I’m not scheduled to meet with the [Mimic Mage] until after the first glass submission for the upcoming contest is due. This week’s trial run is only stage one, the preliminary round in the competition, but I’m still nervous. Lady Evershed is expressly forbidden from giving me inside information about what the judges are looking for, so I’m on my own from here on out. The best she can do for me is to stress the general requirements they’re prioritizing: creativity, aesthetic refinement, technical excellence and craftsmanship, and general functionality.

“You’re sure you’re sure?” Lady Evershed asks again, pausing from her accounting at the front desk in her shop. She sniffs, sets down her leather-bound, ink-stained ledger, and levels a pointed look at me that I’ve come to know all too well in the last week. “You won’t get a second chance.”

“I get it. You think my idea is terrible,” I say accusingly. I pick up a spare metal rod and brandish it about like she uses her cane, copying her voice and scowling at her. “Young man, you’re welcome to sabotage your career on your own time, not when you’re representing my name to the world.”

Lady Evershed cups a hand to her ear and leans toward me. “What’s that I hear? Wise words from Zebulun? I’m glad my arguments have finally gotten through to you.”

“Oh, c’mon! That’s not fair. A coin press is a perfect introduction to my skill set,” I insist. “Thematic, intricate, ambitious.”

“Ambitious,” she repeats. Her lips twist into a thin line of distaste. “It’s downright asinine. They’ll laugh you out of the shop, assuming you even get halfway through the project. Without your Skills, you’ll never finish that monstrosity in time.”

I cross my arms, glaring at her across the chalk sketch of my design I’ve outlined across the cement floor in the hot shop. As a nod to Grand Ile’s unique financial independence and proud history of minting their own coins, I’ve elected to make a scale model of a working coin press. I’m not sure why anyone would choose glass as a medium for a press, but that’s why I’m certain that the judges will find my entry fascinating.

She thinks I’m insane; I’m not willing to budge. So, here we are arguing in the studio, at loggerheads once more.

“Perhaps if you had time to build components beforehand, then you could make this plan work,” she says by way of a peace offering.

I roll my eyes. We have to build everything we submit for the competition in the hot shop alongside the other competitors. Lady Evershed knows this, because she’s the one who told me about it. For the entire day, we’ll all be under the strict supervision of the judges, so I won’t be able to build the pieces here and then assemble it all after the fact. Initially, I’d hoped to be able to get ahead of schedule and make a few of the bulkier pieces of my project in Lady Evershed’s studio, but it seems like that's an impossible dream.

“Changing up my artistic vision at the last second for a contest is difficult. It feels like I’m somehow compromising my integrity,” I say, punching the end of my left arm into the palm of my right hand. Why won’t she understand how important this is to me?

“I hate that phrase,” Lady Evershed says, wrinkling her nose like she bit into a lemon. “Your ‘artistic vision’ is limiting you. Why not just say that you’re stubborn? If you don’t change tactics, you’ll be out of ideas and out of luck both!”

“This isn’t CnC,” I protest weakly. “I can’t just play a different deck, or swap territory, and hope that I’ll make a comeback to win a difficult game.”

“Then I suggest you formulate a plan.” The frosty finality in Lady Evershed’s tone brooks no further disagreement.

I nod tightly, and we put aside our differences for the moment. Over the next two days until the competition, I practice the exact steps I'm going to take on competition day, ensuring that I'll be able to move as smoothly and quickly as possible despite missing a hand. I'll likely still be the slowest contestant regardless of what I do to prepare, but I'm hoping to mitigate my race against the clock a little bit by preparing my designs in advance.

The closer we get to the day of the preliminary round, however, the more I start to second-guess my choices. Perhaps I should have tried something less ambitious to start, something involving only a single piece and less complex textures, but at this point I’m too far invested. I’m too stubborn to admit that Lady Evershed is right, so I keep my doubts to myself.

