[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

I’m still several days ahead of my self-imposed travel schedule, given the entrance deadline for the competition, so I decide to see if I can try my hand at new techniques. An actual workbench with tools feels like an incredible luxury after my time roughing it in the woods.

I brush each tool with my fingers, transported to my childhood. Nostalgia seizes me in an unexpected grip, and I drift back through my memory to when I first learned to use the tongs and shears, torches and blocks. My hands linger on the edge of the bench, feeling each pitted divot and cut. I envision my father, standing at his workstation, shaping dull rods of glass into something beautiful.

A smile on my face, I lay out my tools for the day. I’m not making anything too complex, at least from a glass perspective, which is good given the workshop’s relatively sparse setup. They use glass to make panes, and that’s about it. I don’t have all the instruments I’d normally use, but I still have more than I did on the road. Once I have the shape, my plan for the day is to pursue clues about mana-imbuing.

My partial success with the mana-soaking technique that I developed in the desperation of my prison escape sticks with it. The extra strength of the glass after I shoved as much mana into it as I could manage makes me wonder if I can push mana into glass permanently. Perhaps this is the way that Masters learn mana-imbuing, I muse.

I don’t see any blowpipes out on the workbench, since usually the workers in the back are pressing the batch of glass into sheets, then trimming off the excess to make the panes fit custom sizes. They don’t have much need to inflate glass bulbs to create windows. After a short search, I find an old metal rod, hollowed out to make a blowpipe, and get to work.

Normally, glass knives are either created by fracturing a piece of glass, which produces an extremely sharp edge but is at the mercy of following fault lines, or knapping. I don’t have the time or patience for either method since I only have one day to work.

Instead, I’m going to fold glass over on itself, heating and cooling it to temper it, while infusing it with as much mana as I can possibly handle. I’m limited by my mediocre mana pool and throughput, but thanks to the mana draught I downed, I’m still running on a surplus. Then I’ll transmute the entire thing using [Architect of Unseen Worlds] so that it’s stronger and sharper than it would be otherwise.

So far today, my attempts aren’t very successful; all I’ve managed to do is feel guilty about taking so much of Vicario’s glass.

I’m missing something. I know it. I resist the urge to growl and slam my fist down on the workbench. No sense in scaring my new friends. I settle for a soft groan, lowering my forehead to the worn-down wooden surface and indulging in a brief pity party.

There’s got to be some additional ingredient. I’m missing a key step, something that will let me make the leap from throwing mana at glass to actually imbuing the glass with desirable properties. Simply pumping more mana into the glass isn’t going to succeed. What I’m doing now is akin to painting a house by throwing handfuls of paint at it from a distance and hoping for an even, aesthetically-pleasing application of color and design. There’s no control or direction, no intentionality.

“Intent. Hm. Maybe that’s it,” I murmur to myself in low undertones. But how do I convey intent with mana? I’m not a [Magi] or [Enchanter] or [Thaumaturge]. I’m a [Glassworker]. I make things with glass, both functional and fantastic. My medium is physical, tangible, not the raw powers of creation.

Then my newest Skill, [The Eternal Glass Forge: Extended Reach] comes to mind, and I snort in amusement at my inadvertent oversight. I literally wield the power of raw creation now, although it is more utilitarian of a Skill than that description makes it sound. I don’t imprint my will or intent on the world in grand ways. I just make a handy little batch of glass on the go.

I flare my [Manasight] and reach for the aforementioned Skill, hoping I can glean some insight into how the process works, but it doesn’t activate. With a groan I smack my forehead, mentally kicking myself for my stupidity. I’ve already used it once today, in order to fulfill my boast that I could supply my own glass. Me and my big mouth. Would it have killed me to ask for some spare glass around the shop to transmute, since I had to rely on my Artisan Skill [Architect of Unseen Worlds] to complete the process anyway?

My mind is whirling, stuck in an unproductive cycle of new ideas and self-recrimination. I’m not getting anywhere, so I decide it’s a perfect time to take a lunch break.

