[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

For three straight days on the road, I don’t stop to work on glass. Instead, I pass the time by practicing external mana control, starting with one strand and slowly working my way up to two. Weaving the mana strings together as I walk is headache-inducing, and sometimes I find myself standing still in concentration, my feet no longer cooperating, staring at a tree trunk uncomprehendingly.

By the third night, however, I can braid three strands together and still maintain a slow walk. I doubt I can keep adding an extra line of mana per day, but I can improve my finesse and multitasking if I keep applying myself.

Intuitively, I sense that I’m close to my cap already, and I’ll be pleased if I can push the limit to five at once by the time I arrive in Grand Ile. My hope is that I’ll learn to walk at a normal pace again by the time I reach the city. I’m concerned I will be late, so every few hours I alternate between a jog without energy control, and a sedate stroll with mana manipulation.

I save up the glass batches I create with [The Eternal Glass Forge], wrapping the glass rods in a length of soft cloth for padding and stashing them in my travel sack. In the early evening of the fourth day, when I’ve determined that my progress is sufficient enough that I can take a break, I risk a small, smokeless fire. I don’t need the flames to melt the glass, but the light is helpful in the wan twilight. I still need to see. Besides, the warmth is comforting on my skin despite my reliance on [Heat Manipulation]. It hits me as a stark reminder: magic is grand, but there’s no substitute for the real thing.

Letting out a soft groan as I stretch my tired legs, I make myself as comfortable as I can in the grass and unsling my travel sack. I start the night’s project by separating the raw glass into two roughly equal bundles. If my first experiment doesn’t work out, then I’ll take what I learned and try again. Maybe the second iteration will prove more suitable.

With a surge of mana, I heat up the glass rods, melting them via a targeted application of [Heat Manipulation]. Temperature control comes to me so easily now; the shape of the Skill is familiar, like an old friend, and it feels more potent than ever. Perhaps I’m close to ranking it up?

I turn the rods slowly as I go, gathering more and more molten glass into a globe on the end of the rod. It’s a technique better suited to the lampworking studio, but without a furnace and a large batch of glass, I’m making do with the resources at my disposal. I’ll heat up more if the current volume isn’t enough to fold into a serviceable knife, but I’m confident that I’ve saved up enough for this project.

When I deem the consistency acceptable, I spread out the globe with my bare hands. I stretch the glass, working it wide and thin like pizza dough. As always when I’m without tools, I keep a firm grip on my [Heat Manipulation] so that I don’t burn myself through contact with the scalding glass. Creating a thin membrane of extreme cold to act as a buffer and absorb the energy of the heat was tricky at first, but with practice I’m finding it almost as easy as slipping on a pair of work gloves.

Next, I fold the glass sheets, taking care to pay attention to the thickness of each layer by relying on my [Architect of Unseen Worlds] Skill. I only open myself up to the compositional analysis of the Skill, trying to improve my steady hands rather than merely rely on the effects of the Artisan skill set to shape the piece. Technically, the description seems like the Skill only transmutes the base material, but I’ve been able to push the Skill to mimic shapes I’ve previously mapped out.

Tonight is all about practicing, though, so I don’t mind failures along the way. I’d rather develop the skills to create the glass knife through more traditional means, rather than use the Skills I’ve picked up as a crutch. If I ever lose access to my Skills, or suffer under severe mana deprivation again, then I want to ensure that I have a way to continue working on my craft.

Plus, Tem seemed to strongly hint that building a foundation apart from mana allowed Skills to become far more effective and powerful. It makes sense to me. Magic influences the world in preternatural ways, but the less reality has to bend, the more efficiently the magic can work. If I want to be a truly great glass mage, and not just a glorified trinket maker, then I need to put in the time to understand my craft to its fullest. Of course, to advance my Skills, I also need to use them; it’s not an either/or scenario, but rather a both/and dynamic.

For tonight, that means making the best knife I’ve ever created. I focus as I lay down each new layer, thinking ahead to when I’ll place the mana lattice over top of the blade. It occurs to me that if I plan for the mana infusing—or is it actually imbuing? I’m still not sure what I’m doing with this mana technique—then I’ll probably end up with better results. As I keep my end goal in mind, my process adapts to incorporate tiny grooves that will more readily interface with the mana lattice.

