Nicos held the small cylinder between his thumb and index finger. He gazed inside it, at the black substance packed to the brim. There was no cap to it, both sides were technically open, though one end was significantly smaller than the other. Barely more than a pinprick, really.

"It doesn't seem like much," he noted.

In his other hand, he held the ashthrower. With a quick motion, he slammed the cylinder into the weapon, into the opening just above the hilt. It slid in easily, clicking into place like a sword entering its sheath.

He raised an eyebrow at the Keeper. "Now what?"

The blind man placed his finger against the edge of ashthrower, and gently guided its barrel away from himself. His other hand pulled up on the spring-loaded flint, locking it back into place. "The goal," he said, "is to cast fire back into the ashes. They carry the Memory of fire more than nearly anything else. The sparks from the flint will help you make the connection. Your finger goes here." He guided the boy's thumb to rest against the cartridge that he'd inserted into the weapon. The opening was much smaller on this side of the cylinder, but Nicos could still feel a few grains of ash, pressing against his skin. "And here." The boy's index finger rested against the spring's triggering mechanism.

"Use the spark," the Keeper advised. "Let it burn you, and push that Memory into the ash. Casting is a way of forcing your experiences onto the world, of sharing your Memory with something else. Make the ash remember what it once was, and fire will follow."

"Right." Nicos pointed the end of the barrel away from the Keeper. His thumb pressed against the ash, and he reached out for its Memory.

Earth, soil, light. A quickroot, farmed for its tremendous growing speed. No other practical uses whatsoever. It existed solely to be turned to fuel, churned out as a small cog in a vast war machine. Fire was its purpose, almost all it had ever known. Cool earth, water to quench its thirst, and the heat from above. Then, burning. Consuming. Its destiny was ash.

Nicos' finger pressed down on the trigger. Sparks flew, scattering across the barrel and over his hand. It burned, just that briefest ember, and he pushed the Memory down into the ashes. It was weak—Nicos had never been seriously burned before, not like the ash had experienced—but it was enough. The ash, whose purpose had been and always would be to burn, seized on the Memory, and roared into life.

It was as if time itself had rewound. The black grains burst into light, the weapon bucked wildly in Nicos' hands, and a fireball the size of a cottage spat out the opposite end of the barrel. It screamed across the open meadow, scorching the tips of the grass, until it crashed into the closest tree-line and set it all aflame.

The boy's jaw hit the dirt.

A flick of the Keeper's hand, and the fire doused itself. "Good," the blind man complimented. "Very good."

Nicos was still staring at the remnants of what he had created. That had been...

"Unexpected," he managed to croak out. Moments later, he registered the pain in his hand. He lifted his fingers away from the weapon with a soft hiss, his skin an angry red. "Must I burn myself every time?"

"Pain is weakness leaving the body," the Keeper joked, his voice light enough to convey mirth. "But, no. Once you have a handle on casting, it will become unnecessary. Few warcasters actually reach that level, but you will. I am your teacher, after all."

The boy puffed up in pride. The weapon was still hot in his hand; the barrel glowed cherry red and smoke issued forth like from the mouth of a dragon. Again, the boy said, "It was unexpected. The damage, I mean." He glanced at what once was a tree, now charred black. "I did not think I could cast such intense flames, having barely known fire myself."

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"Oh, you can't," the Keeper agreed. "The fire came from the catalyst: the remnants of a quickroot, bred exclusively for this purpose. Its Memory provided the fuel, but you provided the spark. That was the only thing being tested." He reached into his cloak, and withdrew three more cartridges. "You get three more shots, before you'll need to create your own ammunition. It'll be weaker at first, but it's better you learn how to cast properly, rather than rely on an outside power source." He passed the cartridges over.

Nicos accepted them, slipping them into the pocket of his breeches. He examined his ashthrower, noting that it had finally cooled off. With a flick of his wrist, the now empty cartridge ejected into his palm. He examined the hollow chunk of metal with a critical eye. This was a possibly life-saving tool. The fire he had cast was strong enough to decimate a small troop of warriors, and shatter the morale of any survivors. It was a horrific way to die, but in battle there was little use for mercy. If only the weapon was not so limited by its ammunition.

No! The boy shook away the thought. It was limited, for now. He would train with this weapon the same as he would any other. He would train until he could cast with campfire ash, the same as quickroot. He would train until the weapon itself became superfluous, and he could throw fire as the Keeper did, with nothing more than a gesture.

But that was for the future. Nicos had come to appreciate the necessity of immediate strength. He wanted more than three shots and, as his eyes slid to the smoldering tree he had just torched, he had a suspicion of where he could find more. Nicos strode over to the edge of the forest, pulled out his sword, and began to scrape at blackened bark.

Blind eyes watched him move, a smile adorning the Keeper's face. "That didn't take long for you to figure out," he concluded, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"It makes sense." Nicos spoke as he worked, carefully scooping ash into his empty cartridge. "It will be weaker, I suppose, than the quickroot ash, but this should suffice. Eventually, my skill will compensate." He paused, as the cartridge filled, and he realized just how much tree was left. With an uncertain glance back to his teacher, he asked, "Do you happen to have any more..."

The Keeper chuckled to himself, and once again dipped into his cloak. This time, he produced an entire belt, made of brown leather, with several pockets sowed into its sides. In these makeshift holsters, six more cartridges glittered with malicious promise. The Keeper tossed the belt to the boy, and he immediately set about filling the empty containers.

"Were you just going to keep those from me?" Nicos asked absently as he worked.

He could hear the smile in the blind man's voice. "Only if you never asked."

Nicos snorted. It wasn't long before he finished packing away the ash in each cartridge. He'd have liked to bring more, but ash wasn't exactly easy to carry. He would simply have to improvise, in the future, when more ammunition was required.

He hefted the ashthrower, and slotted in one of his new cartridges. He looped the belt around his waist, separating the tree-ash and the quickroot. He'd save the latter for special occasions, when his life was in danger. Then, he reset the spring mechanism. The weapon was once again ready to fire.

"You'll need to practice," the Keeper noted. "That was far too slow to be of use in battle."

Nicos ran a gentle hand down the stock of his new weapon. "It'll come with time," he murmured. "Practice necessitates a worthy target." He would treat this weapon with the reverence it deserved. Like Eurya's blade, it would only be wielded against actual threats.

"That can be arranged," the Keeper replied, some amusement leaking into his tone.

The boy shot a quizzical glance in his direction, but was soon distracted by the sound of snapping branches. Trees shook, and splintered. A dull roar sounded out. Nicos braced himself in the face of a sudden blast of wind, and something black and flailing tore through the treeline and slammed into the grass not twenty feet away. The creature, some kind of massive feline, twisted upright in an instant, and glanced around the clearing with wide, wild eyes.

Nicos took an uncertain step back, glancing to the Keeper for direction. The blind man seemed unperturbed. It didn't take long to discover why. Nicos blinked, and Eurya was there, one hand on her waist and the other drumming against the hilt of her dagger. She glanced to the hissing predator, a smirk on her face, then to the boy.

"Your target, Nicos," she drawled. She took a single step backwards, wrapping an arm around the Keeper. They both seemed to slide across the grass, ending up at the far end of the clearing. "Bring home lunch!" the maddening woman called.

Nicos swore, and turned back to the creature. Its eyes met his, pupils dilated, and breath heaving. It was dazed, injured, and enraged, and he was the closest target. With barely a moment's hesitation, it charged.