I sigh. Getting the colors and the look authentic is no small feat. Judges like ingenuity, but unfulfilled ambition usually earns harsh marks. They want to see what I can actually do, not listen to me ramble on about what I’d planned to do, or what I might have been able to do in the past with another hand. I can't work past nightfall during competition day. We have to put all our tools down, or else we'll be disqualified. With only one hand, completing this complex piece in a single day of studio work is a terrifying prospect. I hope that I’m up to the challenge.

The fear of failure trails me like a hunting dog throughout the rest of my practice, and I'm starting to feel like a cornered hare. I shrug it off. I’m not about to give up, though it’s difficult to believe that I’m going to stand out from the crowd. Or, rather, that I’ll stand out for the right reasons. I’m fairly certain that I’ll get disparaging looks and nasty comments about my lack of a hand and my lack of Skills. I want to be treated like any other applicant, not like a circus sideshow.

I steel my resolve. There’s only one way forward. Respect must be earned.

=+=

When the day of the preliminary round finally arrives, Baryl greets us outside the door of Lady Evershed’s shop, waving at us with an uncertain smile. For once, he’s taken the time to clean himself up. Gone is his grease-stained vest, swapped out his outfit for a smartly-creased linen suit. He’s brushed his hair and washed his cheeks, which makes him seem younger, somehow. Rather than a miniature street tough, he looks like a quiet, insecure first-year student at the SCA. Overall, his styling is downright respectable, although something tells me that if I draw too much attention to his appearance, then he’ll be embarrassed.

He sidles up to me and presses a chipped little figurine into my hand, then glances away shyly. His words tumble out in a soft, earnest whisper. “Go win that competition against all the big shots and riversiders, Zeb. I brought you my favorite good luck charm to tip the scales in your favor. Little ole Xandur keeps me safe when I'm scared on the streets. I hope he’ll help you if you get nervous, too.”

I bend down and take the tiny, faded statuette from my ever watchful young friend. With a solemn nod, I pocket the present, then pat my cloak where I've hidden the good luck charm away. “With Xandur on my side, I can't lose. Thank you, Baryl.”

I straighten up and wave. He bobs his head, then scurries off and disappears around the corner before we can pull him into a longer conversation. I note with amusement that somehow Lady Evershed found the time to slip him a piece of candy before he departed. She’s as adroit at sleight of hand as the pickpockets Baryl knows.

“Looks like you've made a friend,” Lady Evershed says dryly.

“So have you,” I reply in as cheery a tone as I can muster. We share a look and chuckle, breaking some of the tension I’m carrying over the competition.

Her carriage pulls up to the bridge on the other side of the river that forms the boundary to her shop, saving me from further discussions about our little friend. I don’t do small talk well when I’m nervous like this. I offer Lady Evershed my arm, and she leans on me for support as we make our way across the wooden footbridge toward the fancy black and gold gilt carriage.

“I’m surprised you didn’t elect to decorate your carriage in white and gold, like the ivory walls you’re so fond of,” I tease her as we sink into the luxurious, padded seats.

“Don’t be daft,” she says in a voice so acerbic it could etch metal. “Only the ruling family is allowed to use those colors.”

“But I’m using them for my glass submission. Won’t that be a problem?” I ask, confused why she didn’t bring it up during our earlier discussions.

“Of course not. They don’t know—or care—who you are. You aren’t parading around the city in a nobility’s carriage of your own. They know me, though, and I wouldn’t be so stupid as to encroach on their territory,” Lady Evershed says.

I clam up after she points out the differences between us. Despite the touching moment to start the adventure, our drive across town to the studio where I’ll compete is silent as I give in to a moment of despondency. I know that I should be more grateful for the chance to put my skills on display, particularly after all I’ve been through to get to this point, but I’m having a tough time not feeling down. I’m just a nobody. I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

And if I crash and burn before I can finish my project, then I’ll have sabotaged the best chance I’ve ever gotten.

“I’m sorry about not listening to your suggestions,” I say quietly, leaning my head against the glass carriage window. “I should have taken your advice—what’s the point of accepting you as a teacher, but not heeding your counsel? If I fail today, it’s because I let my ego spiral out of control.”

