In the northern wastelands, a child was born beneath a sky that wept fire. Her eyes opened to the scent of blood and snow, and from her tiny fists came sparks.
The villagers feared her. The priests called her a curse.
But the old monk, blind yet unafraid, took her in and whispered:
"Every curse is a blade. You must choose how to wield it."
She smiled—and the snow melted at her feet