“Restrain her,” Eisolaz said.

The bindings around the girl’s wrists and ankles fastened. Leather bit skin. She struggled, kicking the operating table, screaming, thrashing in every direction, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't move more than half an inch. He had made certain of that. He always did.

"You will not break free. Be still."

It was advice for her sake, not his, but she didn't listen. She fought on anyway. The table rocked. The room echoed with the banging of ancient metal against the stone of the floor. On and on she went, still struggling, waging a pointless war that would do nothing but prolong pain.

Eisolaz watched. He had all the time in the world. No one could fight forever. Just like the fawn in a trap, she would do the hunter's job for him sooner before later. That was what always happened. He had seen it a thousand times before. Only patience was required. Prey always submitted in the lion's jaws eventually. It was easier that way. For her, and for him.

And so it came. An hour, maybe two. Her breathing reached its height. She collapsed in exhaustion. The room became very quiet.

He turned.

Arrayed on a counter were two dozen vials. In each glowed a different substance. Most blue, some red, one green. They rumbled in place as his fingers drew near, as they probed and reached for one, then another. The question: where to start? The Magisters gave him discretion. He knew well after two centuries of practice that Manasearing was art, not science. Each student required specialized treatment. There were many ways to proceed. He used a different starting solution for every child that found itself on his table. But what for this girl...

A glance over his shoulder.

She was seven or eight. Human. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Normal. He doubted she would survive the procedure—they so rarely did—but she had been selected, and worrying about such matters was not his job. Whether she lived or died was nothing to him.

Thinking...

Red for her, with a hint of blue. A hunch. Intuition. He couldn't explain why, but red tinged blue fit what he saw. She would do well with red tinged blue. He grabbed one of the jittering red vials, working slowly as he always did, and...

Something caught his ear.

Usually, by now, once exhaustion set in, a different tactic began. When fighting proved fruitless, the student would appeal to Eisolaz's heart. Hopeless, but more likely to succeed than struggling against unbreakable bindings. But with the girl's energy returned after a brief rest, she was back at it. He heard her banging against the table once again. Trying to pull herself free. Vigor restored.

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But that was only unusual. What was remarkable were her words. Tears, pleading, begging: these things always preceded the first injection. Eisolaz expected them and held nothing against the children who tried, but he also never listened, for indulging fears only made them worse. Better to ignore. Better to begin the Searing while the will to fight remained tapped.

Yet this girl wasn’t crying. Nor was she pleading, or bargaining.

She was screaming at him in rage.

“I’ll kill you! Let me go! If you don’t let me go, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill everyone here!”

He smiled. Not a fawn after all. Lion to the end. He hoped she survived. That changed nothing, of course. Except...

He put the red vial down. This girl wasn't red at all, nor blue. Yes, he was certain now. Never had he been more positive about any Searing in his life: it was pure green for her.

From the counter he retrieved the green vial along with a syringe. It shook in his hands, like the substance within was afraid of his blood and trying desperately to keep away. Then in long strides he proceeded to the girl. Her mouth was open, but she fell silent at his approach, when she saw the needle in his hands.

Now she shivered. Still tugging at her restraints. Her mind at work; fear finally setting in.

He flanked around the operating table and placed his thumb beneath her chin.

"Don't touch me," she demanded, quietly.

“Still, child, and it will be over soon,” he whispered.

He filled the syringe. Once the plunger was drawn as far back as it could go, he focused and ran a finger along the glass. Where his skin passed over the liquid within was charged. It crackled with electricity. Its gentle luminescence was replaced with the ebbing and flowing of lava, a crackling and burning of fire to match the disposition he saw in this girl.

Eisolaz leaned over her. He brushed the hair from her face. His hands found her jugular vein. She shook her shoulders and batted her neck, trying to swat him away, but he was experienced in the motion, even with a subject bent to the death on resistance. His fingers wielded the syringe like a viper wields its fangs; in a strike of lightning the needle-point disappeared into her skin.

The plunger depressed.

The green lava slipped into her bloodstream.

The girl began to pant.

He withdrew.

All throughout her veins, beneath her skin, the substance shined through. Like seams of precious metal in a mine’s shaft, like her flesh was the covering of a lantern and a light had lit in her heart, soon her entire body glowed dim green.

Her eyes watched in amazement. Disbelief. And then...she wailed.

She wailed and writhed and fought against the restraints, fiercer, this time without any sense or thinking, an animal's instincts, her only desire to escape, and she struggled and struggled and struggled and struggled for longer than even Eisolaz knew was possible in one so young. She slammed her head against the table; her fingers gripped and tore at the leather near her hands; her toes curled and her knees arched as every muscle in her body convulsed in agony.

“Restrain her,” he said again.

The leather tightened around her head, her legs, her feet, her shoulders, and her wrists. On its own, as if by some unseen servant. Now no leeway. Nowhere to move. The time for play was over. He needed her to be still.

Her wailing grew louder.

Tears down her cheeks.

Fear, quavering, in her voice.

He proceeded back toward the counter.

Working very slowly.

By the time he had retrieved the next vial—red—her voice was nearly gone, but still she sobbed. The pain hadn't stopped, only her capacity to make it known to him. But that was a good sign. If she was in pain, she was still alive. Maybe she would be one of the lucky survivors after all.

There were only three days and twenty-five more injections left to go before they found out for certain.