“It isn’t time yet, little hero. Someday, you’ll have your quest. You’ll find your destiny, and your hard journey will finally make sense. But first you must face many sorrows. I regret that, but heroes cannot be shaped any other way. Now, make me a fire, eh? Warm these old bones.”

A few minutes later, Leo’s mom came out and shrieked with horror. Tía Callida was gone, but Leo sat in the middle of a smoking fire. The pad of paper was reduced to ashes. Crayons had melted into a bubbling puddle of multicolored goo, and Leo’s hands were ablaze, slowly burning through the picnic table.

For years afterward, people in the apartment complex would wonder how someone had seared the impressions of a five-year-old’s hands an inch deep into solid wood.

The Lost Hero, Chapter XI