[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

The first day on the road is terrifying. I’m constantly throwing glances over my shoulder in fear, wondering if this is the moment that the [Inquisitors] track me down.

Each time the twigs snap under my boots, I flinch and dive for cover behind a tree. A scurrying deer, disturbed by my passage, almost gives me a heart attack. Once, I hear the passing of horses; I sink down to my knees, bending my head and awaiting the inevitable snap of a collar around my neck. It never comes, but I’m still shaking at the thought of returning to that prison cell. I barely sleep that night.

The second day out of the city proper, I’m bone-weary, but my emotions are more stable. Despite the ragged edge of my exhaustion, the trauma of the last week seems less real. Listening to birdsong and feeling the warm wind on my face is restorative in ways I didn’t even realize I needed. I’m in a rhythm, steadily making my way toward Grand Ile. My pace isn’t record-setting, but I have time. I’ll arrive a few days before the competition, pick up the money that Rakesh sent ahead to the local bank branch, and get back to working with glass.

Toward evening, I feel safe enough to whistle quietly as I walk. I stop for a few minutes underneath the spreading boughs of some flowering tree I don’t recognize, watching the sunset and feeling the last, warm rays of the sun on my face. Things are looking up; I can’t stay sad forever, afraid of my own shadow.

On the third day later, I run out of meat. It’s the worst thing that’s happened to me so far, other than accidentally dropping the cheese during a harrowing river-crossing, I think with a grumble. Paranoia with food is better than peace of mind with nothing to eat. What am I going to do to survive on the road? I don’t dare stop at an inn, not until I’m far enough away from Silaraon to ensure that no one will know my face. I used to do glass deliveries for the shop as a kid, and it’s possible someone will know who I am this close to the city.

I trudge down a faintly-visible game path a hundred paces from the main road, hidden in a thicket of trees. I don’t trust that I’ll be safe in plain view. For all I know, the [Inquisitors] are all too busy dealing with the unknown attackers back at the barracks to spare me even a second of thought, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m slinking through shadows, reduced to scrounging for berries and digging for roots.

Idly, I wonder how hard it would be to build a trap to try to catch a rabbit, only to realize that I can’t cook it because I’m too nervous to light a fire. The smoke would give me away, and I don’t need that kind of attention. Besides, I’m too skittish to stay in one place for that long. I’ve got to keep moving if I want to give myself the best chance of escape.

To add insult to injury, it begins raining just before noon.

Soaking wet, eating a mushy handful of overripe berries, while hiding under the roots of a fallen tree—this is my life now. Looking back over my actions, though, I don’t regret it. Which of the steps that led me here would I want to change? I can’t think of any. It’s not as though I’m perfect; I can think of a thousand things, large and small, that I could have done better. Rather, the core choices, the credo that’s driven me through each of the events of the last year, are the same ones I would make again and again.

Shivering, I risk activating my [Heat Manipulation] Skill long enough to burn away the cold and dry out my clothes. I’m still nervous someone will track me through mana use, but I’m willing to take my chances. Freezing to death because I’m afraid of someone monitoring my magic seems stupid. I need to deal with the problems right in front of me before I waste my time worrying about possibilities that I can’t even prove.

The berries are tasty, but too few. They’re a poor meal compared with the meat I feasted on the last few days, but a far sight better than the gruel in the prison cell. I finish the last, juicy bite, lean back against the hollow of exposed dirt under the fallen tree, and take a moment to reflect on my current situation.

I don’t feel like walking in the rain. I’ll find something else to eat later, but for now I have enough energy to indulge in a few Skills. I’ve already used [Heat Manipulation] without drawing attention to myself, as far as I know, so I should be free to create a small batch of glass with my Skill [The Eternal Glass Forge].

I hunker down, compressing the Skill the way that I did back in the cell, just in case I’m under surveillance. I’m probably fine, but I’m simply not feeling confident lately. I don’t want to end up back in the clutches of the [Adjutant] just because I got sloppy.

