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Numair found him in the university workrooms, hunched over the furnace, doing something with fire and sand and smoke. The room stank of magic; his Gift had burned its colour into the walls. Numair stood back and watched.

Eventually Tristan straightened, rod in hand. He slapped something down on the table triumphantly. Numair approached warily as Tristan wiped the sweat from his brow.

The object was small, lumpy and blue-green. Numair stared at it for a moment -- then understood. He'd seen the same exercise in the textbook. It was a way of building one's power, by blasting one's Gift out as long as possible. The sand acted simply as a focus, as a goal.

'I thought glass was supposed to be transparent,' frowned Tristan, over his shoulder.

'The natural colour of the soil,' Numair said, thoughtfully. 'Iron impurities in the sand.' He picked the lump of glass up, feeling its warmth and its imperfections against his skin. He could see particles of dirt trapped under the surface, and pointed this out to Tristan.

Tristan shrugged, carelessly. 'It's served its purpose. Throw it out.'

Numair didn't. He put it in his pocket. Eventually it made its way to his shelf, next to the products of his many magical experiments. It stayed there for years later, until the world shattered and Numair wondered why he hadn't seen it coming.

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