Sydney

I was born before sunrise, when the sky above Redglass Ridge was still bruised and molten.

My parents say the lanterns burned for hours. My mother clutching me so tight I barely breathed, my father already tracing sigils in the air as if to ward me against a world that expected fire, and nothing less.

Firstborn. First daughter. House Keahi's promise, wrapped in flame.

They tell it as a blessing. Some days, I believe them. Other days, I wonder if it was a warning.

Disguised as a hope.

They never feared the fire in me. They fed it. I was trained to shine, to scorch, to never falter.

The first spell I cast was at three.

My first public duel, eight. My first victory, expected.

Every lesson another spark.

Every success another branch on the pyre.

But no one asks what fire leaves behind when it's done burning. They don't ask how it feels to turn a palm and see blisters, or to hear your own mother say,

"Better a scar than a failure."

They don't talk about the time I lost control.

How my cousin Mika left the training room clutching his arm, eyes wide and silent, and wouldn't look at me for weeks.

No one mentions the smell of burned silk in the nursery. The charred toy rabbits.

Or how my father looked away, every time I cried.

Some nights, I wake up convinced I'm ash.

That if I stop moving, stop burning, there'll be nothing left but a girl whose legacy belongs to the flames.

They call me Emberborn. Prodigy. Keahi's pride.

But what I never tell them is that sometimes—just sometimes—I wish I could be warm, not just bright.

Sometimes, I wish someone loved the girl, not just her fire. I'm supposed to lead.

Supposed to be unbreakable.

And yet if I close my eyes, all I see is what comes after the burning. What comes next.

This is my beginning.

But it's not the story they think it is.

—————

The ceremony comes in crimson and gold.

Even the air feels heavier, dense with incense and smoke, the promise of summer thunder hidden somewhere in the rafters.

Each torch along the hall a tongue of fire licking the banners, casting the Keahi crest in flickering relief.

The floor is polished black glass, cold and flawless, mirroring every movement, every hesitation.

I stand barefoot on volcanic glass, thirteen years old and trembling, wrapped in a formal kimono that smells faintly of smoke and summer.

Layers and layers of silk, patterned with phoenixes and curling flames.

My hair is pulled up and pinned with a golden comb. My hands are steady, but my heart is not.

A thousand eyes.

Every clan elder, every distant cousin, every would-be rival—each waiting for proof that the legend is true.

That Sydney Keahi is not just another heir, but the future of House Keahi.

Father stands above me, palm pressed to the obsidian altar. The family historian chants my name, voice echoing against the high stone ceiling.

The language is old, each word measured and precise.

I feel the magic gather, heat blooming along my spine, as the old script appears in the air. My name, written in fire, burning above the heads of every witness.

It's beautiful. It's terrifying.

The flames curl around the letters.

Never quite touching the ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over the room.

I can feel the weight of every expectation pressing down, heavy as chains.

For one breath, I remember being small.

Sitting on my mother's knee as she taught me to shape flame between my fingers, both of us laughing when it sputtered and danced.

For a moment, I feel the weight of every lesson.

Every sacrifice.

Every sleepless night spent rehearsing this rite, the sting of mistakes corrected, the pride and the pain entwined so tightly I can't tell one from the other.

I step forward.

The glass is hot beneath my feet, but I hold my head high. My voice is steady. The fire bends.

The room exhales.

"Let her name be written," the historian intones, "not in ink, but in flame. For so long as the line endures, so shall her promise."

My name glows above me.

Sydney Keahi, Daughter of Ember.

Heir to the First Flame.

The applause is a thunderclap, all warmth and sharp edges. Faces blur together, all eyes fixed on me, mouths smiling, calculating.

The moment lingers—heavy, electric.

Afterward, we march to the training yard.

The air outside is crisp, carrying the distant scent of cinders and wildflowers.

My little sister, Aelia, lines up beside the other heirs.

Her hands shaking as she fumbles through the formation. The youngest always go last, but Aelia glances at me, hopeful. She wants to impress.

The yard is ringed with observers.

Elders, tutors, and the restless younger children, all crowded along the stones, whispering.

The sun is high, heat rising in shimmering waves.

I watch as each student completes their demonstration, the flames leaping from their hands in carefully practiced arcs.

When her turn comes, the fire twists wrong.

The spark recoils. She gasps, losing control—a wild flare lashes toward her face.

I move before I think, snatching the fire in my bare hand, crushing it out, searing my palm in the process.

The world narrows to a single point of pain. The smell of burned skin fills the air.

Aelia sobs. The crowd murmurs, rippling with surprise, disapproval, something sharper.

Father's voice slices through the heat.

"Sydney. You broke formation."

I bow my head. My hand throbs.

My sister clings to me, eyes red with tears, her small shoulders shaking. She won't meet my gaze. Shame burns deeper than the wound.

Father doesn't look at either of us.

"Fire obeys form," he says, his voice cold and final. "Not feeling."

The silence is suffocating.

I stand motionless, the pain in my palm a dull throb beneath the weight of so many eyes.

My hand still smolders, the skin raw and red from where I caught Aelia's flame.

I didn't have time to coat my hands.

Father's words echo: Fire obeys form, not feeling.

The crowd watches, silent and sharp.

The world feels distant, blurred at the edges.

I swallow my shame and bow. "Yes, Father."

He doesn't even glance my way.

He turns, walking ahead with the elders, leaving me and Aelia in the scorched yard.

Mother steps forward, her face unreadable. Her steps are quiet, but every movement is precise, deliberate.

She kneels beside me and takes my burned hand, gentle as always. I feel the cooling flow of her magic.

Water to soothe, a whisper of healing, nothing more.

She doesn't speak, just works.

Her touch practiced, efficient.

I stare at her, the ache in my palm nothing compared to the one in my chest.

"Why is he like this?" I murmur, voice barely audible. "Why is he so strict? Even when—"

Her hand moves fast. A sharp slap across my cheek. Not angry, not cruel. Just… instinct.

A correction.

The sting brings tears to my eyes, but I hold them back. Mother holds my gaze, her voice calm.

Almost cold.

"He tries very hard, Sydney. He's spent his life making sure your future will be bright, in the spotlight. He wants the world to see your skills, not your scars."

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to pull away.

"What if I don't want to be seen?"

Mother smooths my hair, her touch suddenly soft again.

She looks at me, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind her eyes.

Regret, maybe, or something even older.

Her reply is steady, final.

"That never was an option."