The god had no face.


Just a body made of bone-white water and fingers too long to belong to anything human. It slithered from the river like steam poured into a skin, dripping curses like broken teeth.


It laughed, but the sound wasn’t cruel.


It was hungry.


Sungbo stood inside the black flame ring, barefoot and bare-handed. Ena circled the outside, whispering old rootsongs to keep the villagers still.


“You are not welcome here,” Sungbo said to the god.


The god tilted its head.


“I have always been here, little flame.

Long before your ancestors crawled out of the salt.

This river runs on what is owed.”


“And I’m here to collect.”


The god surged forward.


Water lashed. Roots tore from the ground.

The flame tried to retreat—but Sungbo held firm, arms wide, voice steady.


Then she whispered something she hadn’t spoken aloud before:


“My name is Sungbo Nyah.

Daughter of Mara.

Blood of no House.

Chosen of the First Flame.”


The fire changed color.


It did not burn white.

It burned root-red, swirling with memory ash.


The river god screamed—not in pain, but in recognition.


“You carry the name…

before the name was born.”


The villagers saw nothing after that.


Only the flame.


Only the wind.


Only the ash spiraling upward like a song leaving the body.


When it cleared, the god was gone.


The river was calm.


And Sungbo stood with black flame in one hand and a small child in the other—soaked, breathing, and alive.


That night, Ena said, “You’re not a firekeeper anymore.”


“What am I then?”


“A start.”


Sungbo looked up at the stars.


And one by one, they flickered in response.