The trial jar burst, flinging glass shards and its silvery contents outward in a blinding spray. 

A brilliant orange flare lit the cell, momentarily turning night into day. 

Instinctively, Fionntan shielded his face with his arms, feeling pieces bounce off his jacket. 

As quickly as it had erupted, the glow receded, plunging the room back into near-darkness.

Fionntan's eyes blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. 

The remnants of the solution, now a thick, caramel-like substance, clung to the scattered photos, obscuring their graphic contents. Among the debris, the trial jar's casing lay in ruins.

Fionntan was momentarily paralyzed, trying to grapple with the implications of the shattered jar. Ellamae Holt, however, inspected her hand with a nonchalance that unsettled him. Glass shards protruded from her already bandaged skin.

‘This happened before.’

Recalling the files, Fionntan remembered Ellamae had undergone Flicker testing twice: once as a child and again upon asylum admission. Both tests came up negative. Now, today she had somehow gone from having no hint of magic at all, to being a class A; the strongest and most unstable of the classes.

All people pick up trace amounts of magic in everything consumed, but it is only in Flickers that the magic is converted to a usable energy. The more potent the Flicker, the greater their threshold— and danger. Many class-A Flickers were neutralized young, their uncontrollable abilities a threat. The fact that one unregistered Class-A was sitting in front of him was unlikely on it's own, but she had also just given undeniable proof to her claims.

There had been another person there.

The strange girl winced as she tapped one of the shards of glass.

"I believe you," Fionntan blurted, breaking the silence

Ellamae paused, looking up sharply. "You... do?"

"Yes, I do.” Retrieving his handkerchief and a knife, he began fashioning makeshift bandages. “The trial jar actually has three purposes. The first is to judge if you have powers, the second is to judge your power level, and the third is your power type. All Flickers have a natural affinity to one magic type or another, and each has a corresponding color. It is not completely specific ⁠— there are many different power types that might fall under a single element color ⁠—  however, if you had murdered that man, the jar would have lit up green."

Hope flickered in her eyes. "It was orange."

"Yes, it was orange," Fionntan agreed as he gently took hold of her injured hand. He meticulously wrapped bandages around the glass to keep the shards in place until they could be properly delt with. Attempting to remove them or allowing any movement might exacerbate the injury and lead to more bleeding. "That should do it. I think we are done here, don’t you?  That explosion more than likely attracted attention, and I am not actually supposed to be here.”

“I—wait, what?”

“It is a long story that we do not have time for. We need to leave."

“Right, well, there is a small problem with your plans.” Ellamae raised her hands and shook the chains at him.

His lips pulled into a mischievous grin as he held held his breath. 

Immediately, a tingling heat lit up his veins. It was a electric crackle of energy begging to be free.

Hovering his hand over the lock, Fionntan directed the energy towards it.

As his fingers twitched, tendrils of shadow swirled into the lock.

 With the twist of a wrist, the lock clicked open, and the shackles thudded amongst the glass and mess.

Her mouth fell open. "Woah.”

"I agree. Unfortunately you will have to save showering me with praise for later," Fionntan stood and extended a hand for her.

Ellamae Holt stared at the gloved hand, but did not move. Fear had it's own set of chains on her. 

With all the evidence he could build a case with, Ellamae Holt would undoubtedly be found innocent of murder, but guilty of being a Flicker. Mandatory enlistment loomed over her future; ending the life she knew.

“What about my brother?” Ellamae asked, her voice soft.

“Would you like my honest answer?”

“Please.”

“You can help him more by leaving.” He said. Her posture stiffened, but he continued. “In the Order, you will be paid a decent wage, and when you go on missions, meals and sleeping accommodations will be taken care of. You can send money home to provide for your brother from afar.”

Ellamae looked up at him uncertainly. “Is it enough?”

“Yes, I swear it. There are single parents that take care of their family on one wage. It is by no means enough to live lavishly, but it is more than enough to get by.”

It was a harsh truth, but it proved to be the right words.

Hesitantly, Ellamae reached out with her uninjured hand and took his. Fionntan held it as gently as cupping a butterfly, and helped her to her bare feet. As she stood, more glass fell from her dress and rained upon ruined photographs.

“Good choice,” he said.

“I didn't have much of a choice,” She maneuvered around the glass with a remarkable poise.

“You could have put up a fight.”

She glowered and raised her injured hand. “I can't even make a proper fist. Am I to fight you with just one?”

“I didn’t say it would have been a smart choice, but even a dreadfully dumb choice is still a choice.”

“I suppose it is.”

Together, they stepped out of the cell and hurried away from the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.