I always knew my father was special. When I was young, he would drag me into the dark kitchen where my birthday cake awaited. I loved seeing his hand wave above the candles, smiling as they each lit at his command. Mother always got upset when he didn't use the matches, I guess she wanted him to be normal. Always the fire came from within. At that time, I thought it was magic, I now know the proper word for what he could do, Pyrokenisis. He could conjure fire from his mind to his hand, always letting me watch as it danced from callused palm to callused palm. I can still see his smile as my stubby, baby hand tried to catch the flames, but he always kept me from burning myself.

My father was always afraid of something that he would never tell me, no matter how I fretted about it. Now that I've encountered the talents of Shwarz, I think I can guess what it was. To be taken away and turned into something he didn't want to be, all for his gift. It could have happened, but the hunters never found him.

I admired him. The fire he shaped with his hands permeated through out his whole being. He was warm, caring, had a quick temper but was always just as quick to forgive, and he was a bit impetus. People who knew us said I was a lot like him, still am I hope. There was one thing of his that I couldn't do the same, I can't create the dancing flames, but still, I was his son, and bore the stamp of his blood and personality. I was his son, and that was good enough for me.

I should have truly died in that warehouse fire as Kase intended. All the doctors who treated me afterwards said it was a miracle that I escaped with only minor injuries, mostly from the beating and the falling timbers. As high, as hot, and as close of those flames were, I bare no burn scars. Due to luck? No, I know the real reason. Fire can't harm me, sure, it can hurt me all right, but it will never harm me. The heat recognizes my taste, the blood flowing through my veins, I was protected.

After all, to me, it was my father's gift.