I lose myself in the rhythm of folding, stretching, and smoothing the layers. I alternate the temperature, deftly switching between heat and cold to further temper the blade while I keep it soaked in mana. Time flows onward, and I continue working, lost in a fugue of inspiration.

A low growl from the forest sends a spike of fear through me. I hold out the knife, still hot and incomplete, and spin to face the threat. I don’t sense any hint of mana that would signal a monster, rather than a more mundane beast such as a wolf or bear, but that doesn’t mean that I take the threat lightly.

I pulse out a wave of cold as I draw in all the ambient energy with [Heat Manipulation], hoping to scare off whatever it is and avoid a fight. A yelp of surprise rewards my quick actions, and a heavy crash sounds from the trees as the creature charges away from the nova of cold air. Maybe one day I can blast out a cone of frost, like an [Ice Mage]. That would be handy!

A branch of a nearby tree caught in the crossfire explodes, making me flinch. My heart slows down a bit once I realize that it was my fault for flash-freezing the branch. The sap inside must have expanded so quickly that it forced its way through the wood and bark. The sudden blast scared me, but it probably drove off any remaining predators in the vicinity. It’s also a good reminder that I have to be more careful of indiscriminate temperature swings.

I climb up a tree and lash myself to the trunk with a length of rope I bought in one of the few towns I’ve visited. I settle in for the night, trying to put the excitement behind me, but I’m on an uncomfortable branch with a knob that’s digging into my thigh. I shift positions to gain relief. It’s a far cry from my bed in the inn several days ago, but there’s no going back.

I’ve nodded off and started awake a few times during the night before I realize I never finished the knife. I lean my head back against the rough bark of the tree with a dull groan. The glass has long since set, and the mana most certainly has solidified without my will and intent guiding the process. There’s likely not any salvaging of the project. I’ll have to spend another few days gathering up more glass before I give it another attempt, if I want enough glass for a second knife.

To keep my mind off my disappointment, I run through my list of Skills and consider what I’ll need for a training program to improve. I can try again tomorrow, but I might as well make use of my wakefulness now.

Although my [Heat Manipulation] Skill hasn’t ranked up yet to a Greater version, my heavy and unconventional use has pushed it to the precipice of further advancement. I’ve sensed a qualitative shift in its power lately. I’m not precisely sure how I’m able to gauge the growth of my Skills, but I suspect it has to do with my constant, near-compulsive use of [Manasight]. I’ve got more insight now into how Skills work. I can see the inner mechanisms of magic.

Looking back to last year, I was probably on the very cusp of dropping the lesser prefix, I muse. I drop into my inner space to review the Skill structure, taking note of its impressive recursions and fractals. The encounter with the jaguars only hastened the rank up, but I didn’t skip past years of accumulated practice.

I’m getting close to my next level, based on the sheer intricacy and size of the Skill matrix. Although it’s a slow process, I’m convinced that the way I keep pushing myself will pay off in the long run. It occurs to me that if I’m diligent, then I can probably aim for the second Threshold sometime in the next twelve to fifteen years: it’s not record-setting by any means, but it would still put me in the upper echelon of crafters in Densmore.

The thought brings a smile to my lips as I drift off to sleep.

=+=

Life on the road is more boring than the adventure books of my youth would have me believe. I’ll have to demand a refund from Camdyn, the old [Book Seller], if I ever return home to Silaraon. I haven’t had any glamorous encounters or profound insights while communing with the beauty of nature. Instead, I’ve got blisters on my feet and powerful body odor from lack of proper bathing.

“Maybe it’s for the best my friends didn’t join me,” I murmur ruefully as I cast a glance at the endless grasslands around me. The landscape is only broken up by the occasional small hill, or a few sparse stands of trees. Otherwise, it’s flat and boring. This trek isn’t as fun as I thought it would be. If people knew what adventuring was really like, no one would ever actually have adventures. Maybe it’s better that no one knows what they’re getting themselves into.

