The attack came a heartbeat too late as the
stranger sidestepped the cone of flame and circled
around to Phoenix’s rear.
Phoenix quashed the flames as he felt cold
pressure against the front of his neck. Never had he seen
a criminal draw a knife so fast. In the apartment’s dim
light, he could just glimpse that the weapon had a golden
handle decorated with some sort of engraving.
“Stay still, Phoenix,” the stranger whispered in
the hero’s ear. “I have no idea whether this will hurt or
not.” He placed the tips of his fingers against the left
side of Phoenix’s back, and pressed.
Phoenix felt like he’d been punched in the chest
with a cement boxing glove and his heart palpitated. The
stranger let go and Phoenix, winded, collapsed to the
floor. He strained to roll over, to see his enemy.
The man examined a little red flame that he held
in his hand. That golden shine in the stranger’s eyes
brightened, overcoming the reflection of the flame.
“The living flame will never consent to be
wielded by you.” Phoenix could barely choke the
statement out. His breathing was ragged and the pain in
his chest blossomed to include his left arm and the
underside of his jaw.
“How little you know of the boons.” The stranger
didn’t take his eyes from the little flame as he held it to
his chest. It sank into his body as if it sought shelter.
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