep was for beings who could afford to let go, who trusted the world to hold them while they drifted. She had learned, long ago, that the world held nothing.
This morning—if morning meant anything in a place without sun—she stood over three sleeping children and felt something she had not felt in centuries.
Uncertainty.
'They are so small,' she thought. 'So fragile. So young. How can I ask this of them? How can I—'
She stopped herself. Pressed her lips together. Looked away.
The memories came anyway. They always came.
Fire. Screaming. The faces of those she had failed to save. The faces of those she had burned. War after war, century after century, until the names blurred and the faces merged and all that remained was ash.
'I am not a god,' she thought. 'I am just a woman who has lived too long. A woman who has done terrible things. A woman who—'
Mina stirred in her sleep. Mumbled something. Settled again.
The goddess watched her. Watched them all.
'They look at me like I am something holy. Like I can save them. Like I am good.'
She almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, she knelt beside Mira. The girl's face was peaceful in sleep—younger than she ever allowed herself to look while awake. Careful lines smoothed away. Walls lowered.
The goddess reached out. Her fingers brushed Mira's forehead.
The girl's body glowed. Just for an instant—just long enough for the goddess to feel what burned inside her.
'Fire,' she thought. 'Strong fire. Old fire. She will climb faster than the others. She will—'
She stopped. Pulled her hand back.
'Do not interfere,' she told herself. 'Plant the seed. Water it. But do not shape it. They must grow on their own.'
She stood. Looked at them one last time.
'They will suffer. They will struggle. They will almost break. And I will watch, and I will wait, and I will hope that when the time comes—'
A memory surfaced. A laugh. Someone's face, long ago, in light that no longer existed.
She cut it off. Savagely. Completely.
'No. Not now. Not ever.'
She turned away from the children and faced the chamber's glowing walls.
'The past is ash. Only the fire matters now.'
---
Kaelen woke to warmth and the sound of his own heartbeat.
For a moment—just a moment—he was home. The kiln's heat seeping through the hut's walls. His mother's quiet movements. His father's silence.
Then memory returned, and the warmth became something else.
He sat up. Mina was still asleep, curled against Mira like a small animal seeking shelter. Mira's face was peaceful in a way it never was when she was awake.
And across the chamber, the goddess stood with her back to them, staring at nothing.
Kaelen watched her for a long moment. The way her shoulders curved. The way her hands hung at her sides. The way she seemed, in that instant, not like a goddess at all.
'Like a person,' he thought. 'Like someone who's been alone for too long.'
He remembered something then. Something his mother had taught him, years ago, before disappointment had worn away her patience.
"When you enter someone's home, you show respect. You bow. You offer greeting. You acknowledge that they have welcomed you into their space."
He had never bowed to the goddess. Never thanked her. Never even greeted her properly.
'What kind of person am I?' he thought. 'She saved our lives. She gave us food. She's going to teach us. And I—'
He stood. Walked forward. Stopped a few paces behind her.
She didn't turn.
He bowed.
Not a small bow. A deep one. The kind his mother had shown him, the kind that said I honor you.
"Goddess," he said. His voice came out steadier than he expected. "I—I'm sorry. I should have—when we first came, I should have—" He struggled for words. "Thank you. For saving us. For everything."
Silence.
Then, slowly, she turned.
Her face was unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes held something that might have been surprise. Might have been warmth.
"You bowed," she said.
"Yes. I—I should have d-done it before. It was disrespectful not to. I'm s-sorry."
The goddess looked at him for a long moment. Then her lips curved—just slightly—into something that might have been a smile.
"No one has bowed to me in centuries," she said. "Not sincerely. Not without wanting something." She paused. "You want nothing from me in this moment?"
Kaelen thought about it. "I want—I want to learn. To get stronger. To protect—" He glanced back at Mina and Mira. "Them. But that's not why I bowed. I bowed because it was right."
The goddess's smile widened. Just a little.
"You are strange, child."
"I know."
