The Flame of Flames

Michael was having a good day so far.

He was walking away from a burning church, his blue flames were melting the walls, eliciting a small chuckle each time he turned back. His walk was calm and collected, a clear contrast to those around him, but he did not care.

Sheep didn’t had any right to change anything, for they could not change anything.

He eyed a mother, with her child, who both cried and held a small, wooden, symbol. After a quick look, he recognized it as a rosary, which ruined his good humor.

Walking towards the couple, he extended his hand and allowed a prison for blueish flames to circle both. Entering the dome, the flames did not touch him, but welcomed him instead.

Both mother and child looked at him fearfully. A look he enjoyed as much as hated it.

His memory played a bit with him, showing another mother and child in their place, but they were not holding a rosary, instead, they were branded with a pentagram in their arms.

The symbol of the East Resistance.

A surge of