I trudge onward. There’s no way around the boredom. I simply have to push through to Grand Ile. I suppose there will be no lack of excitement once I reach the city and enter the glass competition, particularly if I run into complications. And the way my life is going lately, complications are inevitable.

Each night, I go over the forged identity papers Vicario got for me, memorizing my new name and city of origin. I’m not great at thinking quickly, but I’m decent at taking in details and acting on the information. I’ve still got several weeks before I have to report for the glass competition, so I’m confident that I’ll have a handle on my disguise. My beard is coming in full now. I’ve decided to let my hair grow longer while I’m in Grand Ile, as well, though I’ll keep it all pulled back into a knot so that I don’t get it tangled up in hot glass.

Zebulun Ojulari. From Ryndl, a little village outside of Metolius. You’ve probably never heard of it. Eclectic studies with a [Crafter-Magus], some small skill with a variety of mediums. Reclassing into a [Glass Smith] for the competition.

I swallow the lump building in my throat. It’s not a lot of information, but what if I forget it at a crucial moment? What if I freeze or fumble for words and it blows my cover? What if someone from Ember’s glass studio decides to make the long journey to enter the competition and recognizes me? What if I—

With a growl, I banish the negative thoughts. I’m not going to accomplish anything useful by worrying. All I can do is confidently introduce myself as Zebulun and do my best to win the competition.

I’m not sure how I can pay for the entry fee without Rakesh’s advance, however. It makes no sense to go to the bank and claim to be Nuri Shahi if I’m trying to hide my identity, but I was relying on getting that money. Without it, I’m on my own. I’ll have to create and sell something to afford the fee.

I suppose that means creating two knives after all, one to keep and one to sell, I muse. I pause at the top of one of the few hills I’ve seen along the way, knuckling my lower back until it cracks and pops. If I’m going to create two knives—or more, if my first attempts fail—then I need to pick up the pace considerably. I need to leave myself enough time to work on twice as much crafting as expected.

In the spirit of going faster, I take a deep breath and charge down the other side of the hill with a whoop. My feet are flying faster than I normally can handle, alive to the thrill of the mad dash. Thankfully, I don’t trip on a root or twist an ankle in a pothole, and I use the momentum to run for a while after I leave the rolling line of hills behind. I’m not the fastest, but I’m determined to reach Grand Ile.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Nearly a week passes before I’m ready mentally to try again with the knife. I had enough glass, but something didn’t sit well with me during my brief look at the interrupted attempt. I can do better. I have to do better.

I’ve collected double the amount of glass as before, but this time I have a better plan to ensure that the blade accepts the mana lattice. My mana control is improving as well, by small steps at least. I’m going to take more care to temper the glass as I go, which means starting earlier in the day so that I don’t run out of daylight so quickly. Last week, I almost had it right, but that predator disturbed me and I didn’t see the job through. I’m more prepared this time around.

While I’ve been running, slowly improving my pace, I’ve also been practicing my external mana control. This time, I’m convinced I will succeed with the lattice. Strong body, strong mind, I hear in Mikko’s voice. I’d like to imagine he’d be proud of me if he could see me now, running halfway across Densmore.

I make camp roughly a hundred paces off the side of the road, in a little clearing at the top of a small rise covered in wildflowers. I stopped for the day just after high noon. The knoll isn’t particularly well hidden, but I haven’t seen any travelers in a while. I’m feeling more confident that I’ll be safe, at least for several hours. I won’t need a fire until tonight, assuming I still need light to see. I’m still eating the same boring diet of dried apples, a cheese wheel, and chewy travelers’ crackers, so I won’t need to cook.

I lay out my equipment and materials, stretch out my body, and take a quiet moment to still my mind. Steady hands require a calm heart, in my experience. Maybe when I’m older, and I’ve been through so many crazy adventures that nothing fazes me anymore, I can make glass under the most trying of circumstances. For now, however, I need pristine conditions to perform at my best.

