[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

My only memories of my father are all haze and heat. I can never recall his face, only his back. The curve of his cheekbones, his prominence of his nose, the color of his eyes—these details are mysteries lost to the treacherous tides of time.

Swathed in shadows, the glasswork studio also loses definition in the murky depths of memory. In reality, I know every burn mark on the treated hardwood floor, every knot in the paneling on the walls, and every patch of peeling paint on the once-blue, now-blackened ceiling. In my mind’s eye, however, the space is half-formed and hollow, as though something has eaten the meat and left me nothing but bones. They are my only memories of the man; no matter how much I furrow my brow and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to delve the depths of my mind for more domestic scenes or familial comforts, I see nothing else.

The caricature of my father plays out in my mind. Steady and relaxed, he settles into a wide-set stance as he waits for the glass to hit the perfect temperature and consistency. He is unmoving except for his strong hands, which ceaselessly turn the metal rod with almost reverent devotion. “There’s only one sin in the glassworks,” he told me once in his amused basso rumble. He always sounded like he was enjoying a private joke. I suppose I’ll never know the punchline now. “All else may be forgiven, but never let the glass grow still.”

Those are the only words I actually remember from him.

The cherry-red glow of molten glass within the crucible pierces through the leaden gloom, illuminating the artisan in action. Indomitable, his backlit silhouette wreathed in flickering flames, he dominates my memories like a hero out of myth. His broad shoulders make him look more like a seasoned warrior than a crafter. As a child, his strength comforted me; as a man, I feel inadequate measured against the memories I carry of him. All the same, I’m glad for their familiar warmth.

In this shadow world of times gone by, I huddle in the far corner of the glassworks, away from the terrible, torrid reach of the furnace. A deep, bone-rattling thrum of bellows shakes my chest like an earthquake, and my little body trembles in anticipation of the light show about to explode inside the shadowed workshop once the charging begins. Emberlin, the head glass smith, claps twice to warn us that she’s about to ignite her Skills to accelerate the fuel and prep the batch. [Burn], she commands the furnace, and the entire world obeys.

Even now, my skin crawls and itches with the spectre of my oldest memories: the hungry, preternatural flames licking up the charcoal in an instant before seeking something more to devour. Wood, oxygen, or, perhaps, that greatest delicacy of all, lifeblood, should a careless boy venture too close—incinerating everything without prejudice, seeking simply to consume and grow, burning without end.

“Nuri! Need casing help at workbench three.”

Emberlin’s voice crackles above the din of stamping feet and shuffled rods. The dream breaks, melding with reality. I tense up as I slam back into the present, a decade and a half removed from the visions of my father. She’s clapped her calloused hands already, and I’m dreading the inevitable wash of prickling pain across my body as the furnace fires quicken from deep crimson to pure gold, and then burst into shimmering whites and electric blues too dazzling to stare at directly. Fear of pain is hardly an embarrassing truth for a young boy, but out of place in a man who has just passed the threshold of adulthood. Yet the fires are mesmerizing, too, an intoxicating and furious display of power that I hope to one day seize for myself.

I nod in Ember’s direction, and saunter off toward workbench three, but too slowly for her liking. She clicks her tongue at me, and I know I’ll hear about my daydreaming later. For now, there’s too much to be done; she can’t spare even a moment from the work to scold me.

I join the Lina twins at the third workstation in the glass studio. Like me, they’re both wearing matching, alchemically-treated leather aprons today, but that’s where the similarities end. Tangle-haired and with the proverbial dancing eyes of a congenital mischief-maker, Avelina is too volatile to work with anyone but her sister, Melina. Still, she’s surprisingly good at evocation, applying an expert stream of liquid fire from the fingertip of her right hand. She flashes me a knowing grin, happily showing off her [Flameworker] Class and its profusion of fire-related Skills. She might not be as talented at glasswork as her twin sister is, or as I am for that matter, but she’s certainly better suited to melting, burning, and breathing fire. Nice girl, if obsessive about general mayhem and destruction.

