Sophia’s sleep began to break.
Not from dreams—but from whispers.
She would wake in the coldest hours of the night, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, with a voice still echoing in her skull.
It said only one name.
Chosen Flame.
Not her name—not Sophia—but something older. Deeper. As if the name itself wasn’t meant to be said aloud. As if the very air bent around the words.
At first, she thought it was just part of her unraveling mind.
Then, the visions began to change.
No more crowns. No more firestorms.
Only darkness.
A black field beneath a red sky. A circle of hooded figures surrounding a blazing pyre. And always… the whisper.
“She is not vessel. She is spark.”
“The flame must choose.”
Sophia started to dread sleep. Not for what she’d see—but for what she felt.
Because in
