"Nuri! Need casing help at workbench three.”
Ember’s voice crackles above the din of stamping feet and shuffled rods. I salute in her direction, wincing at the discomfort in my shoulder. I’m still recovering from the bite I sustained a few days ago, but thankfully the jaguar’s teeth weren’t necrotic like their claws. Lionel’s Aunt, Althea, says I’ll be back to normal within another week or so. In the meantime I’m helping out with light, less-demanding tasks around the hot shop so I don’t reinjure myself wrestling with the full loads of glass before I’m cleared for more physically challenging work.
Clapping her calloused hands to get everyone’s attention, Ember ignites her Skills to fire up the furnaces. I brace in anticipation of the inevitable wash of prickling discomfort across my body as the various furnace fires quicken from deep crimson to pure gold, and then burst into shimmering whites and cobalt blues too dazzling to stare at directly. The fires are mesmerizing, blazing with glory, an intoxicating and furious display of power that I hope to one day seize for myself. Maybe I’ll gain a flame Skill, like Avelina, or—
“Nuri! Any day now,” Ember repeats, chuckling at my distraction.
The pleasant dream breaks, bringing me back to reality. I tense up as I slam back into the present and nod in Ember’s direction, sauntering off toward workbench three. She rolls her eyes at me for daydreaming again, and I pick up the pace. As usual, there’s so much to be done that she can’t spare a moment from the work to scold me.
I join the Lina twins at the third workstation in the glass studio. Like me, they’re both wearing matching, alchemically-treated leather aprons today, but that’s where the similarities between them end. Tangle-haired and with the proverbial dancing eyes of a born mischief-maker, Avelina is too volatile to work with anyone but her sister, Melina. Still, she’s surprisingly good at evocation, applying an expert stream of liquid fire from the first fingertip on her right hand. She flashes me a knowing grin, happily showing off her [Flameworker] Class and its profusion of fire-related Skills. She might not be as talented at glasswork as her twin sister is, or as I am for that matter, but she’s certainly better suited to melting, burning, and breathing fire. Nice girl, if obsessive about general mayhem and destruction.
Her twin, Melina, the younger by less than five minutes, looks nothing like Avelina. Taller than her fireplug of a twin, with long hair so pale it seems white like the first frost, Melina is all angular and earnest where her sister is quicksilver and undeniable feminine allure. Never fancy enough to put on airs, she wears her hair pulled back in a single plain ponytail, eschewing the complex black weaves of her sister. Far from severe, however, she simply loves glass and doesn’t care about much else. Her mind and hands are far more adroit than ours, and we all know it. There’s a reason she’s our youngest [Gaffer] ever, and her list of Skills is as daunting as her sister’s, if a bit less hazardous to my health.
Melina ignores both my arrival and Avelina’s smug grin, too intent on her glasswork to allow herself to be sidetracked by taunting and studio politics. She masterfully turns a new layer of cream-colored glass over a gather of sea-foam green, decorating a vase that I recognize as a matching set for Lord Anzor, rival to Lord Garman and magistrate of the villages on the opposite side of Silaraon. Her entire body thrills, rising to the challenge of the work, and she soon finishes the relatively simple casing without my help.
Not missing a beat, she motions toward the nearest furnace, and I finally get a chance to do something to assist. I bring over a pre-prepped, glowing, elongated orb of glass that looks like spun gold, cradling it directly in my hands thanks to [Heat Manipulation].
“Showing off, Nuri?” Avelina mimics clapping politely. “It's fun to see you embrace your magic.”
“It’s certainly freeing,” I admit.
Melina beckons me to help. I let the molten glass stretch down until the soft, malleable glass kisses the edge of the goblet Melina’s making. She turns it at an even pace, expertly wrapping a spiral around the creation. With a soft sigh, she holds it up to the light, examining her handiwork, and nods in satisfaction.
“Thanks for the assist! I think that’s a wrap for this one, Nuri,” Melina says. Her faint smile deepens the rusty hues of her cheeks. "Ember must have things well in hand if she can spare one of the most talented glassworkers in the studio to help me."
Melina continues to chat while she holds the scorching vase suspended mid-air above her left palm, where it shifts color and solidifies, then anneals at rapid speeds.