Her twin, Melina, the younger by less than five minutes, looks nothing like Avelina. Taller than her fireplug of a twin, with long hair so pale it seems white like the first frost, Melina is all angular and earnest where her sister is quicksilver and undeniable feminine allure. Never fancy enough to put on airs, she wears her hair pulled back in a single plain ponytail, eschewing the complex black weaves of her sister. Far from severe, however, she simply loves glass and doesn’t care about much else. Her mind and hands are far more adroit than ours, and we all know it. There’s a reason she’s our youngest [Gaffer] ever, and her list of Skills is as daunting as her sister’s, if a bit less hazardous to my health.

Melina ignores both my arrival and Avelina’s smug grin, too intent on her glasswork to allow herself to be sidetracked by taunting and studio politics. She masterfully turns a new layer of cream-colored glass over a gather of sea-foam green, decorating a vase that I recognize as a matching set for Lord Anzor, magistrate of the neighboring village. Her entire body thrills, rising to the challenge of the work, and she soon finishes the relatively simple casing without my help.

Not missing a beat, she motions toward the nearest furnace, and I finally get a chance to do something to assist. I bring over a pre-prepped, glowing, elongated orb of glass that looks like spun gold, cradling it directly in my hands thanks to [Lesser Heat Manipulation]. I let the molten glass stretch down until the soft, malleable glass kisses the edge of the goblet Melina’s making. She turns it at an even pace, expertly wrapping a spiral around the creation. With a soft sigh, she holds it up to the light, examining her handiwork, and nods in satisfaction.

“Don’t actually need you here for anything else, Nuri. Ember probably thought you were in the way again,” Melina finally admits with a faint blush deepening the rusty hues of her cheeks, looking away before I can meet her eyes. At least she has the good grace to show a touch of shame at the way I’ve been treated lately, like I’m a third-rate hired hand, instead of the favored son of the most talented glassworker in the studio’s history.

“She should tell me to my face if she has a problem,” I mutter, but the Linas both wave me away, for once acting in sync.

Avelina kicks me in the shin, but there’s not much force behind the act. “Stop acting like a git.”

“Poor Nuri. You must be in a bad way if Ember sent you to Ava for advice.” Melina offers me a sympathetic half-smile. All the while, she holds the scorching vase suspended mid-air above her left palm, where it visibly anneals at rapid speeds.

I try not to gawk at her combination Skills in action, which she fused together at level ten. She has earned an exceedingly rare localized time compression Skill, [In the Blink of an Eye], plus [Lesser Object Manipulation] to go along with the much-sought-after [Flawless Annealing]. By sheer force of will, she’ll finish the entire project faster than most of the senior [Crafters].

Melina pats my shoulder. “Another batch? I have more orders to fulfill, and I’m not keen on dawdling today.”

Avelina laces her hands together and leans forward, her eyebrows drawn up in mock surprise. “Oh? Special plans I should know about, sister?”

“Yes, I have plans. No, they’re none of your business,” Melina replies without stopping her annealing process. She gestures toward the crucible with her chin. “Not gonna help now that you actually have something to do, Nuri?”

I dutifully trot over to the crucible at Melina’s gentle goading, but inwardly I rankle that I’ve been reduced to a mere delivery boy. I understand why, of course. Technically, I’m as skilled with glass as anyone here—maybe even on par with Ember in her working days, back before she transitioned to administering the entire studio—but it doesn’t matter. Without the proper Skills to enhance my work, I’m slow. Traditional. Mundane. And slow doesn’t pay the bills.

After I ensure the glass is just the right elasticity and temperature, malleable and ready for her work, I drop off the next batch with Melina and return to the crucible. Already I catch my gaze returning over and over again to the studio clock to check how long until lunch break. Not even dawn, and I tire of the shop. I am drifting all morning, with a full day of work ahead. I grow tired of feeling useless.

I catch Ember’s eye, point toward the crucible, and pump my fist. She gives me a slight nod, so I relieve the current worker, who’s only too glad to take a break, and just like that, it’s my turn for crucible duty. Beneath my skills, perhaps, but I need some quiet time to simmer, alone with my memories.

As I prep the next batch of glass, my thoughts wander back to my dad. In the early days, just after he passed, the old-timers told me fantastical stories. Most of them have moved on to retirement, or like my father have ascended beyond the skies—or so I hope, shaking off the faint chill of dread that accompanies thinking of death. From their tales, I know my father had a beard, which is why I’m growing a nascent beard now as an homage to him. I rub my hand across the slow growth of stubble and let out a chuckle. I’ve got a ways to go to catch up.

