The night is cold, and Knox is unforgiving. Now that the intruding mare is gone he has other matters to attend to; particularly, the boy he has falsely called his son.

Those flames... Knox suspects they speak of a powerful magic, and it's one he would like to control. The air is stale and smells vaguely of mold. Too many rainstorms have left the earth in the World's Edge soaked, but it only takes a mild rain to cause the same effect here. He stands now at the shore of one of the falls' lakes and repositories, his hooves lapped by the flooding water. The soil can no longer hold the responsibilities imposed on it by this season; luckily greenery still abides, overflowing and abundantly alive. The hunter despises it, in a way.

But he does not stay still, does not linger at the water's edge. After only a few moments the hunter begins to stalk through the woods, his lips curled up and his tail lashing. "Boy, are you out there?" he says, trying to not sound as threatening as he is. He wants to woo the child, lure him in. It does not occur to him that this could cause him to develop his own weaknesses; after the disaster of his own son, Knox falsely considers himself immune to such worldly affections.

Oh, but time will tell. Above, the sky is a wet dark and with every step there is a dissatisfying squelch. His skin prickles, the long and ugly scar across the right side of his features aches as if still fresh. As he walks a thin trail of silver smoke follows his half-gaze. In this night, he is searching for the boy on fire.

—

The beacon that is the boy's own magic betrays him. Knox can see Brendan even before the words come out to guide him, for the flash of flame is so bright that perhaps even the dead take note of it. Deep in their cave of immortal ending, they scrawl poetry of this infant spell. Knox can only wonder if they are as envious as he.

"You need to learn to control it," Knox says, his vision unfocused but the target of his address still quite clear. Whatever fear he might feel for the flame is gone the moment he realizes that it fails to burn its surroundings. Knox doubts that he will leave this night with another burn. "If you don't, it will only become a weakness. What good is it to be the boy on fire if you know nothing of the flame?"

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Milo lurks. Milo, the unwanted son, so quickly replaced by this boy, this figment, in the middle of some strange night. Brendan will be good. Already the boy has magic, a companion, and the potential for strength. What does Milo have but a broken back? No, the hunter wants none of his son's disability. He will take this innocent, this Brendan. This boy he can still shape.

"You're smart. You played along well with that mare," Knox says, and in the way that he says it--with stilted discomfort and a lingering threat--it becomes clear that he does not give complements often. He moves on quickly from the subject, walking to stand alongside the boy and scowling down at the companion. Never as great as his own, never like his love, but... a hellhound. The creature would grow by this boy's side as Manhattan had by his. She could be another ingredient in the recipe of his making. Not wishing to dwell on Manhattan's absence by acknowledging this canine's presence, he instead turns his burned half to the boy.

"Fire struck me once, but it will never do so again. I know better--do you?"

—