He sat on the edge of his cot, inside the large lodging tent, and gazed into the central fire. The soft glow that pulsated across the inside of the canvas and every raised surface of the equipment and bedding that lay within, the tidal waves of warmth that washed against his face with each flicker, and the central orientation of the brazier at the heart of the large campaigning tent reminded Caesalt that most people enjoyed the company of fire. It was a tool, a thing that was discovered in some primordial, fortunate mistake. It cooked our food and warmed our winters, it protected us from the night and the things that prowled within, and it cleared our fields for agriculture and civilization. His eyes darted around the miniature contained inferno, wood cracking from the force consuming it from within while witnessing the other world of lambent orange. Caesalt let himself dwell within his thoughts for a bit longer.

Fire is no mere "thing". It is alive, a beast that had lived in this world far before we creatures of defined mortal flesh and complex dreams intruded. It moves, it breathes, it propagates... and it hungers. Upon its awakening, the first act it performs is the hunt. It consumes everything it can within its immediate vicinity, constantly growing and seeking more sustenance, and it is both indiscriminate and insatiable. Fire is not gifted with morals nor a sense of justice. It serves no master but itself and even when imprisoned for utility within the confines of this iron and stone pit, it reaches out yearning for more to consume, more to burn. Unlike other beasts, there is no use to be made of its remains once felled. Fire's corpse is a cruel mirror of what once was, a black and charred reflection of the living it has taken from this world. Fire is an apex predator that masquerades as a tame beast of burden, and sometimes Caesalt felt as though he was alone in the discovery of this conspiracy.