The wind howled through the tin roofs of the village like a wounded spirit, moaning and clawing its way through narrow alleys and broken window panes. The air was cold and sharp, tinged with the metallic scent of rain yet to fall. It carried a strange tension, as if the village itself was holding its breath.
Zia pulled her faded shawl tighter around her shoulders, her thin fingers trembling as she made her way down the mud-soaked path that cut through the heart of Nqolweni. Her boots, worn smooth from years of use, squelched in the muck left behind by last night's violent storm. Chickens clucked angrily as she passed a broken fence near Mrs. Mokoena's overgrown garden, and somewhere far off, thunder rumbled low and long like the growl of a waking beast.
The village was unusually quiet that morning. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made your skin prickle and your instincts whisper that something was wrong. Even the dogs, usually howling at ghosts only they could see, were silent. Zia paused, her brows knitting together as she glanced up at the slate-grey sky.
That's when she saw it.
A letter.
It floated a few steps from her door, suspended in the air as if by some invisible thread. It spun slowly, surrounded by flickering flames—orange, blue, and violet—yet the parchment didn't burn. The light cast strange shadows that danced on the walls of her home, like spirits caught between worlds.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She approached with hesitant steps, heart hammering against her ribs. The air around the letter shimmered with heat, and a strange humming filled her ears. Her instincts screamed for her to turn back, but curiosity rooted her to the spot.
She wasn't hallucinating. The letter was real.
Scrawled across the front in dark, ancient ink that seemed to breathe with a life of its own were the words:
"Zia of the Unnamed Flame,
You are summoned to the Tenth Convergence.
The Academy of Cursed Flames rises again.
You have been chosen.
Midnight. Do not be late."
Her fingers hovered near it, shaking slightly. Then, with a deep breath, she reached out.
The moment her fingertips brushed the edge, the flames surged—and vanished. The letter dropped into her hands, now cool but pulsing faintly with warmth, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.
Zia turned in a slow circle, scanning the street. The village remained deserted. No children playing, no old men arguing, no women exchanging morning gossip. Only the wind and silence.
She clutched the letter tighter. She'd been tested as a child, like every other villager. No magical signs. No flame. No gift. Just an ordinary girl in an ordinary place. She had grown up believing her life would never change but that she'd marry a farmer, raise quiet children, be a wife and a mother and one day die forgotten.
So why her?
That night, sleep did not find her.
Zia sat on the tin roof of her home, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, staring out at the horizon. The stars were dim, obscured by heavy clouds. The moon, swollen and red like a bleeding wound, hung low in the sky. Its eerie light bathed the land in a ghostly crimson glow.
Her eyes kept flicking to the path beyond the fields. Midnight was minutes away. Each tick of her internal clock felt heavier than the last.
And then it happened.
The air split open with a sharp crack, not like thunder, but like reality itself had torn at the seams. She stood instantly.
The space before her rippled and twisted, and fire bloomed in midair—a circle of flame stretching taller than any man. It hissed and pulsed, drawing breath like a living thing. Sparks danced around it, humming in rhythm like a chant from a forgotten age.
From within the fiery gate, a hooded figure emerged.
Tall. Silent. Cloaked in shadows and firelight. His presence made the hair on her arms stand up, her instincts flaring with both awe and fear.
"Zia," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You came."
She swallowed hard. "Why me?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached beneath his cloak and withdrew a small orb—glass-like, swirling with smoke and embers that danced like trapped lightning.
"Touch it," he said.
She took two steps back. "I don't have magic." she said.
The figure tilted his head. "You do. It's just... sleeping."
She hesitated. Then, before fear could win, she reached out and pressed her fingers to the orb.
The world exploded.
Not outward, but inward.
She plummeted into a sea of memories—temples burning in the night, chained dragons screaming in the dark, and a girl who looked just like her unleashing fire from her bare hands. She felt pain that wasn't hers, heard voices she didn't know, and screamed without sound. Her heartbeat slowed to a crawl, then thundered like a war drum.
Then—silence.
Zia collapsed to her knees, gasping. Her hands glowed faintly, like coals left to die. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and her body trembled with the weight of something ancient now stirring within her.
"The flame remembers," the man said simply.
When Zia opened her eyes again, the village was gone.
She stood at the edge of a stone bridge that arched over a river of glowing lava. Before her loomed a castle carved from black obsidian, with towers that twisted like smoke into a blood-streaked sky. Fire elementals drifted lazily above, whispering in forgotten tongues. The heat of this world was immense, but it no longer burned her skin. Instead, it welcomed her.
Above the enormous iron gates, words were carved in molten gold:
"Academy of Cursed Flames – Established in Fire, Ended in Ash, Born Again."
The hooded figure gestured toward the gates.
"Welcome, First-Year."
With a deep breath, Zia stepped forward, her heart pounding like war drums. The fire didn't scare her anymore.
And behind her, the world she knew faded into ash.