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They were all scared of him now
He had manifested as an inflictor,
Level six of Foxfire
He was eating lunch off to the side by himself like he had since level three when a new boy with long blond hair walks up and sits right next to him. Bronte just stares. The boy looks up
"is this seat taken?" Bronte shakes his head.
"uh, no." The other boy nods and goes back to eating his lunch. They eat in silence for a few minutes until Bronte asks,
"why are you sitting here?" The boy shrugged,
"the cafeteria is full." Bronte thinks for a minute.
"do you know who I am?" The boy laughs and puts his sandwich down. He looks at Bronte for the first time, crystal blue eyes eyes locked with blue gray. The boy was smirking.
"is that supposed to intimidate me?" Bronte shook his head looking away from the boy.
"no, but you're destroying your reputation by being seen with me." He heard the boy laugh,
"and why is that?" Bronte whispered the words that had defined him since he was thirteen.
"because I'm an inflictor." The boy shrugged,
"and I'm Fintan Pyren, a pyrokinetic. What's you name?"
"Uh, Bronte," he told him after a few seconds of stalling "you really don't mind being seen with an inflictor." The boy shrugged and after taking a bite of his sandwich he said looking at the crystal towers in the distance.
"To me are talents or lack there of define us no more than our parents, their just parts of us no all of us." Bronte nodded.
"I never thought of it like that, thank you, Fintan."
"Don't worry about it Bronte." Fintan tells him.
Present day
Now don't imagine Fintan killing Sophie.
Don't imagine Bronte having to realize that the man he called his best friend, the first person not to judge him, the one to open his eyes to the fact he wasn't a monster. Had killed his student and one of his friends.
Don't imagine Sophie dying in Bronte's arms in the last battle. Don't imagine him having to watch his student take her final breaths. Don't imagine him telling her it will be all ok and her saying that she didn't think she could bounce back this time.
Don't imagine Bronte being alone as the only inflictor once again thinking he failed his student. Don't imagine him watching that tree sprout right next to his old colleagues and feeling guilty and that he should've been able to do something to have saved them, and as he watches the brown leaves sprout and the red ones fall, the cracks appear,
The only other inflictor drops to his knees.
And the ancient one has fallen.