Lady Evershed barks out a laugh. “Hardly. If you fail today, Zebulun, it’s because the others were better with glass. That’s it. Don’t be so melodramatic.”

All too soon, we reach the end of the cobblestone streets, which terminate in a colorful barricade of flowers between the paved streets and waterways. We disembark the privacy of the carriage and join an ever-growing throng of businessmen and sightseers walking through the maze of public gardens.

I wish Silaraon had more spaces like this. This is nice. I inhale, savoring the scent of flowers in the air as we queue up. We’re all waiting to board one of the many small boats that will ferry us through the waterways to our destination: some for fun, and others for business.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

This is my last chance to hide, I muse. I’m just another face in the crowd right now. One unremarkable man amongst a million other people—someone the Grand Ile nobility neither knows nor cares about. But once we enter the studio, I’ll be under intense scrutiny. My life, my skills, my vision for the world, all on display. Am I ready?

Wrestling with the question in my mind, I follow Lady Evershed onto a fancy gondola and wedge myself in the corner, away from prying eyes. I stare up into a pale blue sky streaked with high, wispy clouds. Skimming across the water is captivating, particularly in a city flush with bold architecture and a proliferation of magnificent gardens. Today, though, I barely pay attention to the sights and sounds, too caught up in the anxiousness of the upcoming competition.

We pull up to the island where the studio is located, scraping the sand bar as we dock and clamber out. I turn my head to take in my first sight of the place where I’ll be competing for the next few months, assuming I pass the prelims today, and my throat tightens up with a fresh case of nerves.

The hot shop is housed in a former warehouse, from what Lady Evershed explained, but it’s far larger than I anticipated. I never had time to scope out the location of the competition, so it’s all new to me, and I’m more intimidated than I thought I would be. Dozens of young men and women mill about in the courtyard, preparing to put their best work forward for the competition, and I find my confidence waning the longer I stare at the assorted crowd.

Lady Evershed places her hand on my shoulder, startling me. She squeezes gently and offers me a rare smile of encouragement. “You belong out there, Zebulun. Don't give up now that you made it to the starting line.”

“Someone once told me not to trip over the finish line,” I say with a quiet chuckle. “I suppose the same is true of the starting line. Come to think of it, I keep picturing myself as closer to the end than to the beginning, but maybe that's holding me back. Just because it's been a long journey to get here doesn’t mean that I’ve actually accomplished anything of note yet. The real work starts now, doesn’t it? I better get a grip before I disqualify myself.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lady Evershed says. Her voice is warm and rich with approval as we march off the quay and make our way toward the massive double doors of the converted old brick building. “Let's get situated. I’ll introduce you.”

Inside, the warehouse stretches on in a seemingly endless expanse. High ceilings held up by enormous wooden beams, darkened with age and smoke, are punctuated by huge, oval skylights, through which spills the amber splendor of the morning sun. Even though I know I'm inside, the lofty heights and vast stretches of open space littered with workbenches provide the sensation of standing outside in the sunlight. Only the gleaming, industrial metal truss works break up the illusion.

I’m itching to begin on my submission, but no one is allowed to work yet. First, we’re all funneled toward a registration table, where a thin, spry-looking elderly man in a dapper pinstripe suit greets competitors one by one. He takes down their names and provides contestants with a token bearing identity and workbench number.

The workbenches themselves are arrayed in circles of eight, each equidistant from a central set of furnaces, which rise from the floor of the warehouse like giant, dome-shaped beehives. The pleasant smell of smoke and heat hangs heavy and redolent in the air, and my heart begins to quicken with the familiar sensation of a hot shop bustling with life and purpose and the invitation to create something new.

The grey-haired man behind the registration table sighs when he sees Lady Evershed, a flash of irritation on his face. He schools his expressions and rises from his seat, taking her wrinkled hand and kissing it delicately. “Ah, my dear, always a pleasure to enjoy your sharp wit and, ah, shall we say, bracing company!”

