Two and a half hours later, the number of people in the hall had shrunk to less than a third of their initial size. Magister Fermien had kept calling for breaks every thirty minutes, and those who scrambled out of their seats never actually came back. In Caen's opinion, this was very considerate of him, as they must have been scared to leave while the magister was still speaking.

After the lecture, Fermien greeted some of the remaining members of the audience, and with Preceptor Wijin looking over his shoulder to dissuade the more enthusiastic of them, the interactions were brief.

Healer naMoon waved Caen over while Zeris waited to speak with the magister.

The werelizard was dressed in a silken, translucent shirt that stopped at his elbows, and a pair of silken trousers with darker prints. Caen had never seen a werelizard with horns, much less horns as magnificent as Healer naMoon's. They both started at the edges of his forehead and curved backwards. There were bas-relief spiral patterns on them that sometimes glittered red when they caught the light. He had prominent scales on his forearms and on the sides of his face.

“Good to see you, child,” he said in a sonorous voice. “Are you well? Why weren't you at the tri-clinic today?”

“Good evening, Healer naMoon,” Caen answered, smiling sheepishly as his mind refined the explanation he'd been working on from the moment he saw the man. Healer naMoon often boasted about his ability to ‘sniff out’ lies. “I actually discovered my other bloodline yesterday, and I've been trying to make sense of it since then.”

“Oh, now that's interesting,” the healer said, brows rising. “Fermien told me he met a couple of children from the Aialda line, but I didn't believe him.”

Caen frowned at that. Healer naMoon had caught him lying far too many times as a child.

naMoon, seeing the look on his face, laughed. “Some people are just better at lying than others.”

“I can hear you slandering my name to my relative, naMoon,” Fermien said, walking over with Zeris in tow. Behind them, Preceptor Wijin was shepherding what was left of the audience out of the hall. A few of them kept glancing at the stage in apparent curiosity.

Fermien winked at Caen. “Fooling the senses of old coots like naMoon here is very much within the purview of our bloodline, let me tell you. The secret is to always speak passionately about everything you say.”

“You seem to know each other well,” Caen said to Healer naMoon. Caen had brought his Hillian primer to the tri-clinic so often that many of the older healers working there knew him to be a fan of the magister. naMoon had even commented on his reading habits once.

“If I told you what my relationship was with the author of every book I saw you reading, I would bother you each time you picked a book.”

Caen blinked at that. naMoon was old and very skilled at Blood-healing, he'd even mentored Caen's grandfather many decades ago, but Caen hadn't imagined the man was that connected.

“I know a pleasant place close by that is good for conversation,” Healer naMoon said as he began walking down the stage.

Fermien glanced back at Caen and Zeris with a twinkle in his eye. “My good friend here has decided to keep an eye on me for fear that I would run after the next fascinating thing I find. We have somewhere to be very soon, but I think I might be able to explain the bare details of Ardor to the both of you before we leave.”

Excitement bubbled in Caen's chest as he and Zeris followed the two men out of the phrontistery. He mauled over the word ‘Ardor’ in his mind. Was that the name of his third bloodline?

* * *

The terrace restaurant was at the top of a four-story building overlooking the street below. Nightlights of varying degrees of brightness, shapes, and sizes enlivened the city of Drenlin.

They sat at one of ten rounded tables. Several of them were occupied, but each one was spaced enough that quiet conversation could ensue with some token level of privacy.

Caen nursed a cup of fizzy, sweetened water that he was too excited to drink. Zeris had asked for a simple glass of water. Healer naMoon had ordered ‘the usual’ for himself, which had come in a metal mug so tall that peering into it would have required Caen to crane his neck openly. He had far better manners than that.

“Tell me,” Fermien said, having downed his mug of beer in two gulps. “What do you know about conceptual bloodlines?”

It was a notion Caen had come upon several times in his private studies, but before he could speak, Zeris did.

“Conceptual bloodlines are those which are deeply rooted in the fundamental principles of reality,” she said. She'd spoken hesitantly, and for good reason.

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Even if Caen's answer might have used different words, he'd have said pretty much the same thing. Various textbooks and basic resources discussing the topic never went into detail about what ‘conceptual’ truly meant, but this was a running theme in every one he'd read.

“That is a standard definition,” Fermien said, smiling. His tone shifted to the easy and composed style he'd used while giving his lecture earlier. He leaned back in his chair. “But I want you to think about this more profoundly. Start by asking yourself this: what are the fundamental principles of reality? What does it even mean for something to be deeply rooted in them?”

Caen and Zeris exchanged a look. Caen made to answer, but naMoon chuckled.