My excitement is almost palpable as I activate [Heat Manipulation]. The glass glows as it heats up cherry red, then glares white-hot, melting and spreading into a viscous globule in my hands. I impose my will on the glass, shaping and pressing it like I’m kneading bread dough. A part of me misses the specialized tools I had access to back home, or even in Vicario’s shop, but there’s something primal about using my bare hands.

I kneel down. As before, I fall into a creative trance. The sensations of the world around me fade away as I work. No more do I hear the songs of the birds trilling in the trees, nor the soft sigh of grass swishing around me as the wind caresses my face. The sun’s warmth is subsumed in the fiery intensity of my [Heat Manipulation]. The contour of the soft dirt below my knees falls away from my consciousness.

I am alone with my glass, holding the image of the blade that is to be firmly in my mind. All is heat and light, smooth surfaces and sharp edges. I am the conductor guiding the orchestra of creation. As the hours pass by, I remake the knife in exacting detail, working well into the night not out of necessity, but desire. Taking my time to get every detail perfect just feels right.

I pause only to gnaw on a dried apple slice and to heat up a stack of sticks I’d prepped in case I did need a fire; as the temperature rises precipitously, they burst into flame, illuminating my project so I can see better. Even with the compositional analysis of [Architect of Unseen Worlds], the extra light is helpful. I never want to create something blind again if I can help it; crafting the key back in the cell in the Silaraon barracks was the most nerve-wracking thing I’ve ever done. If anything had gone wrong, I wouldn’t have been able to see it or fix it, and I only had one shot at escape.

I force my focus back on the present, swallow the last of the apple slice, and sink back into the act of creation. Once again, I’m insensate to the physical world surrounding me. Glass is all. I revel in the work, lost in time. . . .

With a blink, I sit up, breaking the spell. The fire is burning low, and I can barely see the glass in front of my face anymore. I send a pulse of mana into the coals, flaring them back to life as the heat washes over them. With a triumphant grin, I finish the last act of shaping the knife. It glitters in the firelight, and I nod in satisfaction at the gleaming, cobalt-blue edge.

I examine it for flaws, inspecting it with as much precision as I can muster. This second iteration—no, this is my third knife, I remind myself, including the one I gave Vicario—is finally what I’ve been looking for all along. I’m excited to see if it will hold the mana required for the next step in the process.

With my enhanced mana control, I interlace the strands of mana three at a time, forming an elegant patchwork that actually looks like a lattice instead of a formless glob of energy. I clamp down on my excitement; the surge of adrenaline is making my hands shake. I realize that drawing out tendrils of mana is not so different from pulling cane with glass. It takes practice and a steady hand, but it’s not overly complex. Holding that analogy firmly in mind accelerates the process, and I feel more certain than ever that I am on the right track.

I feed my mana into the blade, opening my channels and pouring in as much power as I can spare. I set the glass blade in the fire for warmth, but it’s largely symbolic. My first Skill is keeping it warm with magic. I focus on maintaining my [Heat Manipulation] so that it will run all night and keep the heat up, rather than relying on banking the fire. Once the knife anneals, then I’ll see if my mana soaking is bearing any fruit, but I already know that it’s far better than my previous attempts. If this isn’t true mana-imbuing, well, it’s not far off, either.

I’m hopeful that the blade will come out stronger and sharper than normal. It’s a simple, straightforward task, but it’s harder than it sounds. My mind whirls as I imagine possibilities for the future, such as creating a mana repository in the blade so that it can store a condensed and more potent charge of my [Heat Manipulation], for example. If the knife bursts into flames in a fight, searing my target, whether man or monster, then that could turn the tides.

With a wry chuckle, I focus on building up my skills one step at a time. I’m not powerful enough for that kind of masterwork, not yet. Dreams are fun to indulge. Sometimes I revisit the notes I made about weaponizing glass way back in my early days. I still like my bomb idea, although the rest are still out of reach. I’m a long way off from using Skills like [The Eternal Forge: Extended Reach] to force gruesome vitrification on my enemies. I’ll start small and build up my foundation.

