THE FIRE SAGA

FLAME 90 - CONDITION

"Right." I roll my eyes. "You're the proverbial father of fire."

Apparently, sarcasm isn't his idea of an appropriate response. The clouds in his eyes deepen in color, and I can tell he's angry without being able to read his emotions.

"Leave us," he orders the room.

"You don't like an audience when you set fire to something?" I'm beginning to see how much fun Provoke the Pyro can be. No wonder people want to play it with me all the time.

"I'm not the father of fire. I am, however, the father of you."

I clench my fists at my sides. There are a million things wrong with that statement. Where do I even begin? I have a father. A stellar father, actually. He raised me on his own. It wasn't easy for him. It still isn't easy.

Magnetic pull or not, I don't much appreciate Fire Supreme sitting across from me and casually dropping a bomb like that. Worse, I can't tell if he's enjoying the explosion, has any intention of tending to the devastation it caused, or even realizes what sort of impact it has on me.

I fold my arms, tucking my hot hands into my armpits. I need to cool down. "Is this where you explain how it all happened? Tell me a riveting tale how love and tragedy ruined you for all eternity?"

"No, it's not."

He probably has a heart under all that brimstone. Or had, rather. His resting deadpan could stem from a whopping heartache, making it dangerous to feel anything. That's a plausible explanation for his demeanor. I acted in the same fashion to protect those close to me or, more specifically, didn't act out. I withdrew. In that regard, I see the genetic similarity. That's where the connection ends. Where's his butt chin? I look nothing like him. Honestly, I don't look much like Dad, either, but it's easier to see a resemblance to Jeremiah Tierney than the blazing beast in man skin.

He seems to have two temperatures: hot and cold. When he resonates hot, I want to hide behind the first available object. When he resonates cold, I want to warm him up. The chill is tragic.

I eye him warily. "You expect me to believe you because..."

"I'm indifferent to what you believe." He places his hands on the table in front of him. I burrow mine further into my armpits to stop them from reaching.

"Then why did you bother telling me?" Why am I offended he doesn't care?

"It seemed logical to explain why you felt drawn to me."

"You felt it, too?"

He furrows his brow. "No."

His cold tone effectively counters the fire coursing through me. I won't be exploding anytime soon, but I'm quick to miss the heat. It's favorable to his arctic bite.

"You have a choice to make," he reiterates.

"A choice for what?"

"Two paths have been laid before you, and you'll decide which one to traverse." His robotic tone is viler than the extreme temperature responses combined. "You'll transition and take my seat in the Tribunal, or you'll transition, and I'll extinguish your flame."

"Wow, you're very direct."

"I'm not one for sugarcoating, Sheyla." He sighs. "Nor are you."

Boy, did he ever not nail that one on the head. Pretty much missed the nail entirely. Sugar plus coating equals icing. For cake. I love cake. What kind of monster doesn't love cake? Okay, that's unfair. Love is a strong emotion. Like. I'll concede to like. What kind of monster doesn't like cake?