The mistake walks out from the shadows and into the ruins. He likes it here, the strange inexplicableness of it, the faint smell of salt in the air. He feels a sort of kinship with this place, two things never meant to be but here, existing somewhere out in Beqanna.
He is a mistake because he was not supposed to be born – his mother had told him that often enough – and when she kept him, he wasn’t supposed to be him. He was supposed to be part of some strange ritual, a line of daughters and absent mothers, but he was not. Even with all his power – the ability to raise the dead, the horns that curled from his head, the way his body stretched and contorted – it was not enough. He was a mistake. And so she left.

That mattered more, once. That she left. He tries not to let it matter now, even if he still calls himself a mistake. Even if he lurks in the ruins like he belongs here. He is old enough now that the woes of his childhood should be shed. He can reinvent himself, he thinks, moving further amongst the rocks, the sun catching his dark coat and making the gold sheen of it catch.
He is here and maybe that can be enough.

Prime doesn’t know the same deep aches. Not in any way he can articulate. He knows there is something inside him, something raw and tender, but he has worked hard to bury that part of him. It’s not so hard. Things could have been much worse for him. He wasn’t wanted, so what? He was raised well enough by his father, and he is powerful, made of gold and demons and death, and this puts him ahead of many.
So he tells himself.

He is not expecting the fire – why should he? – so when it appears, circling him like a cage, horns sprout from his head, sharp and terrible things, and his body elongates, stretching taller. His mind reaches out, grabbing for the fire-bringer’s life force, trying to grasp it. Not to harm – not yet – but to make himself known as a threat. Prime is not a seasoned fighter – not even close – but he is willing to play the part, his ears pinned flat, firelight dancing in his golden eyes.
And then he sees him. Another stallion, golden and fiery, staring at him like Prime owes him something. He isn’t sure what, but as he looks closer, he has a suspicion. He spent enough time with Firion to know the stamp of him.
“No,” he all he says, watching the flames more than the man.
“Why do you ask?”

He breathes a little easier as the fire lowers down, although it doesn’t disappear completely, so he keeps his slight grasp on the other’s life force. He’s inelegant with his power, unpracticed save for a few sessions. There are surprisingly few volunteers for this kind of thing, and Prime, though no genius, is smart enough to keep to himself and not exact his powers on random passers-by. He isn’t really sure what he’d do if the threat kept on, if the fire burned hotter. Maybe he could take enough to make him pass out. He doesn’t know how to measure out such things, though. Prime suddenly feels woefully unprepared for whatever this thing is, this boy with his fire and the markings that Prime’s seen before, and it’s like they’re performing some play that he didn’t learn the lines to.

But this worry is for naught, in the end, because the fire drops and Prime breaths deep, the air tasting only faintly of smoke. In return, he releases whatever grasp he had, and this is easier, this, he can maybe do.
“Oh,” he all he says when the stranger says I think I’m supposed to find something here and thought it might be you. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. What importance is he? Unless…
“Did Firion send you?” he asks. He hadn’t seen his father since he was old enough to strike out on his own, but maybe his father needed something from him. Prime suddenly hopes this is it, that he is needed somewhere, that he could be of importance, of use.
But the stranger – Fyr, he says his name is - has another question and Prime looks at him, still somewhat unsure what game is being playing.
“I’m Prime,” he says, “and what I did was…I just reached out and grabbed, For your life force. I thought I was in danger. It comes naturally – like your fire, I think.”