He’d have a son of his own by now, he’d be a man in his father’s eyes, if Luzena hadn’t died. So what was his remedy? Should he paper over any cracks of doubt, crush all his bittersweet memories and woo Maris Garrick until either he loved her or could live the lie? Wed her and bed her until she birthed him a son? Trembling, he staggered then dropped to his knees. Dropped again, to his hands, to his forearms, and bowed his spine until his forehead touched the floor. His unsteady fingers found the locket and gripped it to hurting.

If I have to, I’ll do it. Luzena, I’ll have to. And you’ll have to forgive me. You’re the one who left.

Eventually he unbent himself. Found his feet and stood like a man, like a proud mage of Dorana. And he was a man, no matter what his father said. It was foolish of him to set so much store by intemperate accusations.

“And I’ll not fall into that trap again,” he said, out loud so he could hear himself make the promise. “Let him rail, let him bluster, let him flog me with words. It’s only air. Greve Danfey does not define who I am.”

The glimfire he’d summoned showed him his workbench with its three new crucibles and its pots and jars of base elements and catalysts. Showed him his tiny store of remaining azafris, salvaged against all hope. No matter what it cost him, or the risks involved, he’d have to procure more. In the small, wax-sealed glass vial beside it there was drab brown susquinel, his last, best chance of success.

Spurred into action, Morgan assembled the components of the incant he was trying to create. Into each waiting crucible he dropped the azafris, the powdered bone, a smidgin more this time of shaved urvil. It was a neutral ingredient, a bonding agent. Using susquinel he needed more of it, but not too much more. The balance was delicate. Crucial.

Last of all, he unstoppered the vial of susquinel. The distilled tincture was acrid, viciously stinging his eyes. A glass dropper-rod dipped into it, one miserly drop for each crucible…

The catalytic reaction was almost immediate. Stoppering the vial again, hastily shoving it out of the way, he took a precious moment to calm himself, banish the lingering remnants of his anger, and recall the words of the incant.

“Ravak tokai.”

The glimlit air above the crucibles shivered awake.

“Ravak hinmish.”

He felt a tremor pass through him, waking echoes in his bones.

“Ravak vanteri.”

A change in the atmosphere, like the looming promise of a storm. He held his breath. This moment had been his undoing last time.

But not now. I cannot fail again.

Avidly he stared into the crucibles, feeling the laboured drub of his heart. Watched the azafris and susquinel melt and meld and transmute. Bright blue turned dark green then grew brighter, and brighter again. Astonished, he felt an answering glow beneath his skin, power calling to power. The green substance in the crucibles began to bubble and seethe.