She wakes before the bells, same as always, dragged upward from sleep by some old instinct that refuses to loosen its grip even on the rare mornings when her body begs for just a little more quiet. The room around her still feels thick with night. She lies still for a few seconds, eyes closed, letting the familiar sounds of the temple settle into place one by one, the faint scrape of stone cooling after the long hours of darkness, a novice snoring somewhere two rooms over, someone shifting on their pallet above her, and the soft, steady drip from the courtyard cistern she has heard every morning for most of her life. All of it feels known. Predictable. A world arranged in clean lines.

  And yet her mind refuses to drift. It never lets her linger once it decides she’s awake. She opens her eyes to the thin line of light seeping under the shutters, a dull grey with no real colour yet, the kind of dawn that makes everything look half-formed. She turns onto her back, staring up at the ceiling while the remnants of the dream cling to her ribs.

  Always the same dream. Always.

  She is small again, smaller than she ever admits aloud, swallowed by a darkness so complete it feels wet against her skin, as if the air itself has weight. Nothing exists there. No sound, no wind, not even the suggestion of walls or distance. It’s a dark that squeezes the world down to a single terrified child who doesn’t know which direction to turn because every direction feels like a mistake waiting to happen.

  Her voice doesn’t carry when she calls out. It dies inches from her lips, swallowed whole by the black. She stretches her hands into the void, uncertain whether she’s searching for someone or bracing herself for whatever she can’t see. The ground beneath her bare feet feels wrong, too hard to be soil, too soft to be stone, like the dream can’t decide what it wants her to stand on.

  Then the spark comes.

  A needle of fire cuts through the dark. Small at first, sharp enough to sting her eyes even in memory, and then it grows, fast, too fast, racing along invisible lines that ignite in sweeping arcs. Flames scatter outward in bright ribbons of orange and gold, racing across the nothingness, devouring the dark in wide, fluid motions. She should fear it. Fire burns. Fire devours. Fire takes what it wants without apology.

  But this fire moves differently. It rolls outward in smooth, deliberate waves, consuming everything except her. The cold withdraws. The ground softens. Warmth rushes over her cheeks and shoulders, sinking all the way into her bones as if the flames recognise her. As if they’ve been waiting.

  She lifts her hands toward them.

  And the fire answers.

  Light spills over her, settling like a heavy blanket pulled straight from a hearth. The trembling she hadn’t noticed melts away. The blaze fills the entire space, yet none of it touches her skin. It folds around her instead, holding her upright in a way no pair of human arms ever has. A strange, impossible safety blooms in her chest.

  She steps forward, drawn into the brightest part of the fire.

  And wakes just before it reaches her.

  Always.

  The afterglow clings to her skin like phantom heat. She flexes her hands, letting the faint sting pull her fully into the waking world. “Enough,” she mutters under her breath, though she knows the dream will return when it wants to.

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  She sits up slowly. The pallet creaks beneath her weight, a tired little complaint she has learned to ignore. Her robe hangs from the peg, its white hem rubbed pale from countless washings. She pulls it over her head, the fabric cool where her skin is still warm.

  She lifts the pendant from the peg beside her robe and fastens the chain around her neck, the familiar weight settling against her collarbone as she smooths the fabric over it.

  At the basin she splashes her face with water cold enough to punch the breath from her lungs. Good. It clears the fog. Her reflection stares back from the warped copper, dark braid pulled tight, brown eyes still carrying the shadows of sleep.

  The first bell hums through the hallway. Seren dries her hands and steps into the corridor just as novices spill out of their rooms. They shuffle and yawn, muttering to one another about duties and chores. A few glance at her, eyes darting away just as quickly. Respect and unease always come paired when it comes to healers.

  She nods to no one in particular and moves on. Distance comes naturally to her.

  The main hall opens wide, tall columns catching the first fragile threads of dawn, incense clinging in faint curls near the floor. The scent of porridge drifts through the air, a reminder of routines too old to question. Seren slips into place at the back for morning prayers.

  The chant begins. Her voice moves with it, but her mind doesn’t follow.

  Soul Fire from the stars, breath from the heavens, flame to body, flame to will.

  She has murmured these words for as long as she has belonged to these halls, long enough that the cadence feels braided into her bones. The chant is older than any of them, older than the columns and the murals and even the temple stones, carved first by hands she will never know. She believes in it, not blindly, not the way novices cling to faith like a rope, but with the steady conviction of someone who has built her entire life on its shape.

  The Stars gave her a path when she had none. The temple gave her a roof, a purpose, a name people spoke without pity. Every lesson she ever learned, every bruise earned on the training mats, every quiet night spent tending lanterns or sweeping corridors sealed her deeper into this place until she could no longer imagine a world where she wasn’t part of it. These halls raised her. These people, stern, flawed, earnest, are the closest thing to family she remembers.

  She stands here because she chose to. Because she wants to. Because the Stars, in their distant and indifferent way, pointed her toward this life and she followed with both hands open.

  Her Soul Fire warms under her ribs, thrumming in a rhythm that matches the chant, and for a heartbeat she lets herself imagine it as devotion answering devotion. A quiet agreement between her and the heavens that shaped her. The flame doesn’t settle, it never does, but its restlessness doesn’t frighten her the way it once did. Not when this place still feels like the only ground that holds steady beneath her feet.

  Prayers end. The novices scatter toward lessons and chores. The second bell rings. It is still very early in the morning and most people will still be in bed. Seren loves these moments of peace.

  A sharp sound beaks the peace. Footsteps. Running Fast.

  “Help, please, someone help!”

  A woman’s voice, ripped raw.

  Seren steps into the hall just as the woman rounds the corner, nearly colliding with her. Her hair has fallen loose, her face streaked with tears. In her arms she carries a boy small enough to almost disappear into the woman's dress, his breaths ragged and thin.

  “Please,” the woman gasps. “He cannot breathe, they said to bring him here, please, ”

  Seren lifts the boy from her arms without hesitation. He’s burning hot. His breath falters against her shoulder, uneven and shallow.

  Her Soul Fire tightens sharply.