I was born in the village of Aurorum—a place where the mornings smelled of smoke and fresh bread, and the air stayed warm even on the coldest days. They said the land beneath us was blessed with a fire at its heart—and perhaps, that was true. In Aurorum, nearly everyone knew how to work with fire. But not like a blacksmith or a warrior—rather like a cook, a mother, a person who wished to warm, not burn.
My name was Julius. I was the youngest in the family—the sixth child of Selena and Victor.
Mama… she smelled of rosemary and baked apples. Her hands were strong, but gentle. She wasn't a mage in the usual sense, yet the stove obeyed her as if the flame itself knew—this is Selena. Father, on the other hand, wielded fire with stern precision. He taught us that fire was no toy—it was a living force. One wrong move, and you're no longer a cook, but an arsonist.
I had two older brothers—Rem and Darion. Rem was quiet, with clear eyes that seemed to look through people. His fire was cold and dim, as if he never quite trusted it. But Darion—he was the opposite. He laughed loudly, cooked loudly, and his food was always spicy like an argument. He loved fire the way others love storms—with awe and without fear.
My sisters were three little flames, each bright in her own way. Thea—the eldest—was strict, as if born an adult. She ran the kitchen like a general commands an army. Lina was a dreamer who baked bread while whispering recipes to the stars. And Mari—the most cheerful—often set tablecloths on fire, but her pies always made up for it.
As for me… no one pushed me to do anything. Everyone was busy with their flames, and I... I simply watched. I didn't know then that my fire would be unlike any of theirs.
I was a shadow in a house full of light.
But even shadows, sooner or later, find their shape.
Our family was well known in Avrorum. Not because we were wealthy or noble, but because every day, the scent of roasted meat, caramelized fruit, and crispy bread drifted from our little restaurant. We called it simply — Furno, after our family name. In the old tongue, the word meant "oven." And it was true: our entire home was one great, living hearth.
Mama and Papa opened the restaurant at dawn. While the sun was just beginning to rise over the fields, the lights in our dining hall were already glowing—warmed by tiny floating fire-spheres. They hovered in the air like fireflies, filling the room with a soft, comforting heat.
Papa cooked the meat—strictly, with concentration as if performing a ritual. Mama took care of everything else: from bread to tea, from spices to the smile given to a weary traveler.
My brothers and sisters helped however they could. Rem often stood by the door, seeing guests off with a stern gaze. Darion carried trays, juggling them like a magician. Thea checked every last herb, Lina scribbled down recipes like they were magical incantations, and Mari… Mari was everywhere. At the stove, with the guests, under the table—spilling tablecloths again.
And me?
I was still learning how to stand. Taking steps, falling on the soft rug. Mumbling words, no one understood. Sometimes I'd sit on the kitchen floor, watching fiery runes spark above my brothers' heads. Sometimes I'd laugh when the flame from a candle danced near me—as if it wanted to play too.
I was only two or three years old. I didn't know then that this was the happiest time of my life. Back then, everything felt simple: a day, a meal, a family. The world was warm and kind—like a loaf of bread, fresh from the oven.
I didn't yet know that one day, that bread would burn.
And with it—our home.
But until then… I was just learning to speak.
And memorizing every face, every voice, every scent—so I wouldn't forget.