I snicker. Watching his reaction amuses me to no end. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who finds her presence by turns exasperating, instructive, and entertaining. She arches a single brow at him, then turns to look at me with an imperious gaze. I shut my mouth so hard my teeth click together, and I meekly take my token and step back.

“Next!” The man calls out in the bored, casually authoritative way that all bureaucrats seem to have mastered. He doesn’t spare me a second glance.

I take the hint and shuffle forward, looking at my token to figure out where I'm heading next. The warehouse is divided into sections marked off by glyphs, numbers, and names. My cohort is about a third of the way down on the left, if I’m reading the directions correctly. I am in the second cluster of workbenches. My name, to my surprise, is not the last in the list. A girl named Zephyr just edges me out for that dubious honor. I wonder briefly if her name is a fake as well, but of course I'm not going to rat myself out by asking if we’re both hiding something.

Once everyone is checked in, and we've had a chance to review our workbenches and tools, the head judge announces a countdown to the competition. His baritone voice is magically enhanced, easily broadcast throughout the warehouse via unseen scriptwork that amplifies the sound without being overbearingly loud or blaring.

He reiterates the basic rules for our review, and reminds us that more comprehensive terms and stipulations will be posted in the break rooms for our perusal during the lunch hour. As though that’s supposed to be exciting reading material. I zone out until he finishes his speech and wishes us well. I roll my shoulders, take one last look at my nearest competitors, who are staring at my missing hand like it’s the strangest thing they've ever seen in a glass studio, and spring into action as soon as the starting bell rings out.

=+=

“Come on, melt faster,” I urge the glass, leaning down to whisper little words of encouragement despite the blistering heat. I know my coaxing doesn't actually do anything, but as I wipe away the heavy drops of sweat beading on my forehead with the sleeve of my left arm, I find that I don't really care about the odd looks I’m getting. Let them stare all they want. It will make victory all the sweeter.

Assuming I can actually finish, of course. I survey my progress with a frustrated groan. We’re breaking for lunch in half an hour, and I’m only halfway through the gearbox and lever that will raise and lower the press. I’m saving the boxy foundation and side walls of the coin press for last, hoping that I can use the kiln over lunch to anneal the moving parts first.

I narrow my focus, cutting off as much of my perception of the world around me as I can. The other competitors keep giving me funny looks as I craft glass without using a single Skill. I’m doing my best to block them out, but I’ve heard more than a few nasty comments about my mysterious approach. It doesn't bother me as much as I feared; Lady Evershed has prepared me well. I don't care about young, would-be artists who won't make it out of the preliminary stages. Besides, I don't have to win the entire competition outright in this first round. All I have to do is show that I belong, and the rest will take care of itself.

A short while later, when the lunch bell chimes, I don’t move from my spot. I’m too busy working to worry about what’s in my belly. I’ll need this time to catch up if I’m going to finish the intricate gear work that goes inside the coin press. Once it’s all complete, the plan is that pulling on the lever on the side will engage the gears and lower a glass plate etched with the likeness of a full size Grand Ile gold coin, pressing down on a little blob of freshly-molten glass to leave behind an impression.

“Can't stay during lunch. Not allowed, even if you're behind,” a gruff voice says, startling me and almost making me drop the glass I’m working on.

“I'm not hungry,” I protest, looking up to meet the narrowed eyes of a stern-faced man in a long black robe. “There's still so much work to do—can’t you just supervise to make sure that I'm following the rules?”

“No, because allowing you to continue working is inherently against the rules, Zebulun. Yes, I know precisely who you are. Letting you work would constitute an unfair advantage, and you know as well as I do that I can't show a hint of favoritism given your backing.” The judge turns to go, hesitates, and turns back with a thin smile. “A word of advice? I haven’t the faintest idea what you're making, but you may want to consider scaling back the design. You're running out of time. I’d hate for a talented worker to miss the next round because of a miscalculation.”

I bow stiffly, and set down my tools. Leaving the workbench alone while the glass is still hot hurts my soul a little, but I wasn’t too far into the next step yet. In an hour, I’ll be right back where I started. Maybe I’ll even feel a little better after eating and clearing my mind.

