“I was delayed,” said Fionn. “There was an accident on our journey here. I was wounded and healed before I could continue here on foot.”

There was silence. Fionn considered repeating himself for fear that he wasn’t heard, until the door slowly creaked open.

The inside of the tenement’s hall was visible, with wooden floors and stone walls holding empty torches at eye-level with Fionn. It took a moment for the mage to realise that the house’s occupant was standing before him, less than half the height of the door.

Conleth the Red did not look at all like his voice had suggested. The aged Pyromancer leaned in against the door as if standing alone was an effort. Thick-rimmed glasses hid most of his face, his pale mouth thinned into a shrewd line. He wore loose, grey rags that Fionn supposed must have once been red, before the passage of time had removed whatever colour they had.

The man himself stood little over four feet tall, his height stunted by a hunched back. In fact, more of the mage’s body seemed to be leaning forward than was standing straight, indicating that he could have once been a tall fellow.

“There was supposed to be another one,” said the mage, leering up at Fionn. “Slaíne something-or-other.”

“She didn’t make it,” said Fionn, making a special effort to keep his voice from quivering. “I’m the only one who did.”

Conleth grunted and beckoned Fionn inside. He led the young mage through a narrow hall toward a room at the back of the building.

“Seán got fed up waiting for her,” said the Firemaster. “He’s gone back to Dromán now. He never did like it here.”

“So, it’s just you?” asked Fionn as they stepped through the remnants of a kitchen, with an old stove against the back wall and a round, wooden table in the centre. Every other surface of the room was covered in books and loose pages. On the floor stood piles of leather-bound tomes, some stacked taller the Firemaster himself.

“Aye,” said Conleth. “All the others left. They call this a Chapter of the Academy, but it’s more a footnote than anything.” He gestured absent-mindedly around the room. “Everything you need to study is here. You’ll be sleeping on the top floor. There’s a bed up there, I think. It’s been a while since I used the stairs. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Conleth pushed past Fionn and made his way to a three-legged stool in the corner of the kitchen. He sat and picked a book from the ground, and began reading, ignoring the bewildered Fionn standing in the centre of the room.

“Is that it?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to teach me how to master the element of fire?”

The old mage lowered his head and gazed back at Fionn. “You’re not ready yet,” he said, and returned to his book.

“How do you know that?” said Fionn, his voice rising only slightly.

“Because you lot never are. Come, conjure some fire for me here. Show me what you learned in all your years at the Academy.”

Fionn narrowed his eyes with frustration. I’ll show him alright, he thought, raising his right arm to click his fingers together.

With a pang of embarrassment, Fionn realised that the flint-rings he once wore on his arm were no longer in his possession. This didn’t seem to be the concern of Conleth, however.

“Curious,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. “I hadn’t noticed that until now. My eyes are not what they once were.” He took a step towards the young mage, eyes focused on his over-sized arm. “Such a curious monstrosity. How did it happen?”

Fionn swallowed deeply. “I don’t see why you should know. Put me on the course to be a Firemaster, and I’ll share some of my story.”

“Curious indeed…,” muttered Conleth to himself. He pulled two flint-rings off his own fingers and handed them to Fionn. “Here, show me that you are ready. I fear they may not fit.”

He’s right about that, said Sir Bearach. Those little things would never fit me.

Fionn placed both rings on the middle and fourth finger of his own hand. The movement immediately felt strange, for he had never worn flint-rings on his left hand. He attempted to click them together—something that would have once come as easily as breathing—but he failed to produce a spark. Again, he tried, and again, until fatigue began to set into his wrist.

Conleth looked on without a word. Fionn was relieved at this much; anything the old man could say now would only frustrate him further.

Come on, he told himself, flicking his wrist again. It’s the same as before, but with the fingers facing the other way. Why can’t I—

A spark appeared in mid-air as the rings successfully rubbed off one another for the first time. It had disappeared before Fionn could grab it, but this did not deter him.