I try not to gawk at her combination Skills in action, which she fused together after achieving her First Threshold. She has earned an exceedingly rare localized time compression Skill, [In the Blink of an Eye], plus [Lesser Object Manipulation] to go along with the much-sought-after [Flawless Annealing]. By sheer force of will, she’ll finish the entire project faster than most of the senior [Crafters].
Melina pats my shoulder. “Another batch? I have more orders to fulfill, and I’m not keen on dawdling today.”
Avelina laces her hands together and leans forward, her eyebrows drawn up in mock surprise. “Oh? Special plans I should know about, sister?”
“Yes, I have plans. No, they’re none of your business,” Melina replies without stopping her annealing process. She gestures toward the crucible with her chin, while her hands wave in vague patterns in the air, directing her magic. “Appreciate the help. Next batch, Nuri?”
“Shop assistant at your service!” Throwing a salute, I dutifully trot over to the crucible, amused that I’ve been turned into a delivery boy during my convalescence. It’s refreshing to go back to the basics, without any pressure. Or paperwork. That is a blessing and a half.
After I ensure the glass is just the right elasticity and temperature, malleable and ready for her work, I drop off the next batch with Melina and help her complete the rest of her orders. With no other instructions, I return to the crucible to make myself useful with small tasks that don’t bother my shoulder too badly.
I catch Ember’s eye from across the studio, point toward the crucible, and tap my chest. She gives me a slight nod, so I relieve the current worker, who’s only too glad to take a break. Just like that, it’s my turn for crucible duty. The simple work doesn’t stretch my skills or let me show off, but it’s a good way to pass the time quietly. An hour later, my gaze wanders over to the studio clock to check how long until lunch break. I’m getting bored, and I want to go read my adventure books and relax.
As I prep the next batch of glass, my thoughts wander back to my father. In the early days, just after he passed away, the old-timers told me fantastical stories. Most of the older [Gaffers] have moved on to retirement by now. Or, like my father, they have ascended beyond the skies—or so I hope, shaking off the faint chill of dread that accompanies thinking of death. From their tales, I know my father never shied away from grunt work, so I keep working as an homage to him.
Cracking my knuckles, I pry open the threefold metal door to the crucible and get to work turning the metal rod. I gather up a viscous clump of red-gold glass, flowing like honey, and hand it off to the first [Assistant Gaffer] in line. Many of them prefer to prepare their own glass, but in our studio we usually have someone permanently working the crucible, freeing up the younger assistants to ply the trade before they’ve developed the necessary Skills. Most of the senior crafters already have some variation of [Heat Control] or [Flametouch], so they don’t need to return to the physical furnaces unless they’re feeling nostalgic.
The other workers all trust the composition and consistency of my batches of glass. Wryly, I note that this is the most like an assistant I’ve been in years, so it’s fitting for my class. “Assistant” no longer bothers me the way that it used to. I’ve been on the other side of the scale, and the weight of responsibility involved in administering a studio is simply another kind of drudgery. Pay is better, at least.
I take an offered steel rod from my shop mate Lionel. Freshly graduated, my longtime childhood friend is now a full fledged [Glassworker]. He and I work well together, when we’re not distracted by cracking jokes. Mindful of my orders, I shove the hollow metal rod into the mix of molten glass. He waves as he returns to his bench, a spark of good humor in his eyes. Nothing ever seems to faze him much. That’s why we’re friends.
An army of sparks from the crucible leap out to assail the dark, tight curls of my surely-soon-to-be luxurious beard. They find no purchase, since I instantly douse them with [Heat Manipulation], my increasingly useful Class Skill. Pride at how quickly I harnessed the mana of the world courses through me. I’ve had enough of fear and frustration over mana and Skills.
I’ve been an [Assistant Glassworker] for the better part of my adolescence, ever since I hit the age of eligibility to explore my magic and attempt to sense, harvest, and manipulate mana. By now, I ought to have enough Potential to gain a basic glass-making Class, but try as I might, I haven’t been able to upgrade or consolidate the Class. My entire being hums with the truth that I’m on the cusp of the First Threshold, as best as I can gauge things, with little to show for my hard work. Sure, my efforts to master the art of glasswork in its various forms have given me a strong set of general skills, roughly on par with the average senior [Gaffer], but without Skills, that’s not worth as much as it could be. I’m stuck, sure as the sun rises.
Technically, I’m as skilled with glass as anyone here—maybe even on par with Ember in her working days, back before she transitioned to administering the entire studio—but it doesn’t matter as much as it should. Without the proper Skills to enhance my work, I’m slow. Traditional. Mundane. And slow doesn’t pay the bills.
