A pyromancer's flame is a part of his soul.
Even after so long, I could still feel that flame pulsate and writhe in my hand, warm and vital as a beating heart. Staring into its flickering, dancing amber mirror, I could still see his face, half-hidden under the hood of his robes. He had been meditating as usual, enjoying the peace and quiet, even though it was the quiet of a doomed world. He hadn't really wanted to talk to strangers but I was the exception, as I had saved his life and he owed me. After a while, I think, or at least hope, he appreciated me keeping him company. I started to see a little more of his face. He was so young, his eyes stoic but somehow sad, as if he had ended a large part of his life too soon.
I've had to use this flame of his a lot since he first shared it with me. It's a lot stronger now, fed with countless tainted souls to be purified in its unbearable brilliance. I've learned new ways to use it, forbidden, dark spells that are probably doing terrible things to my own soul each time I use it but that doesn't matter when the alternative is so much worse, when you know you won't get out of this one intact anyway.
You see, I know fire well enough these days to hear the song of the First Flame singing to me, and I know it is singing a song only to me, a beckoning, and that every move I make is leading me closer to it. One day I'll walk too close and then I'll burn up.
That still won't be the flame to leave the deepest mark on my soul, to brand me with its name and claim me first. Even as I am consumed, I'll only think of him.
A flame is a mirror in all directions, its exchange of souls two-way. Even when I am gone, part of me will live on inside his own flame. Everything I do is so that his will burn a little longer.
