The first thing Emberling knew was fire. It was born from the heart of a smoldering ember, a tiny wisp of flame given form. Its body glowed like molten gold, flickering with energy, small yet fierce. It had no memories, no past—only the heat of the world around it, the hunger for movement, and the ache of solitude.

  It danced through volcanic fields, its embers sparking in the air like fireflies. It tried to touch the rocks, the trees, even the creatures it came across, but everything burned beneath its touch. Leaves curled into ash, the ground cracked where it lingered too long. The creatures fled from it, their eyes wide with fear. Emberling was alone.

  Loneliness was not something it understood at first. But as the days turned to weeks, then months, the emptiness became unbearable. It longed for warmth that wasn’t its own, for a touch that didn’t end in destruction.

  One evening, as Emberling flickered through the darkened cliffs of an ancient volcano, it saw a light that was not its own. A soft golden glow emanated from the entrance of a cave. It drifted closer, cautious but desperate.

  There, sitting on a weathered stone, was an old woman.

  Her skin was marked with time, her hair a cascade of silver strands that shimmered in the dim firelight. Robes of deep crimson wrapped around her frail form, and in her hands, she cradled a tiny flame. Unlike the others Emberling had encountered, she did not recoil at its presence. Instead, she smiled, her eyes reflecting the dancing fire.

  "Oh," she muttered, "you poor little thing."

  Emberling hesitated. Words were foreign to it, but there was something in her voice—understanding, warmth, kindness. It took a timid step forward.

  The woman extended her hand, and for the first time, Emberling felt something other than fear. She did not burn. Her touch was warm, steady. She was like it—a being of fire, but something more.

  "I am Iria," she said gently. "And you?"

  Emberling did not have a name. It had never needed one. It only knew the sensation of flickering through the world, weightless and untethered. Iria watched its flames dance, thoughtful.

  "I will call you Cin'dr," she decided. "A spark that refuses to fade."

  And just like that, Emberling—Cin'dr—was no longer nameless. No longer alone.

  Days passed, then weeks turned into months. Iria's cave became Cin'dr’s home. The walls were lined with books, old scrolls, and countless candles that never melted. She was an Infernal Archmage, she explained, one of the last of her kind. She had spent her life shaping fire, breathing warmth into the cold, giving light to the dark. But now, age had slowed her hands, and the fire she wielded burned softer, quieter.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She taught Cin'dr many things. How to control its flames, how to shape them into harmless wisps, how to warm rather than consume. They spoke of the stars, of the winds that carried embers across the world, of the fleeting nature of fire.

  "Everything burns," she said one evening as they sat beneath the open sky, her wrinkled fingers tracing patterns in the air. "But fire is more than destruction, Cin'dr. It is movement, it is breath. It dances with the wind, whispers to the night, listens to the world around it. It leaps when fed, it flickers when ignored, but it never truly vanishes—not if you know where to look."

  She gestured to the stars above, their glow steady yet trembling.

  "Even the coldest sky remembers fire. The embers of stars burn long after their light reaches us, traveling distances greater than we can imagine. Fire lingers in places unseen, waiting, patient, never asking for permission to return. It is not greedy, nor is it mindless. It is what we make of it—gentle as a candle’s glow or wild as a storm’s fury. That choice is always ours to make."

  She turned to Cin'dr, her gaze steady, warm.

  "To wield fire is not to own it, but to understand it. To shape it, to listen to its hum. It is not about control—it is about harmony. Do you hear it, Cin'dr? The way the flames speak?"

  For the first time, Cin'dr knew happiness. It was not just a creature of destruction; it was a companion, a student, a friend.

  But time was unkind.

  Iria grew weaker. The once-bright flames in her hands trembled. Her breath became shallow, her steps slower. Cin'dr saw it happening, yet it did not understand—not fully. Fire never aged. Fire never faded.

  One evening, as the last rays of the sun painted the horizon, Iria sat by the cave’s entrance, her hands folded in her lap. Cin'dr curled beside her, its flames dim, sensing something it could not name.

  "Cin'dr," she whispered, her voice soft as drifting ash. "I have lived many years. More than most. My fire has burned long and bright, but all flames must rest."

  Cin'dr trembled. It pressed closer, its warmth wrapping around her like an embrace. Iria smiled and reached out, her fingers brushing against its flickering form.

  "Do not grieve, little one," she whispered. "For even when the fire fades, its warmth lingers."

  That night, as the stars watched in solemn silence, Iria closed her eyes one last time.

  By her side stood Cin'dr, its flames flickering weakly. For the first time, it felt cold.

  Not the gentle hush of dying embers, nor the fleeting chill of a fire left untended—no, this was something deeper. A hollowness that crept into its very core, a silence where warmth should have been. It was foreign, wrong, like a flame snuffed out before its time, leaving only smoke and sorrow in its wake.

  Cin'dr curled closer, desperate to chase away the aching void, but no matter how fiercely it burned, the warmth it had always known—the warmth of her—was gone.

  Cin'dr stood motionless, staring at Iria’s still form. Something stirred within it—an ache deeper than the heat of its own flames. A grief it had never known before. A hollow sound escaped from within it—a crackling wail, rising like a dying ember gasping for air.

  Cin'dr’s fire, once so controlled, so gentle, flared wildly. It roared through the cave, the flames consuming everything in their path. The walls glowed, the air wavered with unbearable heat, but Cin'dr did not care. It held her frail body close, its fire burning brighter, hotter, wilder—until even the very air seemed to smolder.

  And then, something impossible.

  From its burning form, a single tear fell, shimmering in the inferno, rolling down like a whisper of sorrow. Another followed. And another. Cin'dr, a creature of flame, was now weeping.

  The fires began to soften. The cave, once ablaze, grew still. Ash swirled in the fading heat, the embers dimming as Cin'dr’s own body crumbled away, merging with Iria’s remains.

  The two became one in the cinders—fire and flame, warmth and light—drifting into the wind, dancing together in the night, never truly fading.