The sorcerer had been born with purple in her blood, a mark that appeared on her skin whenever her powers rose. She'd hidden it for years under long sleeves and careful layers. But when she finally committed to her own path, she wanted to dress the part. The dyer was accustomed to nobles, but this woman was different. She didn't want to look powerful. She wanted to look like she'd already won. So the dyer brought out her most difficult vats and explained, matter-of-factly, that this shade took three days to set properly and couldn't be rushed. The sorcerer came back every day and watched. On the third day, as the final bolt hung to dry, she touched it and her skin flared with purple light that matched perfectly. The dyer looked away, giving her the privacy of that moment, and charged nothing for the work. Some colors, she'd learned, weren't about commerce. They were about becoming who you'd already decided you were. The sorcerer wore that armor through the war with the Absolute, and her enemies learned to fear the shade as much as the woman in it...