Robin Sena sat huddled on her small bed, staring at the single candle burning at her bedside, the only source of light in the darkened room. The flame flickered and danced as she watched. It was so different from the flames she encountered everyday at work. It did not seem to grow or consume; it was comforting, a soft light. Fire took so many forms as it leapt from place to place, from candles to fireplace grates to buildings… to people.

Her flames had killed a man, just earlier today. He had been burned, consumed, eaten by the fire she created. He had killed a boy with his Craft just before; then, she did the same.

The fire, it danced before her, tiny, but powerful. Even this little flame could burn painfully. She smiled bitterly. Appearances could very often be deceiving; something so small and beautiful could be just as dangerous as the roaring flames she sent after witches. This tiny, delicate-seeming flower could swiftly turn deadly. It could easily become a killer.

Her eyes caught the mirror across the room. Slowly she turned to look at herself. "Me, too," she whispered, as a single tear slid down her cheek.