The next morning dawns, though I’ve already been awake for a few hours. I’ve used the time semi-productively – meditating on my hearthfire. Either my increased Wisdom or my new Skill is responsible for my far greater ability to actually see the internal workings of the fire – or both. Whichever it is, I’m grateful – it’s opened up a whole world to me, one which I hadn’t realised I couldn’t see.

Like when I first gained Meditation, I wonder at what greater depths there are that I still can’t see but which I may be able to gain insight into later. My improved ability to see the interconnection within the fire itself and not just between the fire and the world around has given me ideas about the earth too, ideas which I will explore later. I want to get a bit more of a handle on fire first.

I haven’t tried creating any more agreements with the use of Fire Taming; I’ve just been observing. Even in the hours I’ve been watching, I don’t feel like I’ve made any significant progress, but I sense that I could if I spend enough time there. And when I’m all slept out but the world around me is still dark and dreaming, why shouldn’t I spare the time to stare into the heart of an ancient fire and listen for its secrets?

Still, I have to admit that I’m rather excited when I sense that River’s woken up behind me. I intend to teach him how to start a fire, and in doing so give fire to the lizard-folk for the first time in history – as far as either of us knows. Does that make me Prometheus?

Then I consider exactly what that unfortunate titan’s fate was and shudder. With my own increased ability to heal, having my liver torn out every morning and it regrowing by the next morning doesn’t seem as far-fetched as it used to.

Perhaps it’s better not to tempt fate.

“Ready to make fire?” I ask River. A mixture of trepidation and nervous excitement comes over the Bond. It seems like his fear is outweighing his anticipation – for now, at least. I think it might do him some good to actually gain some control over the terror which imprinted itself on him as a child. Or hatchling, or whatever they call themselves.

“Don’t worry about it – the worst that will happen is you burn yourself a bit and I’ll heal you. No, actually, the more likely worst-case scenario is that you don’t manage to set light to the fire at all,” I try to reassure him, my tone amused.

I trust you will keep me safe, master, River replies and his honesty takes my breath away for a moment in a mixture of joy and pain.

“I will,” I promise instead, my voice suddenly a little thick. I can’t free him and offer Companion Bond, I remind myself. Not yet. I have to wait a while longer to find out how much of our relationship is real.

I cough to clear away the physical indications of my feelings and then indicate the hearth in front of me. When I sensed him beginning to surface, I pulled the fire apart and let the remaining coals die. There may be a few residual embers and there’s definitely residual heat, but all the better: both will make it more likely that one of his first attempts will succeed.

“Alright,” I start, trying to make my tone professional and business-like. Fortunately, I have practice in both covering and suppressing my emotions. “First you need to build your fire.”

I show him how to construct the fire with a mixture of materials – from the dried moss-like plant which I often use as kindling to the thin, dry twigs which are the next step, all the way up to the thicker pieces of cut firewood. I’ve put significant effort over the last couple of weeks into building a stockpile of these from the tree we brought down as well as other wood we’ve found in the forest.

“You need to make sure that there are lots of gaps,” I emphasise as I place the last, thickest, pieces in a pyramid shape above the rest of the kindling. “Fire requires oxygen to burn, which is in the air around us. At the same time, by placing these branches above the fire, we make it easier for them to catch light. This is because heat rises and the hotter something is, the more likely it is to ignite."

I understand, River replies, watching intently.

When I next deconstruct the fire and ask him to recreate it, his actions are slow but steady, moving almost without error. Certainly, his first attempt at the physical construction of a fire is significantly better than mine. I don’t think the lizard-folk know how to write, so their powers of observation are probably a whole lot better than most humans’.

Once the fire has been remade, I take out my firestarter.

“OK, so this is called a firestarter and it makes our job a lot easier. You’ve seen me use it before, I’m sure.”

Yes. You strike one piece against the other and little lights fly off.

“In essence, yes. You have to get the right angle and the ‘little lights’ are called ‘sparks’. Sparks are actually tiny pieces of the material which have become hot enough to ignite. The aim is to get those sparks to land on our easily ignited kindling and then to coax it into a fire. Come on, let’s try.”

I pass the firestarter to River and help correct his grip until he’s managing to strike the right sort of angle. It’s fortunate that his hands are almost as agile as mine – only his claws get in the way sometimes. It does take him a number of tries before he manages to strike his first spark, and then several more until he’s getting a small shower of them.

After that, it takes even more time before he gets the idea of aiming them onto the small patch of dried moss. Once he’s managed that, blowing on where the spark has landed is the next challenge: it turns out that having a lipless mouth doesn’t make blowing easy. In the end, we settle on making a fan out of a thin and wide bit of wood that’s just lying around the alcove. Ultimately, the point is to get the air moving over the spark; how that happens is irrelevant.

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I didn’t realise it took so much effort to start a fire, River admits when we’re finally sitting back, watching the fire start licking at the twigs. He is fanning it with the piece of wood, but the fire’s now doing most of the work.

I find it interesting that he’s now able to say ‘fire’. Or perhaps, it’s that our understanding of fire is now overlapping sufficiently for the Bond to be able to translate it correctly.