I ask around the shop about places to eat, and next thing I know, I’m ambling about the city alongside Iriye. We’re on the way to a local bakery, which she insists has the greatest sweet rolls in existence.

“I’m more interested in grilled meats or spicy vegetables,” I try to explain as we walk. I’m normally a fan of going outside to catch some fresh air when I’m stuck in the studio, but here the atmosphere is so dismal that I think I would have been better served to stay indoors. How do people live like this, with all the smog and pedestrian traffic? The city feels claustrophobic.

“You’re not leaving until you try the rolls!” Iriye declares again, with greater conviction this time. She still hasn’t given me a compelling reason why they’re so amazing.

I sigh and run my hands through my beard. “What if I don’t like sweet rolls? The frosting gets in my beard and makes a mess. Do you know how annoying that is to deal with when I’m out on the road and can’t bathe properly?”

“Pfft. So wash before you leave town, dummy,” Iriye shoots back.

I chuckle. “Hasn’t your father ever taught you to respect your elders? Besides, I’m going along with your plan. No need to get snippy. But I don’t get it. The frosting on top makes the rolls sound more like dessert than dinner.”

“Duh! That’s part of why it’s so good.”

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“If you say so. What’s so special about this place, anyway? I think you just like the long walk, so you can get out of doing more work,” I say, chuckling at Iriye’s indignant expression.

“No. I just like the sweet rolls,” she says, scowling at me again.

I roll my eyes. “How do you even know where you’re going, anyway? These streets all look exactly the same. It’s all just dark grey, dull stone. Every storefront is run down. I don’t see any street names listed. Do you just memorize how many intersections it takes to get from your shop to the cafe?”

Iriye shrugged. “What makes you think I know where I’m going?”

“You want sweet rolls too much to commit to the joke that we’re lost in your hometown,” I reply, sticking out my tongue at her. She’s less than half my age, but somehow I feel like our maturity levels have flipped.

“Untrue. I’m utterly lost,” Iriye says, completely deadpan. “Alas. No rolls for us.”

I resist the urge to flick her ear with my finger. I’m not good with children, but I don’t think that’s an appropriate response. Neither she nor her father would probably appreciate it. Still, her smug little expression tells me that she’s going to continue messing with me unless the stakes are no longer in her favor.

I cough, waving away the ever-present smoke rolling across town. “Look, I’m not going to pass up free food. You said you’re paying for lunch. If we can’t find the rolls, I’ll just make you get me some greasy food at that roadside stand. Your call.”

“You drive a hard bargain, glass boy,” Iriye says. “C’mon. It’s the next street over, up to the left. You’re gonna change your mind about the value once you try that frosting.”

Glass boy? You work in a glass shop, too, I grumble internally. Instead of engaging her any further, I clamp my mouth shut, tired of arguing with the pint-sized terror. We soon arrive at our destination, which features the first splash of color I’ve seen in a while: a massive sculpture of a garishly painted sweet roll as big as Iriye all done up in sky blue and hot pink. A sign above the door reads Phantasmal Frosting Fun!

Something about the attempt to alliterate offends me, but I bite my tongue and follow Iriye inside. The sooner we eat our sweet rolls, the sooner I can get back to the shop and rule out a few more failed methods to achieve a rudimentary form of mana-imbuing. Knowing what not to do is half the battle, right?

The overwhelming scent of sugar in the air assaults me as soon as we enter the front door. I blink, waving my hands to try to clear the thick, hazy white cloud—so much sugar is in the air that obscures my vision—and cough a few times, trying to catch my breath.

“Don’t be rude,” Iriye hisses, kicking me in the shin. She drags me forward, and I can see just enough through the glittering gloom to make out a countertop. Iriye hops up into a tall, spinning seat made of metal polished until it gleamed like a mirror, with a red leather stitched cushion on the top for padding.

I ease myself into the seat next to her, eyeing the insane display of confectionary excess with extreme wariness. I lean over toward Iriye and ask in a conspiratorial whisper that’s far too loud: “Are you sure it’s healthy to imbibe that much sugar in one go?”

