Was I going insane now, or was it pure, undiluted brilliance turning the air in my lungs to fire? I’d only ever drawn through my hands. Everyone drew through their hands. But Creon had sucked the colour from every single surface around him, that day he’d nearly blown up Lyn’s library, and if he could do it, then who said I couldn’t do it if only I dared to give up on the safe restraints that guided my magic as I knew it? I was quite possibly going insane. But Creon was dying, and what need would I have for sanity if I didn’t have him?