Behind him, Mina stirred. Woke. Saw Kaelen bowed before the goddess. Saw the goddess smiling.
Her eyes went wide.
"Mira!" She shook the other girl frantically. "Mira, wake up, wake up—"
Mira's eyes snapped open. "What—"
"Look."
Mira looked.
Saw Kaelen bowed. Saw the goddess watching him. Saw, in that instant, exactly what they had failed to do.
"Oh no," she whispered.
She scrambled up. Grabbed Mina's hand. Dragged her forward.
They dropped to their knees beside Kaelen—not gracefully, not elegantly, but with the desperate sincerity of children who had just realized they'd committed a terrible mistake.
"We're sorry," Mira said. Her voice was tight with embarrassment. "We didn't—we weren't thinking—we should have—"
"It won't happen again," Mina added. She was practically vibrating with mortification. "We promise. We'll be respectful. We'll—we'll serve you. We'll—"
The goddess laughed.
It was a small sound. Quiet. Almost surprised out of her. But it was laughter, and it changed her face entirely.
"Children," she said. "Get up."
They looked at each other. Hesitated.
"That was an order," the goddess added, still smiling. "Get up."
They stood.
The goddess looked at them—really looked—and something in her expression softened.
"I am not a goddess," she said. "Not in the way you think. I have power, yes. I have lived long, yes. But I am not holy. I am not perfect. I am not—" She paused, searching for words. "I am not what you need me to be. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Mina's face crumpled. "But—but you're—you saved us—you're here—"
"I am here because I have no choice." The goddess's voice was gentle. "I am trapped in this mountain, bound by chains I did not choose. I need your help as much as you need mine. Perhaps more."
Mira's eyes narrowed—thinking, calculating. "So we're... equal?"
"No." The goddess shook her head. "Not equal. I have much to teach. You have much to learn. But I am not your master. I am not your queen. I am—" She smiled again. "I am a tired old woman who has been alone for too long and would like some company. Is that acceptable?"
Mina burst into tears.
Not sad tears. Not scared tears. Just... tears. Relief and embarrassment and gratitude all mixed together, spilling down her cheeks while she tried desperately to stop them.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I just—I thought we'd offended you—I thought you'd be angry—I thought—"
The goddess moved.
One moment she was across the chamber. The next, she was kneeling before Mina, her hands gentle on the girl's shoulders.
"I am not angry," she said softly. "I have not been angry in a very long time. Anger requires hope, you see. And I—" She paused. "I had forgotten how to hope. Until you came."
Mina looked at her through tears. "Really?"
"Really."
Mina threw her arms around the goddess's neck.
For a moment, the goddess went completely still. Her eyes widened. Her body tensed.
Then, slowly—uncertainly—her arms rose. Wrapped around the small girl. Held her.
'It has been so long,' she thought. 'So long since anyone—'
She closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to remember what warmth felt like when it wasn't fire.
---
The training began.
Not dramatically. Not with grand pronouncements or ancient rituals. Just with the goddess sitting cross-legged on the warm stone, three children arranged before her, and a simple question.
"What do you know about fire?"
Mira answered first. "It burns. It gives light. It keeps us warm."
Mina added, "It's in the kiln. In the mountain. In—" She hesitated. "In us?"
The goddess nodded. "In you. In all living things. Fire is life, children. Not metaphorically—literally. The spark that makes your heart beat? Fire. The warmth in your blood? Fire. The thoughts in your mind?" She tapped her temple. "Fire."
Kaelen frowned. "Then why c-can't I—" He stopped. Started again. "Why can't I make it? Like the others could?"
The goddess looked at him. Really looked.
"Who told you that you couldn't?"
He blinked. "I—I tried. By the river. I tried to m-make flame like Elder Venn showed us. Nothing happened."
