They say fire is blind—it consumes without prejudice, burns what it touches.
But in Natlan, fire sees. It remembers. It judges.
And Mavuika? She is fire, given form.
I see her again on the fifth morning after arriving. I'm sitting near a wide stone outcrop that overlooks a river of obsidian, watching the way ash floats across the sky like snow. Children are sparring with wooden spears below. I watch them, still learning how to watch instead of command.
A shadow falls over me.
"You're worse at hiding than you think, Capitano."
The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and my body stiffens before I can stop it. Reflex. Old training. The instinct to stand, to deny, to reach for the mask I buried in the satchel days ago.
But I don't move.
I just look up—and there she is.
Mavuika stands in a loose crimson tunic, eyes like coal that still smolders, arms folded across her chest. No armor. No weapons. And yet, she is the most dangerous thing I've seen since returning to Natlan.
"How long have you known?" I ask, voice lower than usual. Not Capitano's voice. Mine.
She shrugs. "Since the moment you took that roasted root from Dako. Capitano doesn't say thank you. He doesn't eat with children. And he sure as hell doesn't sit still."
I say nothing.
She crouches beside me, close enough that I can smell smoke in her hair.
"But I didn't tell anyone," she adds.
"Why?"
Mavuika smiles—not mocking this time. Just… tired. "Because I've seen what you are when you're not him. And I'm curious what happens if you keep being that man instead."
I stare at her.
There's no angle here. No manipulation. No test. Just a woman offering something rare in a world like ours: a choice.
She extends a hand. "Come on. Let's get you off that rock and show you something real."
She brings me through the parts of Natlan I never saw during the mission. Places not marked on any Fatui map. Waterfalls carved into molten cliffs. Forests where the trees grow sideways, fed by ash and heat. A cliffside temple where villagers leave offerings—not out of fear, but out of love.
"Not all fire needs to destroy," she says, running her fingers across a mural carved into black stone. "Some of it protects. Some of it remembers."
I ask her why she helped me. Why she didn't turn me in. Why she bothers.
Mavuika tilts her head, then says, "Because once, I believed in burning the world to survive. But lately, I think it might be worth learning it first."
We sit beneath a canopy of smoke-woven leaves. I think about the war. The Gnosis. The life that never belonged to me. And the flame inside that still hums, quieter now. Listening.
Maybe this is what it means to be reborn.
Not just to wake in a new body—but to be offered the chance to choose who you'll become.