Again, said Sir Bearach. You had it there!

Fionn couldn’t help but smirk. If he hadn’t known better, he supposed that the knight was rooting for him.

With more confidence than before, Fionn raised his left hand and brought the flint-rings together. When the spark appeared, he searched inward, pulling at the power of his soul.

The spark immediately burst into a ball of flame. Fionn tugged at the fire flaring in his own heart, and adjusted the ball’s heat, decreasing it to not burn the surroundings. He focused on the ball, enclosing both his over-sized and under-sized hands around it, and moulding it between his fingers.

He turned his attention back to the power of his soul, fuelling the embers in his heart, which in turn strengthened the fire in his hands. The flames around him expanded and enveloped his whole body, but they burned nothing he did not command them to.

For the first time in weeks, Fionn felt like there was a soul inside him. Its power fed the flames, the flames fed his confidence, and the fire in his heart flared with might. His whole life, he had felt the power of his soul that way, like flames inside his chest. When it came time to choose a discipline back in the Academy, the School of Pyromancy made the most sense.

But things were different now. No, not only was it the rings on his left hand, or the massive arm attached to his right shoulder, but there was something else inside. He turned his focus away from the flames, and looked inward, more closely than he had before. The fire in his heart was there as it had always been, but it was no longer alone. No, beside it, there was something else. Another spark that had yet to be touched.

“I’ve seen enough,” cut in Conleth, suddenly.

Fionn immediately extinguished the flame. It felt like an eternity since he first clicked his fingers together. He had almost forgotten where he was standing.

“So,” said Fionn. “Does this mean I am ready?”

Conleth let out a laugh. “Sure, you’re ready to start, but I can’t promise anything beyond that. Give me a moment….”

He disappeared from the kitchen, leaving Fionn with the hundreds of books littering the floor. He was no stranger to tomes written about magic or history, but he didn’t recognise any of the texts of the floor.

One book did catch his eye, however. The book that Conleth had been reading was left discarded on the floor beside the stool. Fionn walked over to get a closer look. When he did, he chuckled softly to himself.

What’s so funny? asked Sir Bearach, his voice a little more irate than normal.

This book, said Fionn, bending down to pick it up. It was bound in black leather, with tiny, golden letters written across the spine, as if the scholar who had made manuscript was ashamed of its contents. ‘Between Penance and Sin: a study of Simian Biology, by King Eoghain I, third incarnate.’ Have you heard of King Eoghain?

I have not, said Sir Bearach. If he was the third incarnate of Seletoth, he died long before I was born.

That’s right, said Fionn. He ruled during the Fall of Sin, some three hundred years ago, but he hated Simians long before they defied the gods. He fancied himself a bit of a scholar, and he attempted to explain why Simians are the way they are, based on their physiology. His own prejudices came out in his writings. Now he’s remembered as a bigot and a fool.

Interesting, said Sir Bearach. Why would an old mage living alone in a city full of Simians be reading such a text?

Before he had a chance to response, Conleth the Red returned, a tome as large as himself clutched tightly against his chest.

“Take this,” he wheezed, forcing the book into Fionn’s hands. “Your parlour tricks with fire won’t make you a great mage. Studying the right material, this material, will.”

Fionn took the tome in his hands and leafed through it. Numbers and symbols flashed by his eyes, with barely a full word in sight. Some figures he recognised, but most he had never seen before.

“Gods above and below, what is this?” he asked, not attempting to hide the shock in his voice. “This is… mathematics. Sums and equations, like those studied by Simian engineers.”

“And studied by Firemasters,” said Conleth, curtly. “Any child descended from the Firstborn can learn to use magic. Any fool who can afford tuition and four years of their life can study in the Academy. But you came here because you want more. The path before you is not as simple as the one you left behind.”

The Firemaster raised a pale, crooked finger and pointed to one of the pages before Fionn.