At first, as Istredd absolves him of responsibility for the catastrophic consequences of that night, the jagged edges that currently compose Wilhelm seem to erode little by little. He takes the words in, trying to hold them, although it's like trying to catch water in your open hands. So much slips through your fingers. He wants to believe Istredd, like he had wanted to believe Rhy, but his guilt is an immutable slab.

Then he leans hard into the topic of Wilhelm's magic, and Wilhelm just shakes his head — it would be nearly imperceptible if he did it only once, but the movement is continuous. No, no, no. He used to do this to his mother when he didn't like what she was telling him. His arms cross and his lips thin.

"I can't," he finally says. His voice is half teenage obstinance, half fear creeping in. "I can't...I can't do it."

He swallows, eyes shiny, looking anywhere but at the man standing in front of him. Knowing that Istredd will press for a reason, he pushes it out.

"When I try, I just...I start to feel like I'm going to throw up. I actually did, once. But I can't get any fire to come out. That's why I thought it would be better to quit. The problem sort of...solved itself."

Except it hadn't. For weeks, his fire lay dormant inside of him, hiding in his bones, or wherever magic goes when you're not using it. He tried to forget about it, but his brain has always been shit at letting things go. Then at the banquet...he'd gotten upset at Lucifer, not-so-old scars poked and prodded open, and his fire cracked awake. It pressed at his palms, burning to get out.