[Lampworkers] and [Shop Assistants] bustle about like worker bees, their ever-shifting shapes indistinct in the dusky half-light of the workshop. Whenever I glance behind me during a lull in the work, the edges of their forms waver as the oppressive blaze of the triple furnaces warps the air itself, until they’re nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. It’s a bustling, happy place, thrumming with the ever-present memories of hard work and familial pride.
I wince and take a break from the work as my wounds throb with pain. Gingerly stretching out my sore shoulder, I glance around the cozy, busy studio that’s been a second home to me for most of my life. Beyond the hot shop, out in the gallery, fluted vases with impossibly-thin whorls line the shelves. A variety of fanciful ornaments and practical utensils decorate the far wall, a riot of color muted by the haze of smoke and the darkness of early morning chaos.
As always, my gaze lingers on the smoky-edged, translucent black blades hanging in a cross-pattern above the front desk where customers put in their orders. Ember claims they subconsciously agree to better deals under the effects of the masterworks, but I suspect it’s a rare moment of weakness. She just wants to show off. Although made from glass, like everything else in our studio, the swords were imbued with mana upon creation by a [Master Artisan] with a rare Skill to strengthen glass until it makes steel cry in shame and envy. Light and razor-sharp, impervious to damage—they stand at the absolute pinnacle of our craft.
Hellfire and Brimstone, I’ve named them, though sometimes I wonder what my father called them. They belonged to him, originally, but they're in good hands with Ember for the time being. She’s the only one with the sword skills to wield them properly. Besides, they’re sentimental for her, since she knew my parents better than I did, and I can’t bear the thought of asking her to part with them yet.
No one seems to know the real name of the fabled [Master Artisan] who made them, although some of the [Gaffers] claim he may have been my father’s secret teacher in years gone by. One day, I vow to myself, I’ll improve enough to find the artist and impress him with my powerful Skills. He’ll take me in and train me, and I’ll take up the mantle my father prematurely set down. One day.
=+=
Silaraon and the surrounding townships are on high alert for the next few days. Guards patrol in teams of ten, and non-essential travel is forbidden until all the jaguars are accounted for, or the pack is driven away. Unlike their mundane cousins, the Shadow Jaguars hunt in pairs, and are part of a larger social structure. They aren’t solitary hunters as I had originally assumed, but strikingly canny, coordinated soldiers who prey on anything in their path.
Unfortunately for them, Ember is higher up the food chain.
She scythes through the predatory population, reaping them like wheat. For each set of claws or bloody scalp she brings back, the city pays her a bounty. She leaves Melina in charge of the studio while she pursues the offered rewards with a thoroughness and vicious joy bordering on obsession. Thankfully, she clears out the migratory population by raining down vengeance like some avatar of heavenly wrath, and the way is clear to return to my commission work in Peliharaon.
I bring the image of my father that I received for my birthday with me. When I arrive in Peliharaon and show it around, the [Gaffer] takes me aside to look at it fondly. His body shakes once with silent tears, and then he smiles.
“Might wanna hang this poster on the wall. Nice to see myself in the morning! Your father doesn’t look too bad, either,” he says with a wink.
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I give him my blessing, knowing that I’ll see the picture when I visit the shop. As much as I’d like to display it in my own cabin, the studio is only an hour from home. I’ll enjoy it while I’m working, and it means the world to the old [Gaffer] that I’m willing to share with him. We install it on the wall in a place of honor, since the image was captured during a celebration to commemorate the class of [Assistant Glassworkers] when they graduated from my father’s glass-making lessons here in the Peliharaon Glass Works.
The poster is the best surprise I’ve ever gotten. I want to stare at the image reverently every morning when I arrive for work. Belatedly, I realize that I’ve shifted my stance to copy my father’s posture and composure. In fact, I’m planning to revamp my entire outfit soon to match the picture, just so I can feel closer to him.
After I finish tallying up the sales numbers and balancing the accounts, I mosey back into the hot shop to continue Ifran’s education. He’s assisting the [Gaffer] with a series of wine glasses, cradling each finished product and depositing them in the kiln like he’s handling robin eggs. I can’t help but smile at his caution and dedication.