I don’t understand how the life-devourer attacked us if making a fire is so difficult, he says next, sounding a little confused. I shrug.

“It doesn’t always take as much effort as this. And sometimes it takes more. Basically, where I come from, we talk about the fire triangle. If all three elements are present, a fire will happen. If one is absent, it won’t. Can you work out the three elements now you know more about fire?” River looks thoughtful.

You talked about gaps in the firewood, and we needed to move the air around the spark. So, air is one?

“Well, oxygen, but yes, essentially. So one way of stopping a fire is to smother it – pile earth or another substance on it which stops air from reaching the elements which are burning. That’s one. What’s the second?” River considers it for a few moments.

We needed to supply firewood or other materials. Those are the second element?

“Fuel, yes. Fuel comes in a variety of forms. The ones we use here are solid, but if you remember the massive salamander, it used a flammable liquid to project its fire. There are also gases which ignite and can be very dangerous. Good so far. What’s the third element?”

This one seems to have River stumped. He eyes the fire, then me, then the fire again. After a bit of time, he holds up the firestarter.

Is it this? he asks hesitantly. But then I don’t understand how the life-devourer started. As far as I understand it, you were not present two years ago.

“No I wasn’t,” I confirm. “Wait,” I continue after a beat where the implications of his words register. “I thought that you were a…hatchling? When this happened.”

I was, he agrees easily. I blink.

“So you’re, what, three years old?” I ask incredulously.

Almost, he replies. I hatched in the first few days of the sun’s return to strength.

Spring, I interpret that to mean, according to my knowledge of the seasons. I can’t seem to get my head around this. He’s only two years old? At this age, human children are still practically helpless, unable to be left without supervision, unable to do practically anything for themselves. Whereas for the lizard-folk, two years old is clearly an independent adult.

Well, I suppose the relatively short lifespan makes a bit more sense, then – River’s expected life span is only thirty-seven years in total. Hopefully his lifespan will increase as significantly as Bastet’s. Actually, what about mine?

The memories I have from the system knowledge stone do seem to indicate that lives of people on Nicholas’ world are longer, but I'm not sure if that’s a result of levelling or if they’re a different species of human with a longer lifespan than mine.

You seem surprised at my age, master, River interrupts my thoughts with a tentative statement. Did you wish for one younger than me? Or older and more experienced?

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that my kind only reach adulthood in…” I chuckle, “well, depends on what you consider adulthood. We’re technically able to start having children at thirteen or fourteen years of age, sometimes a bit earlier, but that isn’t a good idea for many reasons. Generally, we’re considered to be of adult age at eighteen, though some places consider twenty-one the age for full independence. Heck, in the past, sometimes it took until thirty-five before a person was considered able to make all decisions for himself.”

River stares at me.

….How has your species survived? he asks wonderingly. To have to wait even thirteen years between broods would spell the death of our village. As it is, only five or six hatchlings survive in each brood, and then there are always deaths of unevolved adults which whittle down our population further. And that’s with yearly hatchings.

I hold up a hand.

“Now, that’s one key difference. We don’t have to wait for each child to grow up before having another. In fact, technically, I think it’s possible to have a child every year and a half or so. In the past, some women had ten or even twenty children.”

You only have one child at a time? River sounds even more surprised which, again, I understand. The lizard-folk seem to have the same scatter-gun approach to progeny as do most reptilian species – have many in the hope that a few will survive.

“Yes. We put more effort into ensuring children survive, one or both parents generally dedicating decades of effort to raising them. In the past, child mortality was a lot worse than now, but I don’t think it ever exceeded fifty percent as an average. I mean, there were plenty of things that killed adults then too, but even so, apart from a few outlier events, our population has only grown over the centuries.

“In the last century, it’s exploded – better health care means reduction of deaths by natural causes and fewer wars have meant that’s not killing us off either.” I grimace. “Unfortunately, though all those things have helped us as a species, our effect on the world hasn’t been so positive.” After a moment, I shake the morose thoughts. “Anyway, that’s irrelevant. I think we’ve discussed lightning before?”

River eyes me for a moment and then clearly concentrates on trying to remember.

Yes, he says slowly. Then his expression lights up – literally: his spikes start flashing an almost lurid green. I remember you suggested that as the cause of the life-devourer the first time I saw you make fire.

“Yes, exactly. The third element of the fire triangle is called ‘heat’ or sometimes the ‘ignition source’. So this,” I point at the firestarter, “gave us the ignition event for our little fire here. There are a number of causes of a forest fire, but it’s probably lightning. On a hot day when there hasn’t been much rain, a storm builds, lightning strikes a tree and sets fire to it. If it’s close enough to other fuel, such as dry wood, the fire can spread. Obviously, since it’s outside, there’s plenty of air available. So all three conditions are present for a fire which, unfortunately, will rage until one of the elements is removed.”

I understand, River says thoughtfully. And now we can try boiling the concoction?

“Give the fire a little time to fully catch, but then, yes. Let’s start preparing the ingredients.”