They speak of fire as warmth, as light, as comfort in the dark. They whisper it into their hearths, cradle it in lamps, bind it in candles. But I was never born for small flames. I did not arrive as warmth. I arrived as hunger.

At the academy, they thought fire was a lesson to master, a trick to discipline. They spoke of control, of balance, of fire as servant. But they don’t understand. But fire does not serve – it devours.

One dusk, I lingered at the edge of the grounds, watching the lesser flames dance in the hands of my peers. Their fire was weak – playful sparks, nothing more. Pathetic. As I gazed upon their hollow tricks, heat pulsed from my skin, the air shimmering around me. The flames bent towards me as though in reverence, bowing to the inferno I carried.

Then I let it loose. The world turned crimson. Their laughter collapsed into screams as the blaze spread – ravenous, merciless. They scattered before me, choking on smoke, blinded by brilliance. And in their terror, I found clarity.

Their fire is mine. Their world is mine to burn.