I wait until he completes the order to make sure I don’t startle him and break his fierce concentration. Once his hands are free, I hold out a sheaf of papers with important information for glass-workers to know. “I want you to study these directions. You’re going to learn how to make the standard batch for the team, which means you need to memorize the ratios. What are the three major components of glass?”
Surprise ripples across Ifran’s face. He stands up straight and salutes, as though I’m his commanding officer and he’s a raw recruit, which sets the other workers coughing as they try to hold in their snorts of laughter. He clears his throat and answers. “We always need silica, which comes from sand. That’s the first one. Add in flux, and then a stabilizer. Sir.”
“Nicely done. But you don’t have to call me sir,” I say, shifting uncomfortably at his term of respect. “I’m not old enough to deserve it yet.”
“Well, I sure am!” the affable [Gaffer] says, his eyes crinkling in merriment. “So, young Master Nuri. What’s on the docket for today?”
“For you? Anything you want to make. You’ve earned that right.” I pause and lock eyes with Calix, the younger and more affable of the two [Glass Workers], who has stopped working to watch the show. He groans preemptively at my steely expression. I raise my voice, barely holding back a laugh, but trying to look stern. “For everyone else? Cups and bowls, gents, cups and bowls!”
Calix groans again, but it’s only then that I realize Bijan isn’t here yet. The [Gaffer] swats him lightly on the shoulder and shrugs. “Boring, but you know it pays the bills. Ain’t too much room for creative expression, but I guess I don't mind much as long as I've got a bed to sleep in and hot food at the end of the day.”
Calix forces a smile, but he still seems miffed at me for making him do grunt work. “How about you, Nuri? Gonna hit our customers with the old razzle dazzle again?”
“Always do,” I drawl. Then I squint and look around the shop. “Anyone seen Bijan? He’s usually reliable. Is his family all right?”
“They made it out fine,” Ifran says. “I don’t think the same is true of his sister’s family, though. He might be taking care of them still.”
I draw my apprentice into a one-armed side hug, then tousle his curly hair. “Glad you’re still alive, Ifran. Your parents are well? I heard their neighbors lost a prize cow to the attack. My condolences.”
“Ha. That ornery old thing was on his last legs. He used to terrify me when I was little. No sad feelings here,” Ifran says, scowling up at me. “That dumb bull used to chase me away from their fig tree. They probably let him die so they wouldn’t have to put up with him anymore, and good riddance!”
I chuckle at his earnest dislike. “That’s one way to win sympathy, I suppose. Think they have any figs for sale? I’m hungry now.”
He scowls. “Lunch break is hours away. We have to get working. Isn’t that what you always say? ‘Idle hands are poor hands’ or something?”
“Good point. Go on, then. Fetch our errant [Glass Worker]. When you return, I have something for you,” I say.
Watching him jog out the door brings a smile to my face, but my gut clenches in sour concern. I’m not always friendly with Bijan, since he believes that I usurped his rightful position and seems to hold my authority against me, but I certainly don’t want any harm to come to his family. I hope they’re all right.
I don’t relax until Ifran returns with mixed news. On the one hand, I’m relieved to hear that Bijan is fine, but on the other, I’m heartbroken to hear that he’s been busy all week taking care of his nieces and nephews because their parents died in the attack. I’ll have to talk with Ember about increasing his pay.
Then, like a lightning bolt from a blue sky, a thought strikes me. Or maybe I should give up my position so that he can have the promotion. He needs it more than I do. My body freezes, transfixed, but I know immediately that it’s the right thing to do. So why do I feel so despondent about it?
Shaking off my mood, I dig through my bag, pull out the glass mold, and hand it to my young helper, intent on developing his skills further. “Here. I made you something. Try it out.”
Ifran scrunches up his face, staring at the mold I made for him with a quizzical, questioning look in his eyes. He turns the board in his hands to get a better look, running his fingers over the rows of ridges and grooves. He lifts it up and looks at it in profile. “Kinda looks like a mountain range. What's it for?”
“Get a little glob of glass, maybe as big as your thumb,” I instruct him, steering him toward the furnace. “Put on your apron first, just in case. You don’t want to burn yourself in your excitement to work at the bench.”
Practically twitching in anticipation, Ifran scurries over to the rack of leather work aprons. He shimmies into the smallest one, snatches up a punty, and marches over to the furnace with satisfaction writ large on his face. Every step is brimming with determination. I know that he won’t let me down.