Once I have enough glass to work with, I apply my [Heat Manipulation] and bring it up to the requisite temperature so I can begin shaping it. Without my normal tools, I use my hands as pincers, shielding the vulnerable flesh with my Skill to keep from searing off my skin. I don’t have a large amount of glass to work with, so I go for intricate complexity as I decorate along the relatively small length of the heart-shaped pendant, using the observation half of [Architect of Unseen Worlds] to magnify my view of the project and work on fine details.

The way I figure it, if I produce fancy-looking jewelry, then I can trade it in some small, out of the way village to earn money for food and lodging. They get a beautiful piece of custom glasswork, and I get regular currency before I hit more populated areas, where I’m more likely to be tracked.

If they’re still after me at all. What’s one random man compared with enemy attackers?

Of course, if they think that I’m part of the sabotage crew, then I may be in a worse spot than I was before. I force aside that thought, focusing on the work at hand. It feels good to work with glass again. I’ve had a hectic few weeks—months, really—since the mess with Tem began. Getting back to making things with my hands again is therapeutic. I’m a [Glassworker] at heart, as much as I’ve enjoyed dabbling in the adventurer lifestyle. That will never change, no matter how much of the world I experience.

I finish the final twist in my pendant, then dump one quarter of my mana into [Architect of Unseen Worlds], transmuting portions of the pendant to different glass composites in order to give each component a different coloration. The finished result looks more like gemstones set in a golden mount than like something made out of glass, but that’s fine with me. It will probably fetch more money that way.

Tomorrow, when I can create more glass again, I’ll shape it into a simple, elegant plate. Pale blue, I think, like a robin’s egg, edged in gold trim. The next day, a matching cup. After that, a bowl to complete the set. If I’m able to hold out long enough, then I’ll double the place settings so that I can sell them to a couple. Newlyweds especially seem to love that sort of thing.

Individually, the plate, cup, and bowl will sell for far less. As a completed set, it may earn me more than earrings or a necklace, but it will take six days versus one. In the end, it won’t be as lucrative, but it tickles my fancy. I set the pendant aside, keeping it hot so that it can anneal even though I don’t have a kiln. Melina’s Skills would come in handy now.

I sigh, stretch out my sore back and stiff neck, and curl up to nap while I wait out the rain. As long as I have enough mana, my [Heat Manipulation] should be able to sustain keeping the small area up to temperature. I’ve never tested it like this while sleeping, but I’ve kept it running all day while splitting my attention elsewhere. Isn’t this a natural evolution of that process?

It’s just as well that I am limited by resources to only working on glass once per day—it pushes me to get creative. But I wish I had no need to sell anything. I should be an honored guest in Grand Ile, surrounded by my best friends, prepping for the challenge of creating the finest glass creations I’ve ever made.

=+=

“Nearly ten days on the road alone, and I’m only halfway to my destination,” I mutter to myself as I squint at a sign embedded in the ground beside a crossroads. Grand Ile feels like a far-off dream, but I squeeze my eyes shut against the burning sensation of exhaustion and frustration, and keep moving. I should reach a town soon, and I can stay at an inn tonight if my glass sells.

One foot after another. It’s the only way I’ll make it through. A few hours later, just as the road signs promised, I approach a sizable town. I don’t recognize its name—I’m far away from Silaraon, now, well past the limits of any maps I’m familiar with from my delivery days. Chances are good that no one will know who I am, but I pull my cloak around me, adopt a bit of a slouch, and make my way through the queue to the gates with a hint of apprehension.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The guards barely glance at me when I pay my entrance fee. I shuffle through, reveling in the freedom of anonymity. It’s not until after I sell off my latest trinkets at a shop and check in at an inn that I breathe a sigh of relief, however. I’m not sure how long it will take me to feel like my old self again, but for now my cautiousness is probably healthy. Probably.

Dinner is included in the cost of a room, so I wash up quickly, change into a nondescript set of clothes that I purchased from a village a few days back up the road, and slip downstairs to eat. In the main room, I attract absolutely zero attention. Although it’s safer that way, my pride is hurt a little bit if I’m honest. No one knows who I am here. True, I’m not a wanted man, but no one cares about me, either. I’m well and truly alone.

