Old Rigan woke up to find a dark figure crouching at the foot of the bed. The black shadow had pale eyes that reflected the silver light of the moon. The Shadow held an ivory dagger in his hand, a ritual instrument used by the witch Chresia No, who had died just a few days earlier. It is said that this dagger was used for blood sacrifices.

The shadow smiled and whispered in a low and gloomy tone.

"Old man, if you scream nonsense, you will die."

The room was foggy and very poorly lit. Rigon looked to be a hundred years old. He smelled the pungent smell of lamp oil, and the smell of animals in the sweat of the incoming. He nodded helplessly.

The shadow leaned forward, and out of the darkness emerged the face of the robber bastard Keegan, with a grim smile.

"I've got something to tell you, old man. Listen to me, so I can live longer. ”

The dagger was made of Guvask boar teeth, flashing in the dimness. Keegan pressed the tip of the knife against the old man's loose-skinned throat.

"Understood, nod."

Rigon didn't say a word, and nodded.

"Good." Keegan's knife didn't move. His eyes were filled with hatred, anger almost making his teeth tremble. He was not far from a beast, bound only by what remained of humanity.

Rigon swallowed hard and didn't speak. He was trembling too, but for something else entirely.

"You killed my mother." Keegan growled. "It's not because of the pain. It's you. It's you, day and night of suspicion and suspicion of ingratitude. You forced her into an icy cave. You exiled her by your own foolish superstitions. You killed her. ”

The knife moved to the old man's cheek, ready to cut off a piece of meat.

"Now you're going to kill me." Keegan whispered. "You humiliate me with my origins and curse me for bringing bad luck. This is not enough. You've kicked a kid out of your precious village, over and over again, and taught me nothing but hate. This is not enough. Now, before my mother's ashes are cold, you want to drive me into the wasteland and die outside. ”

Then the dagger was removed.

Keegan slipped away from the bed and retreated to the edge of the room. He picked up a lantern with a hood from the bedroom table, illuminating his figure slightly. His smile became even more cruel.

"That's what I'm talking about. After I'm gone, think about my words. Think about how you threw a boy and his mother into the snow and made him grow up. ”

Ragon didn't know how to answer, or maybe the kid didn't want to hear it. Half fearful and half submissive, he didn't say a word, breathing in the greasy smell that filled the room.

Keegan removed the lantern cover, and an orange light suddenly filled the room. Wet grease was everywhere on the floor, on the walls, on the bookshelves, and even on the sheets. He did it all with neat hands and feet - without moving a word, and only then woke his prey awake.

"Slow...... Slowly. The old man stammered in panic. Wait—"

"No, I'm on my way." Keegan said in an almost casual tone. "So I should warm my hands before I go. Goodbye, Rigourne. ”

"Please wait!"

But Keegan couldn't wait. He retreated towards the door, throwing down the lantern as if leaving a parting gift. The lantern fell on the rough wooden floor of the bedroom.

Keegan laughed as the world turned into a world of fire in front of him, even as the tongue of fire licked his own body.

***

Fire is like life, greedy and hungry. It will be hungry, have a mind of its own, and, like fate, have a cruel sense of humor. It rolled lovingly in front of it, and Freljord's relentless wind blew away the sparks, bouncing and rolling all the way across the nearby rooftops. Every time it touches a place, it bites down and starts devouring.

Keegan scurried north through the grassy lowlands, oblivious to the disaster that lay behind him. He had more important things to do than to stay and watch old Rigern's mansion burn to the ground. He had to deal with the burned part of his face - the left half of the fire was burning and painful, and it could only be relieved by the snow stuffed into the ground.

He couldn't help but suspect again that the rumors that he would bring bad luck weren't necessarily all lies.

It wasn't until he had climbed high enough that he looked back to examine his masterpiece. The sun was rising over the sea, and the fire had long since been extinguished, leaving only a thick column of smoke that curled and thinned in the morning breeze. He held a handful of snow on his burned cheek, hoping to see Rigion's mansion turn into a charred black heart in the middle of the village.

What he saw startled his breath. He was too frightened to speak, scarred, and staggered to run, but he managed to get back to the scene of his crime.

At first no one noticed that he was back. Survivors wander among the charred wreckage of their houses, and everything about them is gone. He was just another silhouette in the smoke and dust, another survivor covered in scars.

He found her outside the charred ruins of Tswana's house. She lay quietly on the ground with her husband and son. The three of them were covered under the same jet-black blanket, silent. Keegan squatted beside them for an unknown amount of time. His mind was empty and his whole body was weak. Maybe he cried. He wasn't sure at the time—and later too—though he could feel the salt water burn from the wound on his face.

When he was around her, he remembered only two things clearly. The first was the faces of a family he saw when he pulled down the blankets. After confirming that it was hers, he put the blanket back on.

The second thing, he put his hand on the muddy shroud, praying that he could evoke his mother's ancient magic. But as always, the talent he was supposed to have wasn't what he wanted.

They didn't move. He is no longer complete.

After a while, naturally, someone else came over. Keegan knelt beside Tswana, ignoring their insults and scolding. People chanted "witchcraft" and "bad luck", and cursed the day of his birth. Keegan let these words drown him out. Nothing compared to the hollowness in his chest and the sharp pain in his cheeks.

These people don't know anything. In their grief, they blamed Keegan because they didn't know who to blame, let alone that he had done it all. They cursed him only because of his bloodline, not for his crimes.

Without looking back, Keegan left the burned village. He went into the wilderness as he had planned, but the expected pleasure of revenge was now turned into bitter ashes in his mouth.

Keegan spent the next few weeks wandering. He followed the trails of the beasts and the caravan trail inland, with no specific direction and no idea where there were people. The only places he was familiar with were the desolate woodlands and ridges where his mother had collected her medicine.