The Circle had grown too large to hide.


From the treetops of Ilaro to the distant bone-sand coasts, flame-lit gatherings called themselves Firstborns of the Unnamed. Their rituals blended memoryroot, ash-speak, and dances once punished by the old Houses.


This was not rebellion.


It was returning.


Sungbo no longer lived in the center of the Circle.


She moved among the people.


Lighting candles in silence.

Listening to flame-touched children sing lullabies only the roots remembered.

Marking each new member not with blood… but with belonging.


One morning, she woke to find a girl sitting outside her dwelling.


Silent. Scarred. One arm missing.


She looked up and whispered:


“My fire died.

Can I borrow yours?”


Sungbo knelt, took her remaining hand, and lit her fingertips with a steady flame.


“Your fire never left.

It was waiting for you to name it again.”


But the Houses didn’t wait.


They came not in open war, but in shadow—corrupting water, stealing newborns marked by rootlight, spreading lies that the Circle had cursed entire towns.


They feared Sungbo not because she commanded flame—


—but because she shared it.


And so they offered a deal.


Three elders from the most powerful Houses arrived at night, dressed in coal-dyed robes, escorted by silence.


They entered the fire-ring without permission.


“We offer recognition,” said one. “Sanctioned place. Protected status.”


Another added, “You will not have to hide. You will be allowed to train… under House supervision.”


The third, older than dust, said:


“Bow… and your flame will be accepted.”


Sungbo didn’t answer right away.


She rose.


Walked to the center of the fire ring.


And called her Circle forward.


Dozens stood beside her.

Then hundreds.

Then the girl with one arm.

Then Bela.

Then Miko.


Sungbo lit a candle without touching it.


Held it high.


And said:


“You do not get to accept what you tried to bury.

We are not seeking approval.

We are the root your Houses forgot.

And we have already grown back.”


The wind shifted.


The trees bowed.


The fire rose—no longer red, but root-gold, laced with ancient memory.


The eldest of the envoys stepped back.


And for the first time in her life, trembled.


Sungbo turned to her people.


“Let the world call us what it will.

We will not burn to please it.”


And the fire—old, unclaimed, remembering—spoke one final word to the night:


“Soon.”