This fire is his witness

The sparks kiss his skin, but he does not flinch. He has been here before, in a thousand different lifetimes, in a thousand different fires. He knows their language. They crackle and roar, trying to remind him of something, the pain, the fear, the surrender, but he has forgotten how to listen.

The hood, drawn over his head, not for protection, but for ritual. This is not a battle. This is a passage. The others watch, their faces flickering between light and shadow, waiting to see if he will hesitate.

He does not.

Because this fire is not his enemy.

It is his witness...

💜