After a batch or two of misshapen glass pieces, he starts to get the hang of it. I’m proud of his progress, but time waits for no man. The sun is setting soon, and I don’t feel like traveling in the dark after my brush with death. I send him home and depart for Silaraon, but I drag my feet as I walk. I’m leaving with a heavy heart, knowing that my time here will soon come to an end. I’ve always wanted a crown, but it’s not time yet to take the throne.
=+=
Ember accompanies me the next day to finally conduct the promised audit, which makes me worry about what she might find. Numbers aren't my forte. Although I know she already cleared out the Shadow Jaguar population, I still walk easier with her by my side. In deference to my aches and pains, she walks at a more measured pace than before, not forcing me to keep up with her demanding, Royal-army-trained standards.
Bookkeeping seems at odds with the fierce warrior, but when I watch how she handles the audit with ruthless efficiency, I see the overlap. In a way, she's better suited for administrative work because of her combat experience. The two disciplines never went together in my mind previously, but seeing how she applies her mind for strategy and tactics to paperwork and the logistics of running a business makes it all fit together.
At long last, Ember closes the books with a sigh and stands up, stretching out her hand after all the writing and cross-checking. “Only a few minor errors with your arithmetic, Nuri.”
My face starts to heat up at the perceived scolding, but she shakes her head.
“Don’t look like that. I’m impressed! Better job than I did my first year managing the finances. You have a good head for business. Normally, if I make a mistake, I take the loss out of my next pay day, since the boss should always bear the brunt before the workers. In your case, since it's your first time, and you did an admirable job overall, I will take care of the difference. You’ve done well turning the shop around and pulling a profit again.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing. I’m caught off guard by her praise.
When we're done running the numbers, she heads down to the hot shop floor and beckons for me to take up my familiar spot as her assistant. In my younger years, I might have found it insulting to be expected to do the work of an apprentice, but now I take great pride in standing at the foot of her workbench and knowing that she trusts me to get the job done right.
“Ifran, come watch. You have a chance to learn from one of the best in the business,” I call.
Bijan scoffs. “He can watch me anytime.”
Ember’s withering stare puts him in his place far more effectively than I ever could. For a brief, uncharitable moment, I consider keeping my mouth shut and not telling Ember about my recent decision to pass the control of the studio over to Bijan. For all I know, he won't even appreciate my offer, or will find it insulting and patronizing. That makes the potential sacrifice sting all the more, but if it's the right thing to do, then it's the right thing to do. Whether or not we get along shouldn't factor into the equation.
Despite his skepticism, Bijan does watch the proceedings with interest. Even the old [Gaffer] puts aside his work to watch Ember. He and Calix are better natured than Bijan at least, and they know that they can learn from a master at work. They're not too proud to listen.
Inwardly, I vow to do better when it comes to taking corrections. I don't want to be pompous and set in my ways before I'm even old enough to earn that distinction—though the old [Gaffer] certainly has avoided the prickly path of presumption that many elders adopt.
Ember turns a metal rod in the furnace, collecting a gather of molten glass. She carries it to the workbench with calm, measured steps, not hurrying like I usually do. Without a word, she holds out an open hand, and I place a water-soaked wooden block into her waiting grasp, since I know how she prefers to smooth out the imperfections and odd shapes in the gather. Using a block allows her to uniformly mold the molten glass into a spherical shape.
Steam rises in the air in curlicues. Hissing and simmering, the glass takes on the contours of the hollowed out wooden block, ensuring that it will retain a proper shape while it inflates. Before long, Ember reaches her desired size, and she takes up the jacks to shape the glass.
Pinching the base of the bulb with a pair of tweezers causes the glass to narrow as it spins on the end of the blow pipe. Ember activates a Skill to accelerate the process, and the glass compresses down into an hourglass figure in the blink of an eye. Privately, I’ve always thought her abilities mirror her personality: direct, powerful, and straight to the point. No time to waste!
She claps her hands, and the glass glows, burning with the light of the sun. I squint against the sudden glare, but my attention never wavers. I want to remind myself of every little movement and nuance of technique. She spins the rod, expanding the glass now that it’s hot enough to be malleable again, and presses the end of the glass flat with a graphite paddle to create a half-dome of glass, the curved portion stuck to the end of the blow pipe.
“Fetch me another gather, Nuri. I’m ready to build this out.”
