I hover in an indeterminate, midnight-blue liminal space, surveying the abyssal landscape of my soul. My mouth is wired shut, bound and clamped with teeth-itching straps of invasive mana. I had hoped that after the visit with the [Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote, Scalpel wouldn’t replace the magical gag, but no such luck. She only removes the bindings at mealtimes to allow me to eat. Even that seems like a concession given grudgingly. How the binding follows my avatar into my core space is beyond me.

Fire limns my projected body, wreathing me in spectral flames, as I tap into the primary heat-generating rune in my [Greater Heat Manipulation] Skill. As far as I can tell, this base rune produces fire, but my Skill does not. Scalpel let that slip inadvertently, in the interest of improved testing efficiency. The discovery sends a thrill through me to see it in action, despite the agony of the fire. It’s my first real insight into the way things work.

Somehow, the complex modifiers and limiters on the next runes appear to extinguish the flames while still borrowing their inherent heat. I always thought I could only pull in heat from the world around me, or redirect the energy to a specific location, but apparently the Greater prefix in my upgraded Skill gives me more options for generating my own heat. And fire! I think in a burst of excitement. Avelina will be so surprised.

The burn intensifies, and I scream into the utter stillness despite my projection’s lack of a mouth or moving lips—a wordless, soundless plea for the test to end. I may be experimenting inwardly, inside my own core space, but the fire still somehow burns me. I can’t take much more of the oppressive heat. Hissing silently, I drop the connection to the rune, exhausted as I slump and allow my consciousness to rise back to my body.

The agony that accompanies each surgical slice Scalpel takes off my Skills disappears as soon as I return from my core space. Nonetheless, I often find myself rubbing my chest and grimacing as though I still feel phantom pain.

It’s just as well that I can’t handle the burning sensation anymore, I muse. My mind is at saturation; I’ve memorized about as much as I can of the strange shapes that comprise Skill structures, and without a way to write down my thoughts anywhere, I’m not sure how far I want to push my memory.

Before today, I’ve only ever admired the Skill structures’ magical artistry and incredible intricacies. They rise like gleaming towers, or meticulously engraved sculptures, that dwarf my projected consciousness when I slip into my inner world. Until I met Scalpel, it never occurred to me that I could learn to understand them.

And, perhaps, to replicate them.

I cling to that hope. I’m tired of outside forces buffeting me about like a ship blown to and fro by storm winds. If I can learn the secrets that Scalpel is researching, then I can fix my Skills all by myself, away from their petty games and unending deceit.

When I return to my chambers, I scrounge around for any sort of writing implement I can use. There’s nothing here, though, only a simple mattress on the floor and not much else. I soon give up and flop down on my thin, hard bed in defeat. I’ll have to settle for memorizing what I’ve seen, although I am concerned that I won't be able to keep the complexity of the Skill shapes in my mind.

Despite my exhaustion, I find that my mood is buoyant for what feels like the first time in ages. Scalpel refuses to teach me the secrets of Skills and Classes, so I’ll have to teach myself. I wish Rakesh were here; he has a keen mind for this sort of thing. I’m not exactly anyone's first choice for a project requiring academic rigor, I think with a wry half-smile. Doesn’t matter. I have to try, no matter how difficult I find the challenge. My future depends on it.

=+=

Twice a day, I join other test subjects in a mess hall for a surprisingly generous, delicious meal. Scalpel doesn't strike me as an overly humane type, which makes me believe that keeping all of us well fed and healthy probably has a beneficial impact on her research. For once, I’m not in a rush to complain. I find that I actually like the food. Plus, it’s nice to move my mouth again since she releases the gag to allow me to eat. I’ll take any reprieve I get from my mana-constriction

My relatively good mood evaporates when two other test subjects squeeze their way into vacant seats at my corner table. They lean forward in menacing synchrony, their elbows splayed out on the table top, and glower at me with undisguised hostility.

Mind awhirl with possibilities, I force myself to take my time eating. I finish chewing a bite of sauteed zucchini, daintily wipe my mouth with a napkin, and set down the dull, three-pronged fork with a delicate clink. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

I don’t particularly feel like having a conversation with these brooding thugs, but I’m enjoying the ability to talk right now without the bonds of mana wiring my mouth shut. I have to find joy in life’s little pleasures as they come, no matter how angry this pair of toughs look.

“‘Gentlemen,’ he calls us. I could get used to that,” the bearded man on the right says with a soft chuckle.

The other man scoffs. He never seems to stop scowling. Looking me right in the eyes, as though challenging me for supremacy, he swipes a large zucchini medallion from my plate and shoves it in his mouth. His face wrinkles up after only a couple bites, and he spits his masticated vegetables onto the plate with an even deeper scowl—although the petulance makes him look more like a five-year-old than a hardened criminal.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Heard you get your own room.”

“Yep,” I reply mildly. I stab another fork-full of zucchini and keep eating, briefly meeting their eyes and nodding. I keep my expression placid and unthreatening.

“Bet you get your own mana allotment, too, instead of sharing with the boys,” the other one cuts in. He tries to soften the implicit threat by smiling, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it. There’s a hungry look in his eyes that I’ve seen before.

“Nope,” I say, still unhurriedly working my way through my meal. Lady Evershed taught me how to project confidence and to take control of a situation. I hope I’m doing her justice with my efforts right now as I lounge in my chair, trying to appear calm and unafraid.

“You have some kind of [Mage] abilities? How come you don’t need mana like the rest of us to keep up with the crazy rebuilds?” the bearded, more reasonable of the pair asks again, although there’s a bitter edge of envy to his words.

