NYAH

They say the fire spoke the day Nyah was born.

It wasn't the kind of fire that licked pots or warmed hearths. It was wild crackling without wood, glowing where there was no spark. And in the heart of it, a cry.

Old women who had seen everything fell to their knees, whispering prayers and promises. The midwife dropped the cloth in her hands when she saw the infant's eyes open glowing amber for just a moment, as though the flames had left an imprint.

Her mother, weary but unafraid, pulled the child close. "She's come through the veil," she said softly. "This one will choose the fire."

Outside, a storm rose. Not of wind, but of something older. As if the earth itself had stirred.