“Tailinn has a mild glimmering of talent, and she’s devoted to our work. The rest?” He snorted. “Dull brats sheltering from military commission. They can’t even follow instruction. They always know best. I’m only a humble proctor. My opinion doesn’t count.”

A glimmering of talent. Elzar’s usual guarded understatement – a coded admission that magic had chosen Tailinn as well. A few years younger than Viktor, she’d been as much a part of the foundry as its chainways for as long as he could recall, a keen and attentive student of the high proctor’s teachings.

That Tailinn wielded magic openly meant that her gift, like Elzar’s, was radiant. Only magic bright with Lumestra’s gift was deemed hale, and thus permitted by religious and lawful decree. It could be bent to the creation of simarka and kraikon without shame. It gave fuel to the firestone lanterns that lit Tressia even in the deepest dark. She’d nothing to hide, and was valued for it.

Viktor’s shadow was different in nature, abhorred as were all magics of uncertain provenance. And just because there’d been no burning in a decade didn’t mean tinder couldn’t be found. Without Elzar’s lessons in control, without the honing of willpower that kept the shadow caged, Viktor would have ended his days on a witch’s pyre long ago. Viktor had often wondered just how his father would react if the truth came to light.

Elzar set his back to the rail and folded his arms. “But you’re not here to listen to my problems. The Southshires?”

“You’ve heard about that?”

He chuckled. “I hear more than most. You think the requisition of four cohorts doesn’t prick up my ears? All bound for the Ravonn. Not a one headed south.”

“The Council can’t let go of the past.”

Elzar fished a lump of clinker from his overalls and tossed it from hand to hand. Sunlight crackled in its wake. “Few can. We’re all of us forged in the crucible of our yesterdays.”

“I’m in no mood for philosophy.”

“Then you chose a poor shoulder to cry on.” Elzar grinned. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hah!” The clinker slapped into Elzar’s palm and vanished into his pocket once more. “The great Viktor Akadra, rudderless on an ocean of possibility.”

“The very opposite. The Council have spoken. I have no choice.”

“Are you certain of that? Or have you merely blinded yourself to the alternatives?”

“What?” said Viktor. “I should storm back in there, cut them all down? Seize power?”

“Setting aside the issue of surviving the aftermath . . .” Elzar cleared his throat. “You could do that? To your own father?”

Viktor stared moodily into the gloom. “There are days where I wonder if that might be for the best.”

“You are in a bleak mood. Have I anything to fear?”