The funeral pyre burned for three days. Not because the body needed that long to turn to ash - Nilah could have reduced a dozen corpses to cinders in minutes if she'd wanted to. But she kept the flames low, controlled, almost reverent. Like she was giving the dead time to say goodbye to being flesh and bone.
ICR: She's been doing this since we were children. Making fire dance like it was her oldest friend.
I watched from the ridge above the monster settlement, still tasting blood from yesterday's battle. Still seeing my father's eyes in every shadow. The deserter camp sprawled below like a patchwork quilt of survivors - humans who'd chosen exile over madness, monsters who'd chosen trust over revenge. And at the center of it all, Nilah tended her flames.
NLH: **to the fire Easy now. He was somebody's father. Somebody's son. He deserves dignity, even in death.
The fire responded like a trained animal, settling into a steady burn that cast dancing shadows across her face. Dark skin made luminous by firelight. Black hair that seemed to absorb flame rather than reflect it. And eyes the color of embers - not metaphorically, but literally. When her soul resonated, her irises glowed like coals fresh from the forge.
She'd been my best friend for fifteen years. The only person who'd stood by me when I chose exile. The only human who'd looked at the fear spreading through our species and said, with absolute certainty: "That's not real."
ICR: Courage like that isn't learned. It's forged. And Nilah was born in fire.
The first time I saw her soul manifest, we were twelve years old. A group of older kids had cornered us in the school courtyard, the way bullies always do - looking for easy prey, someone to take their own fears out on. They'd picked the wrong targets.
NLH: Back off. We don't want trouble.
But trouble wanted us. The leader, a boy named Marcus who'd failed two grades and made it everyone else's problem, stepped closer. Bigger than us. Older. Sure of his advantage.
MRC: What are you gonna do, freak? Tell your mommy?
Nilah's eyes flashed. Not with anger - with something deeper. Something that had been waiting for the right moment to show itself.
NLH: I'm going to give you one more chance to walk away.
That's when the grass around her feet started to smoke. Not catching fire. Not burning. Just... warming. Releasing tiny wisps of steam as moisture evaporated from the blades. The temperature rose in a perfect circle around her, precise as a compass, controlled as a surgical instrument. Marcus took a step back. His friends followed. They could feel it too - the heat radiating from her like she was a living furnace.
NLH: I don't want to hurt you. But if you make me choose between protecting my friend and protecting your feelings...
She held out her hand, palm up. A flame danced to life in her palm. Small. Beautiful. Perfectly controlled. And absolutely terrifying.
NLH: Well. I guess we'll find out what I choose.
They ran. All of them. Left us standing in a circle of singed grass, staring at the fire in her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. That's when I knew. Not that she was awakened - half the kids our age were showing signs by then. But that she was different. Brave in a way that most people never manage to be. The fire in her palm flickered out. She looked at me with those ember eyes, waiting for me to run too. Waiting for me to be afraid of what she was, what she could do. Instead, I sat down in the scorched grass and patted the ground beside me.
ICR: So... That was new.
She laughed then. A sound like bells ringing, bright and clear and completely unafraid. Sat down beside me in the circle of her own making.
NLH: I've been able to do it for months. Just... small things. Lighting candles. Warming my hands when it gets cold. I didn't know I could do... that.
ICR: How did it feel?
NLH: Like coming home. Like I'd been pretending to be something I wasn't, and finally got to stop pretending.
She created another flame, larger this time. Let it dance between her fingers like a living thing.
NLH: My grandmother always said our family had fire in their blood. I thought she was being poetic.
ICR: Turns out she was being literal.
NLH: Turns out a lot of things are more literal than we think.
The flame in her hands shifted colors - red to orange to blue to white - as her emotions changed. Not random shifts, but deliberate ones. Like she was learning to speak a language she'd always known but never used.
NLH: I'm not afraid of it. I know I should be. Fire burns things. Destroys things. But when I hold it like this...
She cupped the flame gently, protectively.
NLH: It feels like protection. Like I could keep anyone safe, anything safe, as long as I was brave enough to burn for them.
Ferocity - That was her soul trait. Not just the ability to create and control flame, but the courage to use it. The courage to stand between the people she loved and anything that threatened them.
Over the years, I watched her learn to sculpt fire like clay. Create walls of flame that burned without consuming, leaving the ground beneath them untouched. Forge weapons from pure heat that could cut through steel but wouldn't harm human flesh. Wrap herself in protective fire that made her invulnerable without making her dangerous to her allies. But it was more than technique. It was philosophy.
NLH: Fire isn't destruction. Fire is transformation. It doesn't end things - it changes them. Turns wood into warmth. Turns metal into tools. Turns fear into light.
She stood before a group of newly awakened kids, demonstrating her control. A dozen small flames danced around her like satellites, each one a different color, each one responding to her will.
NLH: The trick isn't learning to make fire. The trick is learning to be worthy of it. Fire is honest - it reflects who you really are. If you're angry, it burns wild. If you're afraid, it burns cold. If you're at peace...
All the flames settled into a steady, warm glow. Golden light that made everyone in the circle feel safer, braver, more hopeful.
NLH: It burns true.
That was before the war. Before the fear took hold. Before humanity decided that anything different was dangerous, anything powerful was threatening, anything awakened was monstrous. She could have hidden her gift. Pretended to be normal. Kept her head down and her flames banked until the madness passed. Instead, she chose to burn brighter.
When the first anti-awakened riots started, Nilah was there. Not fighting - she never started fights - but protecting. Creating barriers of flame to shield monster refugees. Lighting up dark alleys where humans hunted in packs. Making herself visible, making herself a target, so others could escape.
NLH: Fear spreads in darkness. But fire makes its own light.
She saved dozens of lives in those first weeks. Monster and human alike - she didn't discriminate. If someone was afraid, someone was hurt, someone needed protecting, Nilah was there. A beacon of flame in a world going dark. That's when they branded us deserters. Not for fighting against humans, but for refusing to choose sides. For standing between the two species instead of picking one.
The government offered her amnesty. Special forces recruitment. A chance to use her gifts "for the greater good" - which meant turning her flames against the monsters they wanted to exterminate. She burned their recruitment letter without reading it.
NLH: I don't serve causes. I protect people. All people.
So we left together. Two awakened humans choosing love over fear, protection over destruction. The deserter camps welcomed us like long-lost family - not because they needed our power, but because we represented something they'd thought was extinct. Hope. Now, three years later, I watch her tend a funeral pyre with the same gentle care she once used to light birthday candles.
The flames danced lower, almost ready to die. She knelt beside the fire, whispered something I couldn't hear - a prayer, maybe, or a promise - and let the last flames flicker out. Then she looked up at the ridge where I stood, those ember eyes finding me across the distance like I was a lighthouse in a storm.
NLH: **calling up to me Stop brooding and come down here. We have work to do.
Some things never change. Nilah still burns bright enough to light the way home. Even in a world determined to snuff out every flame that dares to shine.