The sky was burning.

For days, my Hearth Spirit had been acting distracted and irritable. Now, as I rushed to the Open Hearth and to his table, he rose without ever looking at me. His pint of Guinness and his favourite spot by the fireplace were forgotten as he made his way through the confused crowd.


My voice was lost among many others, and I had little choice but to follow him out. The street was lined with frightened humans, puzzled Mages and indifferent Feykin. Wishearth noticed none of them as he stopped in the middle of the road, heedless of the cars. Eyes fixed on the sky, he raised his hands in salutation.

The blaze in the sky gilded him in terrible beauty as fire engulfed his eyes. I felt a stab of something; fear or perhaps longing. The sky forgotten, I could not force myself to turn away.

What did he see that I could not?