I crunch into the dark, hard-crusted bread that the waitress plops down in front of me, and nearly break a tooth. I grimace, sopping up some broth, and try gnawing on it again. When even that fails, I leave it to soak it in the thin stew filled with stringy bits of unidentifiable meat that passes for the main course. I swish down some ale, nibble on some dried-out cheese, and finally fish my bread out of the bowl before chewing on it again slowly. It’s good for building up my jaw muscles, if nothing else.

On my way out, I ask the barman if there’s a glass shop in town. He gives me a blank, dead-eye look, so I don’t push my luck. Perhaps this town simply lacks refinement. I won’t hold it against them. Much.

I settle up for my drink, slip outside, and jostle my way through the press of crowds in the street outside. Pedestrians shove their way past me without a second glance, and I definitely get the feeling that this town is less friendly than Silaraon. My original plan of paying for a day at a glass studio seems far-fetched, unless the artisans here are more charitable than the average citizen in this district.

I duck into a cramped corner shop chock-full of miscellaneous goods and ask for the crafting quarter. The proprietor looks me over and seems to find me wanting. He sniffs, jerks his head back in the general direction of the inn, and goes back to his work.

I decide I’ll buy supplies for the road somewhere else.

I’m still annoyed at my ill treatment by the time I reach the artisan’s district. The crafters quarter doesn’t make any sense to me. Small shops litter the district, tucked in so tight that there’s no room to breathe. No room to think. The street is clogged full of passersby of various levels of affluence and fashion, crammed in side by side. The almighty allure of goods and gold serve as the great equalizer.

I surreptitiously check the wares they’re carrying, but no one seems to have any pieces of glass. Is this entire city just an uncultured abyss of misery, a pustule on the nether regions of mankind? I spit to the side, then stuff down my distaste and keep searching.

I walk past a leather-working shop, a cooper, and an ironworks. The last shop hits me with a pang of nostalgia as I suddenly miss my brother Mikko, and I blink away an unexpected tear. The longer I walk the streets, though, the more my heart sinks. Surely they have to have a glass studio somewhere in the crafter quarter.

The broad streets begin to narrow out, although the sheer amount of people shopping doesn’t seem to go down. I elbow my way forward, fighting the human tide, exploring side alleys until evening falls and it’s too dark to see properly. Gas lamps flicker on once it’s night, but I give up and go back to the inn.

The next morning I’m back at it, ducking into every store one by one. I can’t stay in the city for longer than two days if I want to make it to Grand Ile on time for the competition, but I’m determined now to figure out if there’s a glass studio here. It might be the smallest hot shop in the world—or even just a lampwork studio, which is more Avelina’s domain than mine—but I’ll be happier than I’ve ever been if I can find one.

Half an hour of fruitless searching later, I break down and start asking passersby. They are consistent in brushing me off. Their rudeness doesn’t shock me in the slightest after what I’ve seen so far from the townspeople, but it’s still aggravating since it’s wasting my time. A few kind souls manage to grunt and point farther down the street, so I follow their surly directions until I stand in front of a tiny door that advertises glass windows.

I groan, caught between relief and amusement. That’s not quite what I was looking for, but it appears to be the best that I’ll get in this strange little city. The wood door is warped, and the paint is peeling off. It’s so faded that I’m not sure what its original color may have been. No sign of welcome hangs in the window. There’s no bell to ring.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter to myself, squaring my shoulders and pushing open the door. To my surprise, the door opens to a rickety, narrow stairway. There’s no display room with wares to peruse, no greeter at the door to welcome customers, no sense of propriety.

“Typical.” I cross my arms, looking up the stairs for a long moment at the dingy scraps of wallpaper covering the old, cracked plaster. I almost turn to leave before I chide myself for being a baby. I’m here to practice my skills. If there’s even a remote chance that this glass shop has a workbench I can borrow, then I need to swallow my pride. The worst they can do is say no if I ask them about a brief, mutually beneficial partnership, even if they don’t look like a perfect fit for my needs.