"And you decided, from that single failure, that you were incapable?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The goddess sighed. "You have been taught to see yourself as weak, Kaelen Vorec. By your father. By the other children. By yourself. But weakness is not the same as inability." She leaned forward. "Fire does not come to those who demand it. It comes to those who ask. Properly. Sincerely. With an open hand, not a closed fist."
She raised her palm. Flame appeared above it—not aggressive, not threatening. Just there, warm and bright and beautiful.
"Watch," she said.
The flame changed. Shifted. Became a tiny figure—a person, made of light, moving through movements Kaelen didn't recognize.
"This is the first stage," the goddess said. "Crawler. The one who reaches for fire without understanding it. Most of your village was here. Most of your species is here." The tiny figure stumbled, fell, rose again. "Crawlers try. They fail. They try again. And sometimes—sometimes—they succeed just enough to keep going."
The flame shifted again. The figure stood straighter. Brighter.
"Sensing mana. The second stage. The one who feels the fire in the world around them, not just within. This is where your friend Ruk was. Where Dorn was. Where—" She paused. "Where they might have grown, if given time."
Mina's eyes filled with tears. Mira's face went still.
The goddess continued, gentle but unflinching. "They died as crawlers. As children playing with sparks. But they died trying. That matters. That will always matter."
Kaelen felt something in his chest. Tight. Painful. Real.
'They died trying,' he thought. 'And I—I've never even—'
He looked at his hands.
Empty. Always empty.
'But maybe—maybe that can change.'
---
Outside the mountain, the knight-commander waited.
A week had passed. Seven days of watching lava flow where a village once stood. Seven days of heat that made his armor unbearable, his skin crawl, his temper fray to nothing.
His men had set up camp far from the danger zone—far enough to survive, close enough to observe. They didn't complain. They knew better.
The knight-commander didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mountain erupting. Saw the fire reaching for the sky. Saw the face of the boy he'd taken—still unconscious, still barely alive, still haunting him.
'Foolishness,' he thought. 'Sentiment. Weakness.'
He pushed the thoughts away and drew his sword.
The blade was not ordinary steel. It was alive—forged in the heart of a dying star, quenched in the blood of an Ascended warrior, bound to his soul by oaths older than the kingdom he served. Flame danced along its edge without consuming it. Heat radiated from its surface without melting his grip.
'Flame swordsman,' he thought. 'That is what I am. That is all I am.'
He began the forms.
First stance: The Ember's Birth. Slow, controlled, building heat within. His muscles warmed. His breath deepened. The sword sang in his hand.
Second stance: The Kindling Rise. Faster now, the blade tracing arcs of fire in the air. Each movement precise, deliberate, deadly.
Third stance: The Inferno's Release.
He exploded into motion.
Fire roared from the blade—not as weapon, but as extension. As self. He moved through the forms like water, like wind, like the flame he had become. Each strike could have killed. Each block could have saved. Each breath fed the fire and was fed by it.
'Ascended,' he thought. 'I am Ascended. I have climbed further than most. I have—'
A screech interrupted him.
He spun.
From the lava at the mountain's base, something rose. Not human. Not animal. Other. A creature of molten stone and burning eyes, born from the heat that should have killed anything living.
Behind it, another. Behind that, more.
'Volcanic monsters,' he thought. 'The heat is spawning them.'
He should have been afraid. He wasn't.
He smiled.
"Finally," he said. "Something to kill."
He moved.
The first monster barely had time to register his presence before its head left its shoulders. The second crumbled as his blade passed through its core. The third—the fourth—the fifth—
He danced through them like death incarnate. Fire met fire. Sword met stone. And when the last creature fell, dissolving into cooling rock, he stood alone in a ring of corpses, barely breathing hard.
'This is what I am,' he thought. 'This is what I was made for.'
He looked at the mountain.
Still burning. Still waiting.
'A month,' he thought. 'Maybe more. And then—'
He sheathed his sword.
'And then I will find what hides inside. And I will bring it to my king. And I will burn whatever stands in my way.'
Behind him, the lava flowed on.
Inside the mountain, three children began their first lesson.
---