He remembered the snow first.
It had fallen in silence, drifting into the courtyard of his father's castle, each flake a fragile echo of winters that once carried laughter and warmth. In memory, the walls still stood tall, proud, and unyielding, but on that night, they had felt foreign, cold, and hollow.
The boy had stumbled through the corridors, his breath sharp against the chill, his steps echoing too loudly, as if the stones themselves mourned. The banners that once blazed with color seemed twisted in the dim light, shadows of what they had been. He remembered the way confusion clouded his mind, how every familiar archway felt like a stranger's face.
The throne room had loomed ahead, vast and silent. He had pushed through its heavy doors, and the air inside struck him colder than the snow outside. Silence pressed against him, thick and suffocating, louder than any battle cry.
And then he had seen them.
His mother and younger sister lay in the far corner, their arms wrapped around each other, shielding themselves from the attackers, now motionless, draped in death's cruel stillness. His knees had nearly buckled, his chest heaved, his heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might break free. Fear had given way to grief, grief to despair.
But despair had not been the only force that stirred within him. Rage had surged, hotter than fire, sharper than steel. He remembered the way his fists clenched, the way heat gathered in his palm, light flickering at his fingertips. A flame, blue as the winter sky, had sparked into existence. Fragile yet fierce, it had danced in the air, born of fury and loss.
And then his eyes had lifted to the throne.
Pinned to its backrest, mounted like a grotesque trophy, was his father's head. The body was gone, but the face remained, eyes half-lidded, mouth frozen in silence. A spear had driven through the skull, anchoring it to the seat where once his father had ruled. The boy remembered the way his breath caught, the way the world seemed to tilt, the way the sight carved itself into his soul.
At first, the flame had been no more than a flicker, a trembling spark. But the more he stared at that spear, at the lifeless faces of the man and woman who had been his protectors, the more the flame grew. His grief twisted into anger, his anger into fury, and the flame swelled with it. It had licked up his arm, curling around his hand, burning without pain.
He remembered screaming, raw and unrestrained, a sound that tore through the silence. The flame had answered his cry, swelling larger, brighter, hotter. It had leapt outward, spilling across the floor, climbing the walls, devouring tapestries and banners. The throne room had erupted in blue fire, shadows fleeing before its light.
Stone had trembled beneath him. Pillars cracked, ceilings groaned, and the majesty of the hall collapsed under the weight of his rage. The flame had enveloped everything, throne, walls, memories, until nothing remained but ruin.
And in that ruin, he had stood alone.