My boots squeak on each step with horrific creaks. I pause halfway up, deeply unsettled. Part of me feels as though I’m stepping over the spines of the dead. This is a waste of time. I’m better off just sleeping for the day and getting a fresh start in the morning. Once more I turn to leave, my footsteps torturing the treads of the dilapidated stairway.

“Pa! Pa, we’ve got a customer,” I hear a reedy voice announce from upstairs. There’s a note of anticipation in the young girl’s tone, which makes me feel guilty about turning around and fleeing back to my inn.

I stifle a sigh and trudge the rest of the way up to the second floor. A second door, in far better shape than the first, fitted with clear, even windows, stands halfway open. A sign above it reads Vicario’s Windows. I slip inside to greet the girl whose voice I heard on the stairs.

“Well, ain’t you a polite one,” she says when I offer a small bow. She rubs her nose with an ink-stained hand, then hops off her stool to stalk closer. “Got a work order? Most don’t come in person—they just send on ahead and we arrange drop off and installation.”

“Err, no,” I answer slowly, staring down at the petite, raven-haired child. She can’t be much past nine or ten, but she radiates an air of authority, like a little queen in charge of the entire shop. It would be charming, endearing even, but there’s a brittleness to her smile that sets me on edge.

“Gonna buy something? Or just stand and stare with your mouth hanging open like a big dummy?” she asks, and there’s a sudden hardness that belies her energetic welcome.

Her directness rattles me for some reason. I’ve stood up to wraiths, weathered the wrath of a [General]’s right hand man, and escaped from the royal army, but I’m still caught off guard by this little girl. She’s so jaded at such a young age that it makes me sad. “Actually, I was hoping to speak to whomever is in charge of the production facility. Could you put me in touch with the foreman?”

“What makes you think that’s not me?” she says, a thin smirk on her little, sharp-edged face. With her dark curls and pale, ashen skin, she looks sickly, but there’s a mischievous light to her eyes that reminds me of Lionel. “It’s because I’m a little girl, isn’t it?”

I snort. “Hardly. It’s because if this shop is anything like mine, then there’s too much work to do to waste time greeting guests. No self-respecting worker plays with the books and smiles at strangers when there’s glass to be shaped and money to be made. I’m here to offer a trade of services that could profit us both. No gimmicks, just hard work.”

Her smirk vanishes, replaced by a calculating look. “You’re all right, kid. Come on, let’s go see Pa.”

“I thought you called for him when I was coming up the stairs?” I ask in confusion as I follow her through the front office space and into the back room, where the actual window work takes place.

“Ha! That’s just to make sure no one tries any funny business,” she confides with a wink. Then she turns and gestures at the workbenches surrounded by [Apprentices] hard at work. “As you said, he’s busy in the shop. You like it?”

“It’s certainly a . . . busy operation,” I say, fumbling for the right words. Everyone is bustling about, and there’s a stack of windows leaning against the far wall that says they are making progress, but I can’t see much rhyme or reason to what everyone is doing.

“Streamlined, I prefer to call it,” comes a new voice, similar in timber to the girl’s, though in a much lower register. “Now, what piqued my dear little Iriye’s interest?”

I turn to take in the foreman. He’s twice as tall as the odd little girl—no, her name is Iriye, I remind myself, not “the little girl”—and he shares the same dark curls and ashen face. He extends a hand, roughened with evidence of his work, and introduces himself as [Foreman] Vicario with a refreshingly pleasant smile. I recognize the name from the sign on the second door, although I wonder how people find the place without a sign on the outside.

“I’m a [Glassworker],” I reply, not providing a name in response to his introduction. He doesn’t prompt me for one, for which I’m grateful. “Passing through town and in need of coin in exchange for an honest day’s work. I’m willing to bet that I can do finish and detail that no one else in your shop can, although I don’t know much about plain windows. If I can prove my worth, could I use one of your workbenches for the day?”

“Bold claim for someone who looks like he crawled out of the forest yesterday,” one of the girls shouts, and the other workers snicker. It reminds me of home, and a smile lights up my face immediately.

I hold out both hands to the side, grinning madly. “How about a wager, then? Your best against mine. Give me a challenge!”