Flames. Towering far above six metres, they lit up the thick blanket of night sky with their light, shining brighter than the stars of Olympus, a last revenge from Prometheus to the gods above.
Ashes. That was what the lively, bustling village had b...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A young, dark-haired girl sat at the front row of weathered church pews, a brilliant speck of currant in a sea of black ash. Her bright cerulean eyes, supposedly focused on the ceremony before her, were in fact gazing off into space, occasionally fluttering shut then forced wide open again. The entire process looked like agony for the sleepy girl.
The reason for her suffering stood at the podium, his dreary voice echoing across the walls of the large church as people, perched in pews beside and behind the girl, looked on with increasing anxiety.
"...and to rank as Class One Pyrokinesis Hero from today, I hereby relieve the duties of Guardian Tross Tenebris, Hero of the Midnight, and pass them on to Guardian Ignatius Kira, Hero of the Dawn, Protector of Prefecture Finalitet. Guardian Kira, will you please stand up."
The girl jolted from her seat, cued by the sudden wave of applause, and slowly, carefully, made her way up to the stage, where the black-clad agent awaited. Her robes- a mixture of ruby, topaz, and obsidian tones- swished around her lean figure, creating the illusion of fire.
As the media crew prepared their cameras, Ignatius stepped up next to the agent, who stared straight into her blazing eyes.
"Do you, Ignatius Kira, accept your responsibility to protect and secure the Prefecture of Finalitet?"
The girl gave him a small, bitter smile before replying, steadily, "With my life."
The ceremony ended with the Prefect's Acceptance Ritual- a ritual that, depending on the Hero, could either be extremely painful or painless.
For the Prefect of Finalitet, it was both. As he gripped the Pyrokinetic's fingers high above his head, the Hero's skin suddenly lit ablaze, enveloping both of their hands in a bright blue flame that intended to erase the marks of the Prefecture's former Hero from his palm. Though he felt nothing, once the necessary minute was up, he examined the rough skin of his palm carefully.
Tross's pentagram, which, at his ceremony, had cut his flesh wide open with its shadowy, bold black marks, had healed over almost completely.
Over the skin that the inky design had once taken up, a new image had settled.