“Young man,” a matronly voice rings out from behind the counter, “you have no idea how much sugar you’re about to eat. Don’t speak out of turn when you’re so woefully ignorant.”

Before I can defend myself, a wave of mana billows out from where the voice originated. A middle-aged lady with a tight gray bun stands up, beaming at Iriye and waving her hands. The mana swirls, binds to the sugar in the air, and pulls back to the [Baker]—at least, I assume that’s the woman’s Class; I still haven’t figured out the [Inquisitor]’s trick to reading Classes. The mana in the air mixes with the cloying cloud of sugar, drawing into a condensed ball in her hand.

“Welcome to the Phantasmal baking experience,” she says, smiling at me with a beatific expression. “Observe, child.”

Another wave of her hand, and a tray of freshly-baked rolls slides out of a slit in the wall and across the countertop. It stops directly in front of the waiting matron, and she inhales the steam from the piping hot rolls. “Ahh. Perfect! Let’s begin.”

Iriye squeals and claps her hands together. She’s positively bouncing on the stool, her toes resting on a metal ring halfway up the support stand since she’s too short to reach the floor. “Here it comes, glass boy. Watch closely! This is my favorite part!”

I sense a surge of mana, and reflexively activate my [Manasight] to better understand what’s happening. I’m not as meticulous or scholarly as Ezio or Rakesh, but I do enjoy learning about various paths to power. Seeing what’s possible with other Classes is always intriguing, so perhaps this little dessert detour will be instructive in unexpected ways.

Then the Skill ignites, and my jaw drops open in astonishment. Mana races out from the [Baker]’s hands, enveloping the sweet rolls. The mana splits apart, fanning out into a thousand narrow ribbons, each far smaller and more delicate than a human hair, barely visible other than the bright glow of unmistakable power.

“Incredible,” I breathe, then glance over at Iriye. She’s also enraptured by the show, but it strikes me that she’s too young to embrace her potential yet. I briefly drop my [Manasight] so I can watch the process unfold the way she’s experiencing it, without a Class or mana Skills. I’m amazed anew at the riot of colors closely mimicking the mana threads, but visible to the naked eye. There’s not one Skill at work, but two: the mana threads and the light-show overlay for those without [Manasight], or any Skills at all it seems.

I reactivate my [Manasight] so I can observe the true genius at work. Thrumming with latent energy, the mana threads form a criss-cross pattern across the tops of the sweet rolls, settling into the desserts and snapping into a grid. While I’m still pondering what purpose they serve, another wave repeats the process, faster this time and with fewer theatrics.

I lean forward, my hands pressed against the marble countertop, and I raise up slightly from my seat, staring at the show. After the first and second layers are firmly entrenched, the pace accelerates. Dozens, and then hundreds, of new mana threads entwine together in a dizzying array, faster than I can follow. The threads overlap and interweave in intricate precision. Layer upon layer builds up into a dense lattice formation.

“There, that ought to do it,” the matronly maven of mana behind the counter says. Her plump, rosy cheeks scrunch up with her kind smile. She claps, and the mana snaps into place. She gestures again, and the heavy ball of condensed sugar, easily as large as my head, rushes down, spiraling into the lattice formation on the sweet rolls. Every last speck of sugar disappears into the mana-construct on top of the baked goods, packing in so tightly that I’m certain it’s on the verge of exploding.

“Go on, try one,” she urges, sliding the tray closer to us. Iriye squeals again and scoops up one in each hand. Her face is aglow in anticipation, and I watch in sickly fascination as she devours them both in short order.

My [Manasight] is running while she eats, and I sit bolt upright when I realize that some of the mana is somehow absorbed into her body. She’s building up a mana pool before she’s even converted her potential and achieved a Class! That shouldn’t be possible, at least to my limited understanding of how the world works, but the evidence is right there in front of me, so I choose to trust my own two eyes.

“You’re paying for lunch, right?” I confirm with Iriye, who nods happily at my question.

As she reaches for another, I swat her hand away and pull the tray over to me before she can snatch up more of the mana treasures. “In that case, I’m eating them all. ‘Glass boy’ thanks you for your generous contribution to his mana capacity!”