=+=-

When morning’s rosy fingers pull back the dark, velvet curtain of night, I’m instantly aware of two uncomfortable facts: First, my head is pounding from the worst mana-deficient headache I have ever felt in my life. Second, a bird pooped on my face during the night. The white goop is dried and crusted on my face.

Nonetheless, these trifles are insufficient to dampen my enthusiasm about my knife.

I untie myself from the tree, scamper down to the ground, and retrieve my prize from the dying embers of the fire pit. Thankfully, the grassy knoll didn’t light on fire during the night, or I’d be in trouble, I think with a bit of chagrin as I cradle my masterpiece in my hands.

The blade is as wide as two fingers, and a little longer than my hand. As much as I might prefer fancy shapes, such as stylized leaf-blades, this time I restrained myself. Folding the glass into an elaborate form seems like too much work while I’m on the road, so I’ve eschewed any indulgences in favor of functional design.

My only nod to fashion was infusing the glass batch with cobalt, giving the blade a telltale blue sheen. I don’t know why I was attracted to that particular color, but it just seemed right in the moment. Perhaps I’ll experiment with manganese or chromium in the future, since suffusing the frame with mana is more important than the material composition. I’m not sure which type of glass will hold the most mana, but I make a note in my journal for future testing. If I can increase efficiency in the mana transfer, then the end result will likely improve.

With a pulse of willpower, I snuff out any remaining coals, ensuring that my exuberance won’t set any forest fires after I’m gone. My [Heat Manipulation] may be getting stronger, but I’m not going to be able to douse a raging firestorm from leagues away. I’m not sure anyone could do that prior to the third Threshold, and even then, it’s the kind of incredible display that you only hear about in legends. I’m not ever going to reach that level.

I pack up my supplies so that I’m ready for the road, but before I depart, I want to test my shiny new toy. I glance around, mark out a nearby sapling about as big around as my wrist, and place the glass blade against the bark. The length of the knife’s edge is more than enough to cover the diameter of the tree; if the knife is as sharp as I hope, then I can slice through the entire thing in a single slash.

My breath hitches in my chest before I begin the informal sharpness test, and I swallow hard to steady myself. It will either work, or it won’t. I have more glass. I have more ideas of how I can iterate and improve. So why am I so nervous?

Before I can think about it any further, I push on the knife. It cuts through the tree with a bare minimum of resistance, snagging only on the heartwood for a single heartbeat. I apply a little more pressure, and then it’s through. I dodge the falling trunk, laughing at myself for cutting it at a bad angle, although it’s a slender sapling and wouldn’t have hurt me too badly if it hit my head.

I run my thumb over the sundered edges. The blade sliced through the tree so cleanly that it almost appears that I sanded down the surface of the cut. I still need to find a larger branch, preferably of hardwood instead of the soft sapling, in order to test the cutting properties against a target of greater difficulty. But for now, I’m satisfied.

I slide the knife into the top of my carrying pouch where it’s in easy reach, taking care beforehand to wrap it in a tough layer of treated leather for safety. I shake my head in wonderment at its keen edge. I’ll have to be careful not to lose a finger while wielding my new weapon.

Part of me wants to set up camp here again for the day and begin work immediately on creating a second knife. I can learn from my mistakes, make minor improvements, and end up with an even more impressive result. I can probably make a tidy sum off selling this knife—if I’m lucky, it will even cover the entrance fee for the competition.

I waver for a few minutes, caught between my excitement at trying out new techniques again, and the voice of reason that says I should scope out the situation in Grand Ile as soon as possible. For once in my life, I don’t overthink it. With a final wistful glance at my campsite, I set off walking again.

The next two days pass uneventfully. Even though I am off the side of the road, hidden in the thick grasses, I’m seeing more travelers on the road. Their presence makes me hesitant to try to craft another knife right now. If I slip away into a fog of artistry again, I’m vulnerable.

I’m running low on supplies, however, so I decide to stop at the next village I reach to fill up on food. I’ll also be able to check a map and determine how much farther I have to go to reach Grand Ile.

