The village of Rickton was built on the banks of one of the many rivers that wound through the kingdom of Celethir’s heartland. It was little more than a clutch of neat buildings built along a road that connected the village to the outlying farms and then to the neighbouring village of Corlin’s Pasture twenty miles to the west until it eventually found its way to the crossroads town of Holgate.

One of the village’s largest buildings was a tired old mill that sat on the outskirts of town. It was well into the night, and the mill’s large water wheel was raised out of the water after a hard day’s work. On the second floor of the mill, a young boy slept alone in his room. Or at least he tried to.

His name was Philip, the miller’s eldest son. He had gone to bed hours ago but sleep still eluded him. His teeth chattered and he pulled his blankets tighter around him. He wished he had a fire in the corner of the room like the mayor did, but an indoor fireplace was far beyond the means of a small village’s miller.

The night was not a particularly cold one by Rickton’s standards, but Philip had felt a chill for three days now. His mother had convinced his father to take him to see the healer at Corlin’s Pasture in the morning. Philip wasn’t looking forward to the trip, it was a three hour walk each way and he wanted nothing more than to be curled up in bed all day.

Right now, he’d like nothing more than to be curled up between his parents in the main bedroom down the hall. Unfortunately for him, that was where his two year old brother slept, and his mother didn’t want him to spread whatever flux he had to him. Besides, Philip was already ten years old, far too old to be sleeping with his parents. More importantly, the village children would never let him hear the end of it if they caught wind of it.

Exhausted and exasperated, Philip focused on the kernel of warmth that he felt deep within his chest. It was an odd sensation that had appeared at the same time as the chill. A warmth that was wrapped in a bubble within his chest that felt so reachable if only he knew how.

The boy closed his eyes and tried to find ways to tease the warmth out as he had done the past two nights. Every so often, he succeeded in teasing a bit of warmth out and channelled it through his body to banish the cold if only for a fleeting moment.

He experimented with the orb, trying to find a way to get more warmth out. Frustrated, he pictured the orb as a searing hot mass, and it was as though a valve had been released. The warmth flowed out from his chest, enveloping his body. For the first time in three days, he wasn’t cold. Exhausted from the little sleep he had been able to get over the last few days, Philip quickly let himself drift off, hoping in the corner of his mind that he had not wet the bed.

Philip turned in his bed and groaned but did not open his eyes. It felt as though he had only just drifted off. Through the fog, he heard a scream. It sounded like his mother, but he dismissed it as a dream. Then the scream came again. He jerked upright and looked around, confused. Flames raged around the entire room, reaching the ceiling as they snapped and crackled. Despite this, he felt warm, as though he was wrapped in a warm blanket against a cold winter’s night. The only explanation was that this was all a dream. The fire that raged around him couldn’t be real. If it was, he should be burnt to a crisp, or suffocated. There had been a serious house fire a few years ago that had killed the smith’s family. Their bodies weren’t burnt. The healer had said that the fire had consumed all the air, leaving them to suffocate.

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There was screaming from the house across the street now. It sounded like the butcher’s wife. Perhaps something was seriously wrong in real life in which case, he should probably wake up. He tried willing himself to wake up when he heard the floorboards beneath him crack and then give way. The sensation of falling was very real, as was the pain upon impact after which his world turned black.

The next thing Philip felt was something heavy on top of him. Muffled voices came from somewhere above. He tried to move but was unable to. He tried calling out, but his mouth was dry and would not open. Then, the pressure on him was relieved, and the brightness of the sun seared his eyes even though they were closed. He tried moving his arms to cover his eyes, his body wouldn’t listen. The next thing he felt was hands lifting him. He groaned as his entire body protested at being moved.

“He’s alive!” he heard a voice shout.

“It’s a miracle,” gasped another.

“You’ve been buried under there for three days,” said a gentle voice as unseen hands bore Philip a distance before laying him down on a pile of blankets.

“Here, drink this,” came a woman’s voice. A soft hand helped him sit upright.

With a great effort, Philip opened his eyes and winced at the late morning sun’s brightness. A cup was held up to his lips. He drank from it deeply. When he was done, he looked up to see the innkeeper’s wife smiling back at him.

The smile was quickly replaced with shock. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she gasped, dropping the cup in Philip’s lap.

The village turned silent as Philip looked around at the burnt-out husks that lined the street. Men stopped what they were doing amidst the charred wreckage to look at him. Those closest to him gasped and took a few steps back, a few grasped prayer beads at their belts as they did so.

“Fear not, good people, those eyes are the sign of the Gifted,” an unfamiliar voice said as its owner rushed over.

Philip squinted as his eyes struggled to adjust to the light and saw a pair of men dressed in flowing purple robes walking down the street towards him. The uniforms of the six armed guards that flanked them told Philip that they were important men.

“See, I told you it was worth rushing over here,” beamed the younger man. He was a powerfully built man who looked to be in his thirties. He was bald and something was off about his face. As he got closer, Philip realised that he had no eyebrows, “this boy here could change our kingdom’s fortunes.”

“He could indeed,” the other man agreed, his hair was greying, and the bottom half of his face was obscured by a neatly trimmed beard, “it’s hard to believe that the boy did all this and came out unsinged.”

Philip’s eyes adjusted fully to the light, and he gasped when he saw the destruction that surrounded him. What had once been a neat row of shophouses had been levelled and all that remained was ash and bits of wooden structure burnt black.

Then, the man’s words sunk in, and tears welled in his eyes. “Am I responsible for all this?” he stammered.

The younger man squatted over Philip and patted him on the shoulder. “It was not your fault,” he said compassionately, “My name is Frederick, what’s yours?”

Philip looked back at him, in shock. He then looked to the villagers who had all backed a good distance away. He could see the fear and disgust in their eyes as they looked back at him.

“Where are my parents?” Philip asked quietly.

“I’m afraid you were the only survivor,” the younger man replied. “May I know your name?”

“Philip,” he replied numbly, looking back at the charred remains of the mill.

“There is nothing left for you here, Philip,” Frederick said gently. “Come with us and we’ll see to it you’re looked after.”

Philip could only look at his feet and bawl as Frederick undid his cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders.