Corvus Nightweaver wanted a seat on the council of archmages. That morning they threw him out of their hall instead. Three robed elders sat behind a stone table. He had spoken for an hour about his new spell. He had no scroll, no witness, no proof. The eldest waved a hand and called him an amateur. "Talk is not spellwork," she said. "Come back when you have something tested." The doors shut before he reached them. He went home to his sanctum below the earth. Candles lit the old runes on the walls. Modern conduits hummed between them with a thin blue light. His winged husky lifted its head from the floor and watched him. The creature's fur held faint glowing marks, and its folded wings twitched when he slammed the door. Corvus dropped into his chair. The council wanted proof. He had an idea but had never dared to finish it. On his desk sat a jar of black ink. The surface rippled though nothing touched it. Thin strands of color rose from it like smoke. He had enchanted this ink for months. It was supposed to draw a spell that could move on its own. "It isn't ready," said a voice behind him. Corvus turned. Alexius Vernando stood in the doorway. He was the former head of the council, exiled years ago. A tampered spell he cast had killed many people, and the council had cast him out for it. Now he taught Corvus in secret. His gray beard was long, his purple robe frayed at the hem. No one else would mention his name aloud. He was the only master willing to stake his word on Corvus. "The council called me an amateur," Corvus said. "Then stop proving them right." Alexius crossed the room. He looked at the ink and frowned. "If you cast this wrong, it writes something you cannot erase. I know that risk better than any man." Corvus dipped his brush. His hand shook. He drew a single rune on blank parchment. The ink held still. Then it moved. The rune unfolded, line by line, growing new marks he had not drawn. A small inked bird rose off the page. It flapped flat wings and circled the candles. The husky barked once. Alexius went still. The bird landed and sank back into flat ink. The spell had drawn itself and lived. Corvus stared at his own work. "That," Alexius said quietly, "they cannot dismiss." But the ink kept spreading. The bird's shape crawled across the parchment, past its edge, onto the desk. New marks formed on their own. Corvus grabbed the jar and the ink reached for his fingers. He had his proof. He had also made a spell he did not yet know how to stop. The council would see it in three days. He had until then to learn whether the thing he had created would obey him.