Aaranya's POV
Okay. So.
Fire tornado? Check.
Spontaneous body-glow? Check.
Ancient teleportation via spiral tattoo that would make Doctor Strange jealous? Double check.
Waking up in a field of purple flame-kissed flowers that smelled like both sandalwood and—oddly—popcorn?
Weirdly, also check.
It took me a full minute to realize I was flat on my back and not dead. Which felt like progress.
The sky above me was... wrong. Not wrong like "uh-oh, the atmosphere cracked," but wrong in the way dreams are wrong—shimmering gold and molten, as if the sun had exploded and turned artistic. I sat up slowly, bracing myself for nausea. Instead, I was met with air that smelled like incense and something warm and... ancient.
The last thing I remembered was hearing a voice. Not loud, not soft. Just... final.
"Welcome home, Flameborn. We've been waiting."
I thought I'd passed out, but I hadn't. The warmth from my spiral mark was still there—faint now, but steady. Like a compass pointing toward something bigger than me.
Then the world tilted again.
The sky pulsed.
My vision wobbled.
And this time—this time—I did pass out.
I woke again, softer this time. The flowers still whispered around me, but the air had shifted. Someone was near.
Footsteps.
A presence, deliberate but not threatening, approaching through the shimmered haze.
And then I saw him.
A man—not old, not young, tall enough to make trees jealous—stepped from the edge of the horizon like he belonged to it. His hair was pure fire, his robes shimmered with glowing sigils, and his eyes—oh, gods—his eyes were the same gold as mine had turned.
"Hello, child," he said, in a voice that was less sound and more feeling. Like velvet smoke.
My brain, of course, responded with peak maturity:
"Am I dead?"
The fire-man chuckled. Actually chuckled. Like I'd just asked if I could microwave metal.
"No, Flameborn. You are not dead. You are home."
He said it like it was obvious. Like we were standing in a cozy kitchen and not an eldritch field under a melted sky.
"Right," I muttered. "Home. Because obviously I teleport to flaming flower dimensions all the time."
The fire-god-man (because let's be real, he was absolutely a god, or at least cosplaying as one) tilted his head, amused. "You carry the mark. The spiral called you here. As it was always meant to."
"And who exactly are you?"
"You may call me Agnivar."
"Cool. So... fire god? Demon? Interdimensional tour guide?"
"Yes."
I blinked. "That wasn't a multiple-choice question."
He walked closer and held out his hand. I did not take it. I'm not that easily lured, even by mysterious demigod men with celestial cheekbones.
"This place," he said, "is not Earth. You are in Tejoran. Realm of Flame. Birthplace of the First Spark."
I tried to process that. Failed.
Instead I said, "I was just on a swing. Ten minutes ago. In my backyard."
"Time doesn't flow the same here."
"Clearly. Because now I'm in a dream with you, fire man."
Agnivar didn't seem offended. In fact, he looked almost... proud? "You are not dreaming. You are awakening."
"Okay, listen Gandalf, can we chill with the cryptic? I just found out my whole life was a lie, I burst into flames, and now I'm in a magic land with no cellphone reception. Cut me some slack."
He actually smiled. "You're exactly as I hoped."
"Snarky and confused?"
"Brave."
...
Well. Okay, that almost got me.
Almost.
"Why me?" I asked, quieter now. "Why Flameborn? What even is that?"
Agnivar looked up at the burning sky, and for a moment, he wasn't just a man—he was a silhouette made of light. "Because you are the last spark of a long-forgotten fire. And the embers remember what the world chose to forget."
My spiral mark pulsed softly.
And something inside me—something deep—stirred.
"Come," he said, extending his hand again. "There is a palace awaiting you. And a library older than your world."
"Will it explain everything?"
"No. But it will confuse you at a much higher level."
I gave him a flat look. "Great. My favorite."
Still, I followed him. Because what else do you do when a literal god invites you?
As we walked toward the distant temple, I noticed something shimmering in the air. It was faint, like heat mirage, but shaped like... children?
No. Not children.
Godlings.
One had flaming hair and a smirk that could melt metal. Another floated upside down and kept chucking invisible fruit at Agnivar. He ignored it like a patient teacher used to chaos. A third just stared at me, wide-eyed and whispering, "She's here. She's finally here."
No pressure.
"So," I said as we climbed the glowing staircase, "how many existential crises am I allowed before lunch?"
Agnivar grinned. "Unlimited. We also have soup."
And weirdly?
That made me feel a little better.
****