I jog across the cavernous warehouse floor, following the posted signs to my cohort’s break room. I ignore the curious glances at my left arm from the other [Glass Workers], and survey the fresh, hot food platter with curiosity. I’d expected we’d be given shop slop to eat, but the savory roasted vegetables and steaming, spiced rice actually seems appetizing. My stomach growls as I pile it on my plate, and let out a wry chuckle at its sudden betrayal. Maybe taking a break is a good idea, after all.

With a plate of food balanced on my left arm, my right hand clutching onto the edge for security, I shuffle around until I find a spot in the corner where I can eat in relative peace. Once again, I block out the buzz of conversation around me, fighting off a building tension headache as I consider my options to finish on time.

I can’t finish the rest in the few hours I have left. There are too many moving parts if I insist on making the gears functional. They’ll never anneal in time. I rap my knuckles against the table, wracking my brain for a new idea. Nothing springs to mind immediately, however. I discard a few half-formed impulses, then slump back in my seat.

“Might as well eat,” I mutter to myself. “I’m not getting anywhere right now.” I scarf down the piping hot food, burning my tongue in the process. I suck in air between my clenched teeth, find a cup of water, and swish it around in my mouth. My old friend, [Heat Manipulation], feels out of reach today thanks to the tattered state of my channels. As I swallow another cupful of cold water, I wish I could rely on my first Skill to avoid something as silly as burning my mouth.

Food out of the way, I drop off the plate on a rack, find a seat, and shove my hand in my pocket while I think. My fingers brush the little statue Baryl gave me, and I smile at the thought of his sincerity. On a whim, I pull his little friend Xandur out of my pocket. The cracked, faded old statue clinks against something on the way out. I set it on the table, dig around in my pocket, and pull out an official Grand Ile coin.

“Ha! Maybe you are good luck,” I say to Xandur with a wink. I don’t have to finish the gears. Perhaps they can simply be decorative if I find another way to incorporate the theme.

Excitement building, I move on to the next stage in the iteration process. I glance around the bustling room, locate a freshly-printed, off-white poster with the comprehensive rules for the competition hanging near the doorway, and mosey on over to confirm a question. As I thought, the official rules don’t disallow outside props. They only mention that non-glass adornments for our entries may not compose more than one-tenth of the final project.

I hold up the glittering gold coin, toss it up in front of my eyes, and snatch it out of the air. A slow, crooked grin spreads on my face. Instead of “minting” a coin for the judges by pressing on the lever and imprinting hot glass, I’ll take the easy way out and simply put a real coin on the press. I won’t even take the time to make a glass facsimile, although that would surely show off some of my finesse work. The rest of the press will still look fairly convincing, since I made sure it’s built to scale. That will have to be enough.

I nod to myself, warming to the idea. The judges can still see the quality of my work and the exact control I have over the shapes and edges. Every single piece I’ve done so far today is perfect, even though they took a lot longer to make than I’d like. I’m willing to put the technical aspects of my glass work against anyone in the vast studio. Perhaps others have fancy Skills, but I have talent, dedication, and an exceptional teacher. That will have to be enough.

By the time the bell announces the end of the lunch hour, I’m bouncing on my toes by the break room door. I take off in a sprint, barreling through the corridor and into the main hall as fast as my legs will carry me. It feels incredible to run again, after hobbling for a few weeks after my fateful encounter with the Rift, and I laugh with the sheer joy of pouring all my heart and soul into my craft.

I snatch up my tools, remove the batch of glass from the furnace, and get back to work on a trimmed down version of the coin press. It won’t be as fancy or as ambitious as I’d initially planned, but it will be done on time. I hope Lady Evershed will approve.

The hours blur together as I work. The coin press comes together more slowly than I’d like, but by the time the final bell chimes to announce the end of the preliminary round, my work is done. I put my tools down, step away from the bench, and present the finished piece to the judge with a tired smile.

“Well, I did my best,” I croak out reedily, my throat dry from the hours by the hot furnace, and he nods at me in acknowledgement.

I did my best. That will have to be enough.