Chapter Six- The Descent

Before you rise, you must let yourself fall

Amara’s journey has led her to a staircase of fire - a vision of trial, purification and transformation. Each burning step strips away the layers that bound her, revealing the strength she always carried within. At the summit, bathed in golden light, a familiar figure waits: her beloved. A reflection of what she is becoming- a promise that the fire is not only destruction, but renewal.

The night came like soft, dark velvet wrapped in silence.
There were no dreams.
Not even music.

Amara lay awake, restless.
The sheets were twisted, her body warm from ghost-like memories she hadn’t summoned - and still, her skin burned for more.

She had danced that evening. All alone in the living room.
One of his songs had come on shuffle, and her soul had remembered how to move before her mind could intervene. Bare feet on hardwood. Her breath raspy and shallow. Hips swaying as if answering a call only she could hear.

But the rhythm didn’t ease the hunger gnawing at her. Not this time.
It stirred it. Made it ferocious. Insatiable.
And when the music faded, she collapsed to the floor. All that remained was a dull, pulsing ache.

The guilt was sharper now. It wasn’t just about him anymore.
Her reflection in the mirror looked back fractured, condemning.
Yes, she longed for him - his honeyed voice, his hands on her body, the blazing heat he had awakened. But the ache went deeper. It came from a place long before him.

It was about her. The life she hadn’t lived.
The desires muted for the sake of routine, marriage, decency, saving face.

She saw a woman who had been everything to everyone — mother, wife, caretaker, employee. She had kept things afloat. Smiled when all she wanted was to scream. Loved with a devotion that cost more than anyone could possibly know.

But where was she in all of this?
And in that question — the descent began.

The dreams stopped.
Not just for a night.
For a week.

A hollow space stretched across her hours, widening with every passing day.
She listened only to instrumentals. Words were too much. Even his voice - once her soul’s echo - became unbearable, a reminder of what might have been.

She turned to tarot cards. Past-life readings. Soul contracts. Karmic debts.
She became a diligent student of her own heartbreak.
She lit candles. Journaled furiously. Scoured myths for signs. Waited in agony for something to break open — or break down.

Still, the ache deepened like an abyss.

Then, one night, she lit a single candle.
The house was silent - her husband and daughter were fast asleep.

She sat cross-legged on the floor in her robe, palms open on her knees.
She whispered into the flame:

“If I am nothing… then let me be burned clean. Let the fire find what’s left of me.”

She closed her eyes.

And in the silence between one heartbeat and the next, the world dissolved.

She was standing in a semi-dark void — half-naked, trembling.
Ahead, an ornate staircase spiraled upward, carved entirely from flame.
There were no walls. No railings. Just fire licking the sky.

She heard no voice. Felt no hand. Yet somehow, she knew.
Climb, or remain nothing.

With each step, the fire seared her feet, then her calves, her belly.
The pain was raw, unrelenting.
Still, she climbed.

She wept hot tears. Screamed. Gasped for breath.
But she did not turn back.

At the very top — he was waiting.

Half-naked, aflame.
Beautiful as an ancient god descended to Earth.
His body hunger and holiness made flesh.

He said nothing.
But his eyes, looking straight into hers, said everything.

When he pulled her to him, their lips met — not in lust, but in recognition.
The kiss became surrender.
The flame became flesh.

Their bodies intertwined in a cosmic dance of fire and shadow.
Her body arched, crying out in pleasure that left no doubt.

You are alive.

She woke breathless, trembling, deliciously spent.
And for the first time in weeks — she smiled.

That morning, she danced again.
Not to forget.
To remember.

This time,she didn’t dance alone.
In the reflection of the glass, she almost saw him beside her — smiling, following her every move.
Not quite solid. Not quite gone.

And that was when she began to write.
This very book.
These pages.

A woman on fire.
A soul remembering its own ravenous hunger.
A restless heart refusing to be quiet — and a story that would not let itself remain unwritten.

💕As always, a short teaser for Chapter seven…

The staircase burned her bare, the kiss set her alight. But Chapter Seven isn’t about desire. It’s about rebirth. The woman Amara has hidden for years finally begins to rise.

A few days passed. The dream of the staircase lingered like incense in her blood. Something inside her had shifted — and the world around her noticed, even if no one knew what had changed.

Mila watched her dance in the kitchen one morning and whispered, “You smell like jasmine, Mama.” Then, without warning, the little girl twirled beside her, arms wide open. Amara scooped her up and laughed, the kind of laugh that had texture — honeyed and whole.

Previous- Chapter Five Flame or Mirror? Next - Chapter 7 Becoming the Flame

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