Before you were named, it hovered. Before you were trained, it burned. And long before you questioned your path, it had already marked you as its keeper.

This is not the kind of calling that waits for permission. Not the kind that requires applause or robes. The flame is ancestral. Celestial. Personal.

It chose your voice to thunder softly. It chose your feet to cross forbidden thresholds. It chose your blood to remember what the world forgot.

And you’ve always known.

• In the dreams that defied religion…
• In the silence that spoke louder than sermons…
• In the goosebumps when truth found you in whispers…
• In the moments you felt fire, but saw none…

You are not here by accident. You are not reading this by chance.

The flame that chose you is not of this world. But it came to this world — for you. Through you.

You are not seeking power. Power is remembering itself — in you.