Several years passed by slowly. Sylvia was put to work around the prison, mostly cleaning and yard work. Whenever she picked up a bundle of branches to clear away, the shiver of Colba ran through her.
Her family came to visit her once a week. Due to Mavrorin happening at some inconvenient times, very little was ever said on Sylvia's end as she listened to her family chatter away about the various happenings since the time they saw her last. They would always ask her how she was doing and her answer every time was "so-so."
She meant it too.
The prison wasn't completely terrible. She had a bed and food, none of the inmates bothered her, and though she was under strict supervision, she could go outside…
...But she never had the chance to try and start anything.
It was such a shame she was in here. District Seven was surrounded by trees; it was practically made to be burnt to the ground! She wanted so desperately to be the one to strike the match, to watch it all turn to smokey ash.
The sight of fire erupting brought out something deeply animalistic from within her. Watching the flames lick at the air brought forth the urge to run, dance, laugh, scream. It made her feel mischievous and gleeful and excited. It made her feel alive.
She called this feeling Colba.
Likewise, fire could not bloom if she did not give it the chance to do so. They had to coexist to give each other the chance to truly live.
It was a connection that was centuries old. She'd heard the stories of cavemen discovering fire for the first time, awestruck at its ability to cook and heat and provide warmth and light. It saved and improved their lives.
She could only imagine their shock when they realized just how powerful, fast and deadly it could be.
She knew. She'd been touched by it before. It had marked her hand. The scars would never leave her. She didn't want them to. They were a reminder, a testament to the timeless power and glory of fire.