Adrian Denan looked around at the burnt out mess of what had once been a clearing and decided something had to be done. He swung his gaze around to glare at his son, Malcolm, who shifted uncomfortably and dropped his eyes.
"I didn't do it on purpose!" Mal protested, trying not to sound like a whiny teenager. "It just sort of..." He waved his hands around and mimicked the noise of an explosion.
His father sighed, shoulders slumping, and he winced guiltily. "It always, "just sort of", Mal," Adrian said tiredly.
The younger man gave a sigh of his own. "I know...I really am sorry, Da."
Adrian shook his head sharply. "Sorry isn't enough anymore. You could have really hurt someone!" Before Mal had a chance to respond- though what he might have said he wasn't sure- his father held out his hand and muttered a spell.
A gleaming scarlet feather appeared over his open palm. Mal felt suddenly and inexplicably drawn to the thing, taking a hesitant step forward to get a closer look. The mage murmured again, and the feather suddenly caught fire. Mal yelped and jumped back, looking to his father in bewilderment. "What is that supposed to do?"
"I called for backup," the older man grumbled. He sighed again and rubbed the back of his head, leaving mussed salt-and-pepper hair in his wake. "There are...things I should have told you, Mal. About your magic. About you. I thought I might have more time, but..." He gestured around them at the blackened devastation and Mal winced again.
So quietly he almost didn't catch it, Mal heard his father mutter, "I just hope she can help."