He tried to draft blue. He was a Prism; he could split white light into anything.

But nothing happened.

A bolt of panic flashed through Gavin. He counted off his colors on his fingertips, thumb to forefinger first, down then up. Sub-red, red, orange, yellow, green, bl-Nothing. He stared at his offending middle finger as if this were its fault. There was no blue. He couldn't draft it. He couldn't even see it. It was starting. Not on the seventh year. Now. He'd never even known how a Prism knew when the end began. Now he knew. He was losing his colors. He didn't have five years left; it was starting now. Gavin was dying.