The first soldier that comes into Indigo’s line of vision is dead within seconds by his hand.

When the army realizes they are under attack, a dozen men roar and dash toward him.

A newfound smirk finds Indigo’s lips. He plays around with the fire that tickles his fingertips—a blazing connection, an unbreakable bond. The feeling of the elements that shift and change against his skin is one he indulges in before he jumps over the dead man’s corpse and unleashes its unfiltered wrath against the army.

One man screams. “I thought you said all magic users would be gone!” His words are those of pure confusion as the fear in his comrades’ eyes spread from soldier to soldier.

Indigo reaches for the sky. “They are,” he says, while creating a wall of flames that comes crashing down and engulfs his enemies. “I work alone.” His body is hot, as if he has just touched a million suns and stars all at once.

A bead of sweat drips down his temple. Indigo pants, hard, with both his palms rested against his knees. He had only read up on the theories regarding these techniques, and to claim it’s much more taxing on his body than he’d anticipated would be an understatement.

He shuts his eyes. He ignores the shrieks and cries of mankind’s regret as he takes yet another deep, and solemn breath.

Once the pleads of the humans that have roasted behind him are silenced, once the thick, ash-laden air carries wafts of smells similar to meat grilled on a stove for far too many a minute, Indigo rises again and turns to face the helpless village, his people. There isn’t enough time for him to feel fear, for it has been devoured by his mission, a duty to survive over anything else. The small cottages, houses, continue to crumble under the army’s fires. There are flashes in his mind of him and his sister running across the hill he stands on. He motions for the flames to come forth with a swift motion of his hand. Slow and steady, they all return to him; yet it is not pride Indigo feels. I have acted too late, the thought haunts him. The village is disfigured, just like the many lives it remained intent on taking over the years.

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The choir of screams starts to settle.

As the humans notice the dissipating heat, the men that had scavenged the townsfolk’s houses cease their attempts at kidnapping young healers and women. One by one, like curious, little paper dolls carried out by the wind, they rush outside and face their fates—the incredible view of a midnight sun risen above their heads.

When their eyes finally land against Indigo’s figure, they shout obscure human references Indigo doesn’t understand, followed by other, nastier slurs he knows all too well.

“Witch!”

“Get her!”

Indigo feels the power try to take over his limbs as they charge toward his figure. The wind rises and turns—it makes keeping the ball of fire at bay quite the challenge for him. A voice in his head chants that it is too much for a first try, that he should know when to stop; yet another yells: Not now, not when I’ve almost claimed victory over these bastards!

Indigo counts the seconds in his mind from five down to one. Their swords are high up in the air as their legs carry them to the edge of the forest, to the hill that supports Indigo’s frame. Stomping feet. Loud mouths. Battle cries drowned out by the crippling, crackles of flames. And, when the time is right—when Indigo’s hands can no longer withstand power meant only for the use of heroes in faraway legends and lands—he brings it all down, down, down against their weakened, mortal bodies.

Their cries are silenced.

The army falls.