It began with a single spark. A whisper of flame that consumed everything I once held dear.
I remember the crackling, the way the heat clawed at my skin even as I stood frozen in place. The fire wasn't natural—it couldn't have been. No ordinary flame burns like that, with tongues of shadow flickering within the inferno, twisting and writhing as if alive. This was something ancient, something unnatural. Magic older than time itself. Dark magic.
I had been foolish once—naïve enough to believe in safety, in love, in the permanence of home. That night, the fire stripped me of my illusions. It tore through my family, my house, my life, leaving nothing but blackened ruins and the stench of charred flesh. Every book, every scrap of knowledge they had gathered, turned to ash in moments.
I remember the screams—how they cut through the night, how they twisted into something inhuman before the flames swallowed them whole. I remember the shadows cast against the walls, bodies writhing in agony before crumbling into dust. And I remember the silence that followed.
I stood there, helpless, a mere witness to the destruction of everything I loved. I did nothing—because there was nothing I could do.
That was the day I swore I would never be weak again. Never trust. Never love. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me.
Never.