Cillian watched the blackboard in silence.
A fresh formula glowed across the board, a skeleton of rules written in a hand that had clearly labored for years. The woman who had been writing it had collapsed to the floor, chalk still in her fingers.
Cillian moved closer and read the lines with slow interest. The room was quiet for a long moment.
"It's wrong," the woman finally said.
She laughed, a tired, bitter sound. "Of course. I will be wrong until I die." Then she rose and began to speak of why she'd stopped trying other methods. Why she had given up trying to force ordinary creatures to ignite divine fire.
Before he could gather anything the memories sped up. Scenes flickered past and each time the woman returned to the blackboard, redrafting the formula, testing, failing, growing more exhausted. Cillian could not see her face clearly, but he could feel her fatigue, bitterness, and slow grinding despair that thickened the air.
