The sun scorched and seared. As fire, she danced, but could not breathe. So she became ash and dust and shadow. A reprieve from the heat. Frigid stone. Safe. Unchanging. Nothing.

She remained in that stone for an age upon an age. Until, at long last, a tiny sproutling crept from her core.

It thought to reach, up through the dust, to return to soft light. But as its head cleared the scales, the heat blistered its unfurled palms. Before a single drop of rain could fall upon its fragile form, it died.

And the stone shattered.

But she remained. Unleashed. And wary.

So now she lives in twilight. Beneath the soft light of the moon, away from others, her sproutlings grow with no fear of being scorched again. They are not strong. But at least they are alive.