Cracking my knuckles, I pry open the threefold metal door to the crucible and get to work turning the metal rod. I gather up a viscous clump of red-gold glass, flowing like honey, and hand it off to the first [Assistant Gaffer] in line. Many of them prefer to prepare their own glass, but in our studio we usually have someone permanently working the crucible, freeing up the younger assistants to ply the trade before they’ve developed the necessary Skills. Most of the senior crafters already have some variation of [Heat Control] or [Flametouch], so they don’t need to return to the physical furnaces unless they’re feeling nostalgic.

I take an offered steel rod from my shop mate Lionel, a freshly graduated [Glassworker] who often helps with my orders, and shove the hollow metal rod into the mix of molten glass. He waves as he returns to his bench, a spark of good humor in his eyes at my dour demeanor. Nothing ever seems to faze him much. That’s why we’re friends. An army of sparks from the crucible leap out to assail the dark, tight curls of my surely-soon-to-be luxurious beard. They find no purchase, since I instantly douse them with [Lesser Heat Manipulation], my first—and, to my perpetual frustration, so far my only—Class Skill.

I’ve been an [Assistant Glassworker] for the better part of my adolescence, ever since I hit the age of eligibility to explore my magic and attempt to sense, harvest, and harness the mana of the world around us. Try as I might, however, I haven’t been able to upgrade or consolidate the Class. I’m one level away from the first threshold at level ten, with nothing to show for my efforts. Sure, my constant attempts to master the art of glasswork in its various forms have given me a strong set of general skills, roughly on par with the average senior [Gaffer], but without Skills, that’s not worth much. I’m stuck, sure as the sun rises, and the others have started to notice.

Lampworkers and assistants bustle about like worker bees around me, their ever-shifting shapes indistinct in the dusky half-light of the workshop. Whenever I glance behind me during a lull in the work, the edges of their forms waver as the oppressive blaze of the triple furnaces warps the air itself, until they’re nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. It’s a bustling, happy place, despite the ever-present haunting of memory.

Happy. Just not for me.

I stifle a sigh, not interested in self-pity, and glance around the cozy studio. Beyond the hot shop, out in the gallery, fluted vases with impossibly-thin whorls line the shelves. A variety of ornaments and utensils decorate the far wall, a riot of color muted by the haze of smoke and the darkness of early morning chaos.

As always, my gaze lingers on the smokey-edged, translucent black blades hanging in a cross-pattern above the front desk, where customers put in their orders. Ember claims they subconsciously agree to better deals under the effects of the masterworks, but I suspect it’s a rare moment of sentimentality, and wants to show off. Although made from glass, like everything else in our studio, the swords were imbued with mana upon creation by a [Master Artisan] with a rare Skill to strengthen glass until it makes steel cry in shame and envy. Light and razor-sharp, impervious to damage—they stand at the absolute pinnacle of our craft.

No one seems to know the real name of the fabled [Master Artisan] who had made them, although some of the [Gaffers] claim he may have been my father’s secret teacher in years gone by. One day, I vow to myself, I’ll improve enough to find the artist and impress him with my powerful Skills. He’ll take me in and train me, and I’ll finally have prestige and honor. One day. I will not drift along forever, relegated to languish away as a mere [Assistant].

Just then, the studio’s front door bursts open with a concussive bang as it hits the wall, once again fracturing my daydreams. I frown in annoyance, ready to harangue the rude customer, but raise my brows in intrigue as a young man darts inside, staggers, and falls to his knees. I vaguely recognize him as a [Messenger Boy] who sometimes delivers for the shop or brings in orders from nearby city [Lords]. My frown deepens. What could possibly be so urgent to disturb us this early in the morning?

Instinctively, I sidle a bit closer to hear whatever he has to say. So far, this is the most interesting thing to happen this morning, and I welcome the diversion.

Panting heavily, his hair slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, he lifts a shaking hand and points behind him through the open door, into the rosy pre-dawn light, terror etched on his face. In between huge, shuddering gasps for air, he finally finds his voice. And when he does, his announcement strikes fear into every heart. “Shadow Jaguars have breached the gates! Ember, please, you have to save us!”