Varang did not expect fear to feel like this.

She had faced war without hesitation, stood unmoved before clans that tested her strength, ruled fire like it was an extension of her will. Fear had always been external—an enemy, a threat, something to be burned away.

This was different.

Her firstborn slept against her chest, small and warm, breath steady and impossibly fragile. Every rise and fall felt louder than battle drums. Varang barely moved, afraid that even breathing too hard might disturb the balance of the world she now held in her arms.

Fire answered her no differently. The clan still watched. The world still demanded strength.

But something fundamental had shifted.

This life was not hers to command or harden. It was hers to protect—to outlive her, to grow beyond her shadow, to carry a future Varang could not fight into existence.

She lowered her head, pressing her forehead gently to her child’s.

For the first time, Varang understood a truth no battlefield had ever taught her:

There were things fire could not be used on.

And this—this small, fierce beginning—was one of them.