Ryn’s house was burning again.

This time he was inside it. Hellish red leapt from the walls, licking the ceiling, belching black smoke.

He reached out with his hands and tried to manipulate the flames with his new powers, willing them to recede.

“Go back!”

Nothing happened, except that his arms ached; his powers had deserted him.

And now before him stood his mother, cowering, holding up her hands. The black-armoured, flame-haired Imperial officer Vorr standing in front of her with his huge sword drawn.

His mother looked at him, chestnut eyes pleading.

“Do something, Ryn!” she begged him. “Please, help me! This is all your fault!”

“No!” Ryn whimpered. “I..I can’t!”

And then Vorr’s sword went into her. It ran her right through the chest, making a slippery, slithery sound like a hissing snake. When it came out so did a gushing flow of red. He had seen this image so many times. But here he was, seeing it again.

Ryn’s mother hit the floor.

“NO!”

This time Ryn ran at Vorr.

This time Ryn had a sword in his hand, which he swung at Vorr with all that remained of his feeble strength as he screamed with rage.

The Imperial General batted away his strike easily with his own blade, laughing as he did so; a deep, mocking, mirthful laugh.

“The boy from Cleasor!” Vorr laughed. “How did you manage to survive the crash? How did you even get here?”

“You murdered my parents!” Ryn screamed back. “You destroyed my hometown!”

“Did I?” Vorr laughed even harder. “Oh yes, I suppose I must have…”

As those casual words echoed through Ryn’s mind, Vorr’s sword plunged through Ryn’s chest just as it had through his mother’s.

The shock of it sliding through his flesh.

It’s all my fault. I should have saved her. It’s my fault. I killed my mother.

Did I? Oh yes, I suppose I must have…

The scene shifted, and now Ryn was running through the burning buildings of Cleasor, his hometown, looking for someone, but he couldn’t remember who.

Damn the Imperials! They destroy everything… They burn everything… They gave me no warning. There’s no joy in this world. I’ll never be happy again. I’m going to die burned and broken and alone.

A man lay on the grass in front of him; a tall, middle-aged man with red-grey hair and one of his legs missing, lying in a pool of his own lifeblood.

“Dad!” Ryn cried.

He ran to his father and knelt at his side, cradled his face with his hand.

The flames leapt high all around them.

“You’re hurt...let me help you…”

“No!” his father said, insistent though his voice was still weak. “Leave it, son… I am past help… I will be gone soon…”

“I don’t want you to die, Dad…”

“Take it now.”

“Take what?”

“The ruby.”

“I already did, Dad, but I lost it!”

“That’s right,” said his father. His voice was getting quieter, and harder to hear over the crackle of the flames; his eyes were glazing over. “You took it and you lost it. You’re a failure, Ryn. You’ve failed. You lost us because you failed.”

Hot tears ran down Ryn’s cheeks. “No! I’m sorry! Please, Dad, give me another chance! Come back!”

His father’s eyes lost focus completely.

“COME BACK!” Ryn yelled…

...and resurfaced from the nightmare, sitting up violently and shouting.