Scurrying to obey, I rush to the furnace and return with a small punty. A glob of glowing glass clings to the end of the rod. She takes it and prescribes a circle around the flat edge of the half-dome. She picks up a smaller pair of tweezers and pinches the soft circle of new glass as she turns the rod, much like making little gathered ridges around the edge of a pie crust.
With deft, practiced strokes, she dots the hot glass onto the sides of the piece, cutting the excess off with a small pair of shears. She turns the rod until she has a dozen evenly-spaced teardrops on the outside of the original piece of glass. She examines it, muttering to herself, and nods in apparent satisfaction. The last portion of the small gather of glass she sticks to the center of the flattened base of the dome, creating a stem, which she smooths out with the flat part of the jacks, while spinning the blow pipe to maintain evenness as she tapers the end and adds a knob.
Another of her Skills ignites, rapidly hardening and cooling the glass stem without cracking it. Anticipating her needs, I’ve pulled out a few additional rods, which I keep hot with my Skill [Heat Manipulation]—ignoring the twinge of discomfort thanks to the cracks—and sure enough, she beckons for the next one, drawing a thick, gloopy circle around the stem she created. As soon as it’s in place, she flattens it with the broad side of her jacks.
Working off the stem, she runs the glass in a slow spiral while the rod spins, building up a circular foundation. She pinches with square jacks, twisting and pulling out sections of the glass to make five spikes. A new application of glass connects each of the spikes, and with careful finagling, she manipulates the glass to make little openings, then switches over to tweezers to tug open each gap, creating a five-pointed glass star made of looping lines.
The pattern repeats several times over. Each new layer expands and grows as she adds new sections to the stem of the goblet to create a lattice-work base. Once she’s happy with the shape, she activates her acceleration Skill again, forcibly annealing the glass yet maintaining its structural integrity. I still have no idea how she gets around the coefficient of thermal expansion, but that’s magic for you.
Switching her attention to the dome, she heats up the glass via another Skill, pulling the goblet away from the rod. The pressure causes the glass to stretch out into a soft neck, which she squeezes with the tweezers until a sharp tap breaks the glass and detaches the goblet from the blow pipe.
I hand her my final prepared rod, still hot thanks to the application of my solitary Skill, and she meticulously drizzles the hot, liquid glass gathered at the end of the rod onto the middle of the goblet, creating a circular neck about two fingers below the rim of the goblet.
She reheats the curved top of the dome until it glows cherry-red, then wedges in a pair of alchemically-treated wooden tongs and forces the curved glass apart, opening the mouth of the goblet and creating walls that flare out gently from the neck upward, inverting the dome shape.
“There. Pop that in the kiln, Nuri. I don’t want to waste mana to finish the annealing right away. No sense in it, since we won’t sell it until tomorrow, anyway; shop’s about to close.”
“Fancy cup,” Bijan says, frowning thoughtfully at the finished glass piece, which is fading from the translucent gold of superheated glass to a pleasant green. “I’ll take it to the kiln. I’d like to get a feel for how it was created, if you don’t mind.”
The admission that he has something to learn from the casual display of mastery seems to take something out of Bijan, but Ember graciously nods in permission. As he shuffles off, turning the goblet and examining it from all angles, I clear my throat to catch my master’s attention.
“You’ve seen the books,” I murmur in response to her raised eyebrow. “He barely makes enough to support his family as it is. Now that he’s taking on more mouths to feed, he needs a raise.”
Ember narrows her eyes, taking in my solemn tone and the set of my jaw. “You want him to take over for you?”
“Don’t really want it, if I’m being honest,” I whisper. “This place makes me think of my father. Every time I work here, I feel like a king. But it seems like the right thing to do.”
“Not every king ascended to the throne at an early age,” Ember replies, her lips twitching into an amused smile. “Live a little before you settle down, Nuri. You’ll get your chance before you know it.”
I nod, accepting her wisdom, but it still stings. I was looking forward to running the Peliharaon Glass Works and making my name here. Swallowing my disappointment, I square my shoulders and walk over to give Bijan the good news. He deserves to hear it from me. I clap my hand on Ifran’s upper back and gesture for him to follow. I may not be able to teach him directly, but I’ll make sure he’s well trained in my absence, starting with the first lesson that Reijo and Ember taught me: like each other or not, we’re family here in the hot shop. We always take care of our own.