I have to be getting close, but I haven’t seen the shift in terrain that I expected. It’s all still an occasional stand of sparse forests breaking up the monotony of the open plains. Every few hours, the ground swells into a gently rolling hill. I haven’t run into raging rivers and sheer, twisted cliffs, so I haven’t entered the Howling Gorge region just yet. That’s the region where Grand Ile is located, if I remember the brief geography lesson Ezio imparted after finding out how shameful my education was in that area.

On the third day after I created my glass knife, I hear the roar of rushing water up ahead. My shuffling, lagging steps speed up, and I jog around the bend in anticipation of finally seeing a landmark I recognize. The glint of sunlight reflects off a mighty river churning through a canyon just ahead, and I skid to a stop. The drop off from level grassland to rocky ravine is so abrupt that it looks like a giant cut the land in half with an ax.

Whitecaps and the ceaseless drone of angry water warn me that the river’s current is beyond my mediocre swimming ability. I glance back and forth, searching for a bridge, but none is readily apparent from my vantage point a few dozen paces off the main road. I’m still feeling too nervous to march openly on the roads, although it’s probably overly cautious since I’ve been stopping at villages along the way. My secrecy isn’t very consistent, I suppose. I’m not used to being a sneak!

The road turns sharply to the right, heading downstream, so I shrug and follow the path. It occurs to me that I’ll have to leave my concealment in order to cross a bridge, anyway. So, in a brazen move, I strut down the center of the road in plain view of anyone watching. I might as well get myself acclimated to the idea now, instead of acting strange and secretive when it’s time to cross a bridge.

Finding the bridge takes most of the day. The crossing itself is trivial, since it's a massive, arched walkway wide enough for multiple wagons. I still don’t understand why the trade route goes to the river, and then detours down to the bridge for another half a day of traveling, however. Why not adjust the road so it’s all in a straight shot? I grumble to myself.

Dusk is falling as I finally approach the sleepy town on the other side of the river, but the last rays of sunlight are still enough to see by. The town gates are a few minutes ahead. They’re still wide open, so I won’t have to try to sneak over the sharpened wood palisades. I pick up my pace to make sure I arrive before they shut.

I’m in good spirits, whistling as I walk. I can’t wait to find an inn and take a bath. I hope they’re used to smelly travelers, I think to myself, chuckling at the thought of them expelling me until I dunk myself in a public bath. I doubt it will come to that. Money overcomes almost every obstacle, in my experience.

Faint screams reach my ears from up ahead. I dig my feet into the road, coming to a halt—I’ve unconsciously started jogging in my excitement about a bath and sleeping in a real bed—but now I’m wary of rushing into an unknown situation. What’s going on? Is the town under attack? While I’m standing there in the middle of the road, frozen in indecision, an odd red creature darts out across the dirt road ahead of me.

My mind stutters, refusing to recognize what’s in front of my eyes. I blink and shake my head, but the honest to goodness monster doesn’t go away. It’s a Crimson Crab, like the ones I ran from in the Rift with Tem. What’s it doing in the middle of the road, far from any Rift?

I move forward until I’m in range for [Heat Manipulation], drawing heat into myself and freezing the ground beneath the crab. Its movements grow sluggish with the blast of chilling air, and it can’t escape when I draw my knife.

I lunge forward, cleaving its head in two with the blue blade I created. I kick the body off the road and sprint toward the village. Terrified townsfolk stream out of the gates, yelping in fear, as a flood of the Crimson Crabs skitter out behind them.

My hands are shaking in terror, but I don’t stop running. Everything in me screams to turn around and flee, to save myself, but I push onward anyway. I’ve fought them before. I have a weapon that will carve through their hard carapaces. I have a way to slow them en masse, or cook them in their shells, with the duality of [Heat Manipulation]. Turning away means condemning innocent people to death.

So I run past the mothers and fathers clutching their children. I run past the terrified pet dogs fleeing the sharp pincers of predatory monsters. I run straight into the swarm, sucking in all the heat and freezing the monsters where they stand.

My knife flashes cobalt in the dusky gloom as it descends. When I raise the weapon for the next strike, the knife gleams crimson. I baptize my new blade in blood.