Vokey stewed in his frustration, the phrase "chemistry is useless" echoing in the silent cell. It was all so pointlessly complicated. Why learn a seven-step formula for a fireball when a single rune did the job? He was ready to abandon the entire ridiculous power, to let the oatmeal-colored textbook rot in the back of his mind forever. But boredom was a powerful motivator. With nothing else to do, he gave a mental sigh and flipped to the next page.
The chapter was titled "Limiting Reactants." Before he could even parse the term, his eyes fell upon the introductory analogy. It involved making sandwiches.
"Sandwiches?" Vokey's eye began to twitch. "This ancient tome of cosmic secrets is explaining the fundamental laws of reality with... sandwiches?" The sheer, profound stupidity of it was staggering. "What's next, the thermodynamic properties of a cheese platter? The arcane significance of a well-toasted bun?"
He read the example, his mind dripping with sarcasm. If you have ten slices of bread but only three slices of cheese, you can only make three sandwiches. The cheese is the "limiting reactant." It was insulting. It was childish.
It was also perfectly, undeniably clear.
The concept clicked into place with the force of a physical blow. The limiting reactant is simply the ingredient you run out of first. All his training, all the grand theories of magical confluence and elemental harmony... it all boiled down to not running out of cheese. He thought of countless rituals that had fizzled, potions that had curdled, and enchantments that had faded. He saw it all with a new, diagnostic clarity.
"This is it!" he whispered, a manic energy seizing him. "This is why Elder Thistlewart's regeneration potions always fail and just make people sleepy! He follows the scroll perfectly, but his moon-petal supply is always ground too fine! He runs out of powdered dragon scale before the phoenix tear is fully activated! He's got a limiting reactant problem! The old fool!"
He felt a surge of triumph. This wasn't useless at all. It was a diagnostic tool, a way to see the flaws in magic that even the masters missed!
As if summoned by the thought, a shuffling sound echoed from the hall. A moment later, the wrinkled face of Elder Thistlewart appeared between the iron bars, his expression a mixture of pity and disappointment.
"Invoketus," the old mage began, his voice raspy. "I came to see... well, to see how you are faring. Some of us on the council felt your banishment might have been too hasty. I was considering arguing for a lesser sentence. Perhaps simple sequestration..."
Vokey barely heard him. His mind was ablaze with his epiphany. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the door, his eyes wide with discovery.
"Elder! Your potions!" Vokey exclaimed, grabbing the bars.
Thistlewart blinked. "My... potions?"
"Yes! Your regeneration draughts! I know why they fail!"
The Elder's expression soured. "Young man, this is hardly the time for your insolence—"
"No, you don't understand!" Vokey insisted, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You're a brilliant brewer, truly! But your ingredient ratios are flawed because you've never accounted for the limiting reactant!"
Thistlewart stared at him, his face a mask of utter confusion. "The... the what?"
"The Limiting. Reactant," Vokey repeated slowly, as if explaining to a child. "You run out of the dragon scale's essence before the other components can properly react! It's basic stoichiometry!"
For a moment, there was only silence. Thistlewart's face slowly shifted from confusion to a deep, burning crimson. He had no idea what a "reactant" was, but he understood condescension. He, an elder of the clan, was being lectured on the secret art of potion-making by the only talentless failure the Invokers had produced in a century.
The old mage's lip curled. He drew in a breath, and with a wet, hawking sound, he spat a glob of phlegm that splattered on the stone floor right in front of Vokey's feet.
"That's it," Thistlewart hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "When the council reconvenes, I am changing my vote. Forget sequestration. You're going to the Outbounds."
He turned and stormed away, his angry muttering echoing down the corridor. Vokey stood frozen, watching him go, the triumphant fire in his gut turning to a cold, sinking stone.
Just fucking great.