Scoria stands alone amid the ashes and ruined diagrams, blinking back angry tears as Saul's footsteps fade into the distance. The sting of betrayal is a knife in his chest, twisted cruel by Saul's cutting words. Your recklessness could have doomed everything we worked for. Perhaps it is true that he acted rashly, but desperation drove them both to push too far, too fast. He grimaces, looking down at his burned and blistered hands. The cuts weep fluid that mingles with the ash coating his skin. They built this grand design together, two dreamers drunk on ambition's wine - and like overeager drunks they tripped on the first step. Not the careful pact-weavers they aspired to be, but fools stumbling heedless into peril.

With a heavy sigh, Scoria begins methodically cleaning the sanctum, sweeping away dust and debris. He salvages what he can, tucking books and tools back into their proper places, erasing the evidence of their failed workings. The arrays he leaves for now, unwilling to destroy their months of meticulous labor. When the room is tidied he looks around, keenly feeling Saul's absence. Perhaps he will return in time, when anger cools to regret. They are both stubborn, prideful men. Scoria can admit his recklessness, but not to being solely at fault. Neither can afford to walk this path alone. The world needs them both.

"We will try again," he murmurs to the silent room.