The next couple of months passed in a flash. Samazzar spent most of each day, watching over Crone Tazzaera’s shoulder and assisting as she tempered and prepared the reagents for his eventual baptism. After her grueling work in the laboratory, the Crone would spend an hour or two each afternoon instructing Takkla, Dussok and Sam on the intricacies of their mysteries.

Those were the moments he lived for. Clustered around the fire with his littermates as her cracked voice described the ways that heat interacted with the world. How good air would pass over embers, causing them to flare to life, producing heat and the sparks of flame that could breed a great wildfire.

Then, Tazzaera would tire. Her coughing fits came more and more frequently as of late, often forcing her to retire back to her sleeping chamber for an early night’s rest after only a bit more than an hour of instruction.

After the Crone went to sleep, Sam would study the flame for a couple more hours until he too grew tired. Most of the time Takkla and Dussok would remain with him, straining their limited senses and understanding as they tried to understand the crackling flames for what they truly were.

On other occasions, they would steal away to spend time alone together. Takkla called those instances ‘dates,’ but that name never made any sense to Sam. They didn’t come on specific dates, and they weren’t a recurring number of days apart. In fact, there was no logical way of telling when the two of them would want to run off to the sleeping chamber together.

It frustrated him to no end. Each day, he could feel his understanding of the mysteries solidifying. From the way the wind from the cave entrance circulated good air around the creche cave to the way that heat radiated outward from the rocks beside the fire pit, it all just made sense to Samazzar. Even if he didn’t completely grasp every facet of the mysteries right now, he instinctively knew that he was on the right track, that the final answers were just out of his reach.

Takkla and Dussok on the other hand, seemed to have their own world, one that he wasn’t part of and couldn’t even begin to understand. Takkla kept trying to explain to him that it would make sense if he started spending more time with their tribe’s females, but that just frustrated him further. Ever since he came back from the depths, it almost became impossible to talk to females. Whenever he would walk past a cluster of them in a tunnel, heat would rush to their faces and they would begin giggling or whispering.

Still, Sam thought, a satisfied smile blossoming on his muzzle as he helped Crone Tazzaera finish brewing the second round of baptisms. Everything from his bewilderment toward the rest of the tribe, and his new heavily muscled form hardly mattered in the face of magic.

His claws held the decanter steady as Tazzaera slowly poured the thick mix of congealed fire spore essence, bitter root milk, and a collection of lesser herbs into the ceramic container. Every five or so seconds, she would pause, letting the concoction breathe so that the crushed and blended ingredients could interact with the good air of her laboratory.

“Be careful not to breathe it in, little dragon.” Her voice was muffled behind the muzzle of leather covering her snout. “Bad air comes in several varieties, and the waste product from this potion is not something you will want to experiment with unless you don’t mind struggling to catch your breath for a week.”

He nodded back, not letting his claws budge. Sam had a leather mask over his own muzzle, a common requirement from Crone Tazzaera when they worked with their more volatile reagents. She couldn’t entirely explain why some ingredients would attack a kobold’s eyes or lungs, but after years of experience and careful notation in the margins of the alchemical primer, Samazzar knew better than to question her.

She paused for a moment, setting down her beaker in order to grab a pinch of precious rock salt and a few sprigs of dream moss. Between Samazzar’s claws, the potion began to bubble, growing warmer as Tazzaera’s additions interacted with its contents.

“Remember,” the Crone continued, peering at the decanter with the distant gaze of a magi using the mysteries to peek past mundane drabness of the purely visible world. “You’ve already done this once and succeeded, but we don’t have the spare ingredients for a third attempt. Of course, the difference between accessing the third level of a mystery and the fourth is like night and day.”

“I understand,” Sam responded. “I’ve studied for almost a month and a half after the first breakthrough. There’s no way I’m going to let all of that be for nothing. I just need to hold the lozenge of still breath under my tongue while drinking the flameater potion. Then, without breathing I need to consume a dozen still glowing coals and closely monitor the way the embers, heat and good air interact inside my body.”

“Samazzar.” Tazzaera clucked her tongue from behind her mask. “I love you more than my own pups, the ungrateful little wretches, but I swear upon the cosmos itself that you are going to be the death of me.”