“Don’t bother, child. It's a rhetorical question. He does this often.”

“I do,” Fermien agreed pleasantly. “Determining what constitutes a fundamental principle would take us more time than we have, but I want you to ponder on this when you leave. If reality has rules that govern magic, rules that are either founded on the fundamental principles of reality or are in fact themselves the fundamental principles of reality, then can we then say that all magic is conceptual?”

Caen frowned in thought. “Respectfully, Magister Fermien, that doesn't tell us anything about what the word ‘conceptual’ means.”

“Well, I'm trying to avoid giving you a working definition,” Fermien confessed. “A definition is limiting, and learning to apply that properly for yourself is an art form that takes years to master. I don't want to give you limitations that you haven't explicitly chosen.”

“But, Magister Fermien, you used a few definitions in the Hillian Primer,” Zeris said.

“You don't suppose that I handle my translations personally, do you?” Fermien asked, raising an eyebrow. “I write all my manuscripts in Spovish. I've always preferred its flowery freeform to the hard and rigid formality of Thermish.”

Caen knew Fermien to be Spovish, but it'd never even occurred to him that the books had been written in that language originally.

“Now, typical bloodlines give you a trait or an ability that flows from an established discipline of magic.” Fermien sighed. “This is the problem with definitions, but let us go on. Conceptual bloodlines, on the other hand, have to do with alignment to a specific truth.”

naMoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Was that so hard? Definitions are not as terrible as you make them out to be.”

Fermien tsked, rubbing his beard, and was silent for a moment. “I suppose it's important to clarify that conceptual bloodlines also flow from an established discipline of magic, but alignment to specific truths is at the core of their nature. Ardor, as you must already know, is founded on the discipline of Fire. However, it is aligned with...” He smiled. “Let me show you.”

He rubbed his index finger and thumb together, rolling a tiny ball of flame that suddenly appeared between them. It was purple and red and pink all at once. Caen was exceedingly captivated by it.

Before his eyes, the area around the flame was drained of all color; even Fermien's fingers faded to an unnatural monochrome. But the flame around it shone even brighter in its varied coloration. How was he doing that? The ball of fire did not grow in size, but it felt denser, weightier, more significant, as it pulled Caen in, filling his vision.

It struck him so firmly with the impression of passion. Something fervent and strongly desired passed on and received in equal measure.

Caen was a lit candle, zealous and eager to share his flame with an unlit one. He was also the unlit candle, laden with pathos, longing to burn and partake in the flame.

This was Ardor. It was knowledge, it was desperate tenacity, it was yearning, and it was willingness. But it felt like none of those things at the same time.

Caen snapped back to himself. Fermien had dispersed the ball of flame already.

“That is why I don't do definitions,” the magister said smugly.

They'd drawn the attention of several people on the rooftop with them. Though now that the flame was gone, some began looking away.

“How do we use it?” Caen asked. Everything he'd just seen had not been about fire alone. It was something deeper. Something a large part of him hungered for.

“You just do,” Fermien said, lifting a finger. “It might seem confusing at first, but as I've said, limiting your understanding will do you more harm than good.” He hesitated a moment, his expression souring by a fraction. “An old exonym that is still used in Spova to this day describes it as Passionfire. It paints a very incomplete picture, of course, but I sincerely hope to all my ancestors before me that I've managed to give you enough context to handle that definition skillfully. What things do you burn for, little brother and sister, and what actions are you willing to take in service to that? Many descendants of our line don't even practice Fire magic. Ardor isn't a spell or an effect, it's a state of being.”

“Thank you, Magister Fermien,” Zeris said with awe in her voice.

Caen's mind was spinning as he considered the ramifications of everything he'd just heard and seen. He nodded his thanks as well.

“Well, it's what I do,” the magister said.

Healer naMoon rose from his seat with the purposefulness of a man who had other business that needed attending. “We're leaving now,” he told them not unkindly, “but you can stay here as long as you want. Tab’s on me.”

“Thank you, Healer naMoon,” Caen said, though he had no intentions of eating here. He wasn't even sure he could. He'd learned so much. He was full. He needed to digest this experience.

“Um… Magister—” Zeris began.

“It's already done,” Fermien said, knocking on the table and standing to join his companion. “I signed your primers while I was rounding up my lecture. If the grooves be kind, I'll be back to give another soon. Perhaps I'll see you both then.”

Caen quickly opened to the front page of his own copy of the Hillian Primer and saw a signature in neat cursive. It had evidently been imprinted by fire, as the last embers were only just dying.