Flames hot enough to melt steel dance in front of my face. I rotate a hollow metal rod within the orange-white glow of the furnace, ignoring the wavering air and wash of heat as I gather a ball of molten glass. Breathing in a slow, steady rhythm to keep myself calm, I spin the glass on the end of the blow pipe while I stride back to my workbench. Heart thudding and hands clammy, I nonetheless hold firm, never losing my grip. My workers are depending on the income from this commission. I’m not about to let them down, so I can’t afford any mistakes.

Before I begin shaping the glass, I brace the blow pipe against the marver, leaving one hand free to tuck my unruly black curls back under my blue headband, which is already soaked with sweat. The other hand keeps the glass in endless motion, rolling it across the lustrous, smooth top of the workbench.

Gravity is both friend and foe in the hot shop. Stop spinning for too long, and the glass will drip like melting wax down the side of a candle. Stillness causes glass to fall to the ground in a hot, useless blob. Turn the pipe vertical with the glass pointing down, however? Now gravity becomes a tool; the glass will elongate and expand as I turn, stretching into my desired shape. Movement is everything.

Humming to myself to keep on rhythm, I take stock of the glowing gather, nodding as I come to a conclusion. The molten ball of glass needs to grow. I bite down on a carved bone mouthpiece, inhale through my nose, and blow out through a flexible tube hooked up to the back of the hollow metal blow pipe. The air forces the globe of glass at the end of the blowpipe to slowly expand like a balloon.

A bead of sweat drips down into my eyes, making me flinch. I wag my head back and forth like a dog shaking water off its fur. The violent motion flings the stinging, salty drops of sweat out of my eyes so I can see again. I blink the final obscuring droplets away, and my gaze flickers over to a poster tacked up on the wall next to me.

Next year, now that I’m coming of age this summer, I’ll finally be eligible to compete in the triennial All-Densmore Glass Making Competition. But I don’t plan to just compete. I aim to win the entire thing. And to get there, I need to improve my skills.

“Time to get to work, Nuri,” I mutter to myself, returning my attention to the task at hand. I turn the glass as I keep blowing, growing the orb at the end of the blow pipe.

When the glowing glass globe finally reaches the desired size, I rest the metal rod on the bench, pick up a pair of tongs, known as jacks, and poke a hole in the far side of the translucent ball. I shape the glass further, molding it to my will. Metal jacks in one hand and a graphite paddle in the other, I press and pull, flatten and twist, to modify the shape of the glass. I’m using my boot to push the metal rod back and forth across the top of the workstation now, rolling it to maintain the required expansion as I work with both hands.

My master’s words echo in my mind: keep the glass moving if you want to eat.

Chuckling at the memory of master Ember’s stern but sincere warning, I force the jacks into the gap I poked earlier, teasing the opening wider with one hand while I press the inside of the globe flat. All the while, I never stop pushing and pulling with my boot to roll the blow pipe attached to the glass, which keeps the huge glass ball rotating at a steady pace. I’m not going to be able to sell an ugly, misshapen lump, after all, so I have to keep the blowpipe moving to ensure that the glass is even.

Once I’m satisfied with the rough size and shape I’ve created, I crack my neck and take a deep breath. I set aside the paddles and jacks, which I wield like a sculptor shaping a statue, and lean forward to examine the glass more closely. Using a smaller set of tongs, I delicately pinch and pull tiny bits of the glass, drawing them upward to create a forest of miniature spines.

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I stop spinning and lift up the hollow metal pipe to balance it across twin steel bars at the workbench. They glimmer in the light of the furnace, polished to gleaming perfection by decades of metal spinning on metal. The sheen reminds me of a multi-hued oil slick on water.

With a brief pulse of mana, I call on my first and only Skill, [Lesser Heat Manipulation]. Grimacing at the rush of power and the sudden storm of cold around me as I draw in a portion of the warmth in the room, I force myself onward. I apply the harvested heat to the very end of the pipe, where the glass has started to cool around the metal. As the temperature spikes, the glass softens. I pull the blow pipe back, twisting my wrist slightly as I move, and create a small protrusion of glass from the main ball of gathered glass.

“Kiln!” I call out to Ifran, the shop assistant I took on as an unpaid intern last month. He doesn’t have the actual [Assistant] designation yet, but his parents are grateful that I gave him the opportunity to see if he has any chance at earning a Class. They couldn’t afford to test his affinity or help him with mana harvesting practice, so they’re hoping that an apprenticeship will reveal whether or not he has enough Potential to take the all-important next steps.

I know what it’s like to be young and uncertain, since I leave my teens behind next week, so I’m happy to give Ifran a chance. He’s a good kid who works hard so far, although his talent with glass is yet to be determined.

The twelve-year-old boy rushes over, mopping his own brow with a rag. He hastily tucks it in his pocket and dons a pair of massive, faded brown gloves. Woven from graphite fibers that are naturally flame resistant, the gloves envelop his hands and arms, reaching up to his elbows. Since he doesn’t have any Skills to manage heat in the studio yet, the sturdy gloves help keep him safe. Around the cuffs of each glove, a complex rune that further impedes heat transfer is inscribed, although I can’t read it. Runes are fascinating, and I’ve always been interested in learning more about them, but I lack the time to study. I have a studio to supervise.

“Bring this hedgehog body over to the kiln. I’ll make the stubby little legs for our newest animal friend next,” I tell him.

“Yes sir, Nuri!” Ifran salutes awkwardly with his oversized gloves. He takes his position by the side of the workbench and cradles the glowing glass in his hands, holding it out away from his chest despite the heavy leather apron he wears for further protection in addition to the specialized gloves. He braces himself to support the weight once the hot glass falls off the end of the blow pipe, nodding at me to signal he’s ready.

I nod back. My left hand holds the metal blow pipe in place while I line up my target. I snatch up a little hammer and tap the neck where the glass is weakest, simultaneously drawing the heat from the glass so that it’s cold and brittle from the precipitous drop in temperature.

The glass breaks; the globe drops; Ifran catches it in deft hands and hollers in triumph.

I breathe out a sigh of relief, then cheer along with Ifran, watching with a surge of pride as he trots off to gently place the glass body in the kiln, where the creation will keep warm until I’m ready to attach the legs and then anneal the entire creature. He’s growing up fast. I hope he earns a glass-making Class soon—and more Skills than my singular ability. I wouldn’t wish my hang ups on anyone.

A niggling voice in the back of my mind reminds me that it’s because I’m not trying hard enough. If I can get over the fear of using the mana Skill that I have, I’ll probably earn more. But what if the mana boils in my channels, burning me up from the inside out? I shudder as an ugly memory springs to my mind unbidden: my parents dying, convulsing uncontrollably in their beds as they succumb to the mana plague. It’s a mental image that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I’ve used mana without side effects.

Ifran bounces back over, grinning at me. His excitement pulls me back from the precipice of abyssal memories. “That was awesome! What’s next, boss?”

His enthusiasm is infectious. I laugh and head back to the furnace to get another gather of molten glass. When I reach for the furnace door, I pause and look back over my shoulder, as though I’ve just remembered something. “Oh, Ifran, I was thinking. I believe you’ve earned a chance to try your first project. Stay a little late today to practice once I make the rest of this plump little hedgehog. Think you can handle it?”

The fervor shining in his eyes is answer enough.