She resumed slowly pouring the flameater potion into the decanter, expertly mixing the thick liquid with the ambient good air through a series of swirling motions and flicks of her wrist.

“If you don’t take your baptism seriously,” she continued, eyes fixed on the burbling substance that Sam was holding, “it could easily be the end of you. I keep trying to tell you that the fourth level of the mysteries only resembles the struggles of the third on a surface level.”

“It’s just like you pushing beyond your limits to expand your bloodline,” she poured the last of the mixture into the decanter before quickly snatching up a well oiled wooden stopper and sealing the container. “You knew better little dragon. You read all of the same texts as me, and despite that you let your sense of purpose and destiny delude you.”

“Sometimes, the risk is necessary,” she took the decanter from Sam, holding it up with a yellowed and cracked claw while swirling it experimentally. “But it is always a matter of reducing that risk where possible. Take today for instance, I will be on hand to help you. If things get out of hand, I should be able to step in and protect you long enough for you to get out of the fire pit.

“Normally,” Crone Tazzaera tapped the side of the decanter with one of her claws before nodding in satisfaction. “I would insist that we handle all three of your breakthroughs separately. That would mean exposing you to fewer volatile alchemical concoctions at once along with less raw heat. Like any magic, it would still be a risk, but that would be a concrete step we could take to keep you safe.”

“Unfortunately,” she finished, shoving the decanter back into Samazzar’s claws. “You’ve only gathered enough for one push toward the fourth level. There will still be enough for your littermates to have a shot at the third tier when their time comes, but you’re going to consume the lion’s share tonight. Again, and I can’t emphasize this enough, you should expect this to be an order of magnitude harder than your first breakthrough. Doing the ritual this way is more efficient, but the cost of that efficiency is pain and a high risk of failure. You’ll need to keep your wits through everything little dragon. Otherwise everything you’ve gathered will be a waste.”

Sam cocked his head to the side, watching as the crone turned around and grabbed her cane, hobbling out toward the main chamber. A moment later he began following her.

“Why can’t I just go back into the depths and find more?” He asked quizzically. “It’s a couple days hike, but I know where to find them. I won’t have to spend weeks and weeks searching anymore.”

She stopped, the sudden cessation of the click of her cane against the floor almost as startling as a violent crash or explosion. Crone Tazzaera turned toward him, only making it halfway before her withered form doubled over, wracked with coughs.

For almost a minute, Samazzar stood there holding the decanter, unsure whether he should help the Crone, or if his intervention would just anger the proud old woman. Finally, she righted herself, leaning heavily on her cane as she wiped a claw across her streaming eyes.

“Because I’m dying you silly fool,” her voice was hoarse, more a croak than a statement. “Why do you think I’m spending all of my remaining time on you and your friends?”

“But Tazzaera,” Sam said, hating himself for the desperate, almost pup-like whine to his voice. “I made sure you had food and a coat through the winter, everything was supposed to work out-”

“Come now Sam.” He winced as she rapped her cane against his shin. “I’ve seen the way you drink in the hidden secrets of the world. You’re smarter than that. Even if I’ve managed to escape hunger’s grasp, disease and age still catch up with us all.”

She sighed unhappily to herself before continuing.

“I can see with each passing week how my lungs struggle to process good air. Every morning, I spend longer coughing to clear them, but every morning it works less and less.”

“Little dragon,” her voice softened. “I hope you never have to know what it’s like, looking at glob of bile and blood next to the side of your bed and knowing your body will slowly but surely strangle you. That one day you just aren’t going to wake up, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

She reached up to pat Sam on the head, frowning when her extended claw only made it up to about his shoulder.

“I swear,” she muttered, clicking her tongue sardonically. “I’ll never grow used to you being taller than me. Now get down here you big lunk.”

Samazzar sunk down to both of his knees, eyes wide.

“There,” Tazzaera grunted, rustling her claw over the scales between his ears. “That fear and inevitability. That’s why I’m pushing myself so hard for you, little dragon. You have a crazy dream, and maybe I’m just a sentimental old woman, but I actually think you have a chance at pulling it off.”

