Unlike that bright orange light that engulfed the room just moments ago, of which that crunched and cracked, only silence encapsulated my ears now.

It was the type of silence I would have gulped airs for a momentary gap to have a breather. Or at its best, a rest that we would have fully enjoyed doing nothing. Unhindered by any mind-inducing activities strained by the scorching sun, and of the sheer hardwork of trying to cast magic—or at least from needing to into wanting to.

But now, it seemed to suffocate me to a realization: What happened? A question that often lingered on days bygone of our daily works, or at times having none to ponder. Yet now it served as the sole question that broke the dozens that followed.

Did someone finally tried to destroy the orphanage?

Was this deliberate?

Were we caught in an accidental fire?

Did the empire finally took notice of our plight?

... or did the war finally broke through our town?

It was a pile of question me and my brothers would usually converse about with an unnatural curiousity. Attempting to reason ourselves some imprints that would help us survive the days that would hereby follow when all we should have been tasked to were do those mandated to us. And with free time, quiz ourselves of magic's secrets.

Or sometimes, just pure randomness. Or hitting questions needed to be hit. That was all we could do. We needed to do. Still, we are as we are. But words always mattered.

We were orphans. Trying to find our worth in the world. Left to wait to be cast away or either picked up. And those questions was but the solace of our curiosity that trembled us to be calm of what our tomorrow might hold.

But now, it seems that those questions were just what lingered in my throbbing head, hoping to grasp—at the very least—a vague concept to reason out my current situation. To even out the feeling of loss I was suddenly pitted into.

But even with this momentary loss of mine, I knew that it would be the last time I—we, would see of that cursed orphan. Of my brothers. In the end, our random ponders did hit the stone, the day did come where our town would be eaten by the war.

I am just sure of it.

Till this moment, I could feel my now stiff, immobile body still trembling with horror of that imprinted pain. Which was outright impossible as neither of all my senses provided a concept of feeling for me to grasp given my current condition.

Was I blinded? Was my eyes lost to me? Was the silence mere product of the fire? Was my unfeeling self just the numbness brought by the pain? Was this me still thinking sanely the only thing left of me before I die?

No. It wasn't. I died. Already.

And it was that burning orange who did. That blaze. That heat. It burned better than what we used to boil baths. Much, exceptionally well.

Even hotter than that of the fire mage's who provocatively eyed every single one of us with warning every Sunday night the bell rang. As if it was a silent agreement between us. A simple gesture of what awaits us if we break the house's rules—or his rules.

Cries. Scorches. Then burns. And a variety more as he donned a curve on his lips. On their lips.

But he could only do that. Something we could still grit. Something that could still heal. Bringing forth comparison between him and to someone beyond understanding was too much for him. And I knew immediately that the accursed mage's ember was but a decoration to the fire that killed me. For surely, he burned faster than any of us.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

My heart lurched and I shifted my sight away from the darkness just to gaze at another one, and remembered how scalding the fire was—its heat was, for I had no memories to retell how horrendous the fire might have been. Just the heat. It was just a few seconds. Yet it burned deeper.

Fire was never my bane, no longer to any of us there. So we knew, learned how to survive one. And piecing it together now, I couldn't think of anything that had occurred except for the Northers that could've claimed our lives. One that could have easily killed me in a matter of moments.

I knew of it when that fire, heat lay before me back then. As if wanting to tempt some power lurking inside my body to a wonderful explosion. To a tumult of horrific display of how something magical truly kills. How mana kills. At that moment, there was nothing flashing in my mind except for confusion, panic, and of course, fear. Hardly realizing that I was dying by my own hands.

Hearsays propagated only the people of the north had the capability to burn a person's life by burning their target's life. Their magic. Their mana. Either slowly killing them if they had none, or just instantly vanquish their life just like how it did mine.

I never had a past of such similar torture. Haven't read how terrifying it is. But with the way the headsmaid looked at us while giving vivid description of how the Northers rang screams of all men, spurting blood in holes numbering more than a dozen times of a man's orifices, I could hardly argue of what befell on our town. The description fit so well to what I witnessed, experienced.

But I felt no fear now. All the uncertainties I wielded at that moment turned to something else. I realized I was joyous more than sad nor frightened of this occurrence.

There was some kind of relief, to be precise.

It was the realization that our simple thoughts resulted an outcome we initially hoped and still do. I burned easily. I died in seconds. And that meant we had magic. We were learning the beginning of it. Finding ourselves a clear path in unraveling ourselves away from the orphanage. We... were.

I tried to move my body, unfeeling as it was while thinking further. Perhaps I might not have magic at all, and what occurred to me was just a moment of impasse in my part. That, perhaps, it was the Northers' magic that did wonders to my body, leading me to a false belief that it was myself—my mana that had killed me and not the magic of the caster itself. Or maybe, it was entirely not the war that occurred at all.

I felt myself lose for a moment as I tried to think more. To alleviate my dissonance to this unified hue of black encompassing more than just my sight. Either my entirety, or just my view, or towards the very me. Still again, I don't know.

One thing remained true, at least.

I died. But not as miserable as I had imagined. I wasn't tortured. Wasn't thrown to a pit to survive for other people's leisure. Wasn't eaten and relished or hungered by beasts. Monsters.

There weren't any laughters. Nothing to run from. No hours spent. No sweats. Not from exhaustion. Just a moment of sleep and seconds of fire.

I felt relieved at that.

And that thought saved me from delving into my emotions, of sadness perhaps the loss of our goal. My goal. I don't know. Maybe even over the fact that I wouldn't be able to meet my brothers and sisters. Never again, perhaps. I felt saddened yet equally not. Still, I couldn't just will myself to forget and think nothing of the days we endured the day, of the times when we've proven ourselves worthy of a meal. Of the moments we learned. Planned. Dreamt.

Which all burned and flickered into ashes now. Waiting to be brushed off by the next storm, rain, drizzle.

But now, here I was. Dead.

I am dead.

I lingered a stare at the darkness. Felt myself gravitate to its meaning. To what I knew of what it is. Then realized again.

This is death.

We always knew we were teetering in one, trying our best to sprung ourselves away from. But not because it was something we feared. Far from that. Death held certainty for us. That if we simply laid prone on our chest, we soon would meet what had been promised for us. To be relieved of the harsh and tiresome days. To be cast away of our worries, of our needs.

A rest. A momentary one until emptiness took us. Until this took us.

The promise it held clung to us like it was the last of our lifeline. We were like moths attracted to the fire, yet seemingly aware of what a little red light could do to us.

It was a beautiful escape. A desired end knowing of what awaits us.

But we needed more than what death promised. We wanted to live. Freely. Magically. To rest not because we required it but because we wanted to. Not just return to something unfeeling.

To something like this.

Yet it seems we still ended in one.

I stared at the color again. The only one there is.

There was no feeling of deep contemplation, no budding regret stemming from my heart, no helplessness, nor was there anything that made my heart tremble with mystified feelings. Just sadness. For now. The concept of death attached to that word. At least, for now.

But this put me at ease over the unknown, especially something as far-reaching as this.

I let out a relieved breath and stayed still again, gazing at the darkness, my newfound companion, perhaps for another second, or minute or maybe even an hour. I wouldn't know. I didn't need to know.

For now, I felt content that I'm still who I am, relishing this moment I knew would end soon. The promise of void coming to claim me.