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Nine
The words of Sir. Oswic replayed and echoed in Gerey's head as small dribbles of sweat ran down his red hair and tickled his armpits in attempts to let out (at least) fume from his aching arms, “You are the harbinger of sanity to this ignoble world - the gift itself being ‘Pyrokinesis’.”
“I - I can't do this.” Gerey retorted, gasping for breath.
“Don't say that my dear boy. If you had thoughts of being able to burn down churches, or create volcanoes or even melt a piece of plastic on your first day, you have been dwelling in your fantasies, and this - is reality. Guess what else is reality, boy?”“Ugh, what, sir?” Gerey asked, heaving and puffing like he'd trotted all the way from Ledale to Deham without stopping for a rest. He looked straight into the waned, wise eyes of the wizard, Sir. Oswic.
“The verity that this world rests not on my shoulders, no
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