“I don’t have much of a legacy little dragon.” She patted him once on the head before hobbling backward with a hiss of pain as the movement twinged something in her hip. “Everything I tried to create in the tribe has been taken from me by that snake Lellassa, but when I look at you and your littermates, I see hope. You absorb the mysteries and alchemy like water, far faster than I did when I was your age. If any kobold in these accursed caves is going to break past the wretched shackles of our race, it will be you.”

“If I could be part of that?” Her cane clicked as the Crone continued her slow shuffle out into the main chamber. “Well, I’ll be torn between smiling down at you from the next life and cackling at that buffoon Duromak and his painted jezebel. Obviously I’d prefer to have my triumph in this life, but as you get older? You learn to take your victories where you can get them.”

“But Tazzaera,” Samazzar whined, jumping to his feet and hurrying after her.

“No buts little dragon,” Tazzaera shook her head in response, not even looking at him. “This is my decision and I’m making it with my snout held high. If it’s the last thing I do, I will send you and your friends out into the world with every last scrap of magic and knowledge that I can pour into the three of you.”

They rounded the corner into the creche cave. Takkla and Dussok were already seated next to the fire, tales intertwined as they meditated. Weeks ago, the two of them had begun breaking through into the second level of their mysteries in sporadic bursts. They were still far from the ultimate prize, the fourth tier and the secret of fire itself, but Sam couldn’t help but feel his chest swell in pride as he looked at his friends.

Most kobolds never bothered to learn the first level of a magic. The months and years of painful, hard work before a practitioner actually learned anything ‘useful’ drove them to other, more hedonistic pursuits.

Of course, a properly sharp mind could find purposes for ‘useless’ magic too. Sam’s expeditions had proven that time and time again. Still, most of the tribe considered their lives to be too precarious and short to spend any time on the sort of long term planning embodied by studying the mysteries.

“Here.” Crone Tazzaera thrust the dark grey crystal of the lozenge of still breath at Samazzar. It was over twice the size of the one he’d used to break through to the third level, cold and glittering in the dancing firelight. “You’re still coated with the oil of burn resistance from brewing your potion. Put this under your tongue and hop into the fire. You know what to do from there.”

Mutely, Sam put the gleaming crystal under his tongue. He exhaled, letting the good air leave his body until there was nothing left. His brain screamed for him to breathe, to inhale good air in deep gasping breaths, but he clamped down on the impulse and let the lozenge do its work.

He closed his eyes and stepped into the fire. Distantly he could feel the warmth of the flames licking at his scales, still hot enough to make him feel uncomfortable, but not anywhere near a level that would burn him.

With practiced motions he pulled the stopper from the decanter. The second it was no longer touching the ceramic, the circle of wood burst into flames.

Thoughtlessly, Sam discarded it, instead bringing the container to his lips and tipping back his head to let the viscous liquid flow into him.

It tasted rancid. Like putrifying rat mixed with dirt and charcoal. It slithered down his throat, bubbling and searing Samazzar’s tender flesh on the way down. A moment later, the unpleasant tingle of the alchemy took hold.

He gritted his teeth, sharp fangs biting into the soft flesh of his jaw before reaching down and scooping up a double clawful of coals. The first time, he had only needed two, but the Crone’s point was well taken.

Sam only had one shot at this. His second try would take weeks if not months to gather the materials, and-

He cut off that line of thinking. Tazzaera was unnecessarily gloomy. He’d find a way to stop whatever was happening. Samazzar wasn’t sure how he’d manage it, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d stared the impossible straight in the eye.

One coal after another fell from his claws into his open mouth. Even with the potion, the hot stones seared his tongue, burning the tender flesh. Finally, he closed his muzzle, swallowing and forcing the glowing chunks of wood down his throat.

Tears welled up behind Sam’s eyelids as he sat down, crossing his legs in the middle of the bonfire. Intellectually, he knew that he wasn’t suffocating, that his mouth and throat weren’t being burned by the glowing chunks of wood. The potions, oils, and lozenge beneath his tongue would protect his body from any physical damage, but that didn’t mean they shielded him from the pain.

His body shook like a leaf in the wind as agony wracked through him. Sam could feel each and every lump of smoldering embers, like eggs of searing flame, as they passed down his esophagus. He tried to turn his magical sight inward only for it to flicker and blur as he tried to concentrate through the pounding waves of torment.

Crone Tazzaera was right. The discomfort of his previous breakthrough was nothing compared to the agony that wracked him now. His body screamed for good air while his throat did its best to regurgitate the burning coals.

Samazzar crossed it all from his mind, instead focusing with the entirety of his being inward. It took a moment for the outside world to fade away, replaced instead by the balls of heat and ember collecting in his stomach.

Sam resisted the urge to reach out and touch the mysteries. His breakthrough to the third level in heat, good air, and ember let him manipulate them. It would only be a matter of moments to seize hold of the intolerable heat and expel it from his body.

Instead, he redoubled his focus, ignoring the copper taste of blood in his mouth. Sam gritted his jaw tighter, fangs digging into the soft flesh of his jaw as he struggled to block out the outside world.

One by one, he shed his senses until Samazzar’s reality was nothing more than the cluster of glowing embers, resting in the void of bad air that was his stomach. From months of study, he already knew what would happen. The lack of good air would strangle the embers, suffocating them until they lost their very essence.

A coal winked out.

It still contained plenty of residual heat, but one second it was an ember, smoldering and turning unburnt wood and good air into light and heat. The next, it was a shadow of itself, a corpse. Warm, but without any sort of mystery, life, or ongoing activity.

Then another faded from his senses. Wonder replaced any echo of pain in Samazzar’s mind as the good air starved embers began to fade. Something tingled at the edge of his perception, some knowledge that he just couldn’t make sense of.

The last ember disappeared, and it was like a dam burst. Thoughts and concepts washed over Sam in an unending torrent. Images and words popped into being as, for the first time, he truly understood how the concepts of heat, good air, and embers intertwined to create fire.

Heat was a product of some reaction inside the ember. Good air activated the hot wood like it was an alchemical ingredient, stoking it to life and producing flame. It was easy to describe their interactions, but to truly understand-

He staggered to his feet, lurching out of the bonfire and collapsing to his hands and knees on the cherry red stones surrounding it. Almost without thinking, he reached out with his mind, suppressing the heat of the rocks and drawing good air toward him.

Sam spat out the lozenge of still breath. The device was one third its former size, now a dull, twisted and pitted reflection of its former crystalline beauty. Good air flowed into his mouth as Samazzar gasped for breath for the first time in almost four minutes.

A second later, the coals came up. Samazzar’s body wracked itself as his stomach sought to cleanse itself of the inert blocks of wood. They clattered onto the floor, covered in bile, but it hardly mattered to Sam.

He could care about the pain later. For now, new vistas of information and magic stretched before him, expanding the realm of what was possible beyond his comprehension.

Already he was reaching out with his mind, grasping onto threads of heat and air and tying them together with wisps of good air. Blearily he picked up the cool end of a stick that had been thrust into the fire and pulled it out. The mixture of heat and good air touched the smoldering end of the branch in Sam’s hand, and acting on some impossible to define instinct, he pushed.

It flared to life, bursting into flame in front of him.

Samazzar stood up, a dopey smile on his face as he gazed lovingly at the torch in his hands.

Nothing else in the cave seemed to matter. Somewhere, pups were running back and forth squealing and playing games. Dussok and Takkla were beside Crone Tazzaera, excitedly congratulating him on his breakthrough.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered watching the crackling flames lick upward. “After so long of chasing after the mystery of flame, how did I not realize how beautiful it was?”

“That’s because you couldn’t see it properly before,” Tazzaera’s raspy voice jolted Sam out of his semi hypnotized state. She coughed, great spasms that jerked and shook her body.

Samazzar tore his gaze away from the torch, staring at her with concern.

“Oh don’t worry about me you big fool,” the Crone continued, waving a cracked and yellowed claw dismissively in his direction. “Take a moment to congratulate yourself.”

“There’s a long road before you little dragon,” she wheezed, a broad smile painted across her muzzle, “but there’s no denying that today, you’ve taken your first steps down the path of the Magi.”