“I don't know what you're talking about, I say, a hint of iron in my voice as the coin drops at last. Ah. This is a shakedown. I glare back at him. I’m tired of being pushed around.

“Don’t be coy. Playing games is a good way to get yourself in big trouble around here,” he says. He even has the gall to smile toothily at me again, as though he's imparting wisdom to a trusted friend.

I rest my left arm on the table so they can both get a good look at my missing hand. The wrist is currently unwrapped, although I want to get a glove to cover it at some point, assuming I never get my glass hand back. “You gentlemen ever been in a Rift before?” Once again, a look of bleary befuddlement flashes across their faces.

“You gonna pay up, or do we gotta get ugly?” the surly one growls, spelling it out for me as though I’m too stupid to figure it out on my own. His temper seems as short as his patience.

I bare my teeth in a hard-edged facsimile of a smile and slam the table top with my left wrist, making them jump. “I've delved multiple Rifts,” I snarl. “Lost my hand in one of them. Still didn’t stop me from defeating the boss and closing the incursion. So, go ahead, ask me again about ‘sharing’ my mana allotment—but tell me why I shouldn’t simply take yours instead.”

I’m practically shouting by the end, halfway out of my seat, my chest heaving. Months of pent-up frustration at indignities suffered at the hands of those stronger than I am bubbles up to the surface.

Simmering, spitting, threatening to explode.

The pockmarked guard who oversaw my intake runs over, brandishing his spear in both hands, roaring for order. The two men at the table point at me, as though they have nothing to do with my crazed outburst.

I clench and unclench my right fist. My breathing deepens as I try to calm myself. For a moment, the ugly stew of surging, simmering emotions dies down, growing quiescent. I dip my head at the guard and sit back down, pleased at my self-control.

“Pfft. As I thought. Nothing but hot air,” the surly prisoner sneers. He starts to laugh at me as everyone takes a step. The guard joins his laughter, to my surprise, looking at me like I’m an idiot for causing trouble in the mess hall.

Anger gathers in my chest. Operating purely on instinct, I drag mana through my raw, leaking channels and pour it into [Greater Heat Manipulation], holding out my hand as though I’ll burn the test subject into a crisp. Nothing happens; Scalpel always cuts away our functionality before allowing us to interact with the others. Yet as their laughter builds, my anger—

Boils over.

Rage warps my vision. I shove back from the table, standing tall on my own two feet. My anger guides me as I reach inward. With sudden, stunning clarity, I remember the exact feeling of burning all over, of tapping into the primal fire hidden deep within the twisting folds of my Skill structure. I seek out the flames once again, following the hints of memory through the complex maze, and seize hold of the fire rune in my mind.

Righteous indignation ignites within me. This time, when I heave on the ambient mana in the air, willing it to course through the ungainly, Rift-cut channel in the center of my chest, the energy responds to my urges. White-hot fire billows out from me and engulfs him in a brief burst of brilliance.

I fall to my knees, groaning as the mana drains out and the Skill hums in backlash. The pain is worth it, though, as the permanent scowl on the stupid test subject’s face turns into an open-mouthed scream of agony.

He staggers backward, falling to the ground and shrieking as he writhes on the floor. A quick-thinking guard grabs a pitcher of drinking water and douses the prisoner, but not before the top layer of the unfortunate man’s skin melts and sloughs off.

“Skills unlocked!” another guard bellows out in a panicked voice. “Active Skills! Repeat, we have active Skills on the loose!”

An alarm blares through the mess hall. All the guards turn toward me, their eyes going wide with shock and fear, and they level their spears at my chest. None advance, however, and they’re looking at me with the wary expressions of men preparing to fight a monster. They don’t know I’m out of mana and as harmless as a field mouse right now.

I snarl back at them, playing into their expectations of a feral beast, and they recoil. The sight fills me with grim satisfaction—a savage sort of joy. As my actions sink in, however, I groan and let go of the anger. I slip down to sit on the floor, sudden dread washing over me as I run through the implications of what I did. Grinding my teeth, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the guards to apprehend me, hoping if I play nice then I’ll avoid the worst of the fallout.

Scalpel is not going to be happy when she hears about this.

=+=

“Impressive. Or dumb luck?” Scalpel asks me without preamble when the guards escort me into her laboratory ten minutes later, my limbs bound and shackled once more. She glances up from her notes, sets them aside on her huge, blocky desk, and waves me closer.

I shuffle over grudgingly, torn between glaring at the guards, and trying to act meek and definitely not deserving of harsh punishment.

“Unbind him,” she commands in a clipped, annoyed voice.

The guards exchange looks, then hurry to unlock my manacles. They withdraw a pace or two away from me, holding my chains and casting wary, unsettled looks at me when they think I’m not looking.

Scalpel stares at me with more interest than usual. I have to fight internally not to shy away from the intensity of her scrutiny; if I show weakness now, instead of seizing the moment, I’m not likely to get back into her good graces. She taps her index finger to her chin. “What to do with you, boy. You shouldn’t have been able to use Skills. I presume you bypassed the limiters and fed mana directly into the fire rune?”

I nod, not daring to lie to her. Besides, that would be counterproductive I realize as a new plan unfolds in my mind. Maybe this is exactly the opportunity I’ve been hoping to find. She might even be willing to teach me if I play my cards right. “It was more difficult to locate than it would be when I’m delving inward, but I found what I was looking for.”

“Do it again,” she demands, leaning forward to hand over a mana crystal.

As I step toward the desk and reach out to take the crystal, one of the guards clears his throat. “Are we sure that’s wise? Dario almost died after only a split-second exposure to the fire. If Nuri has more mana to fuel the flames, then we’re all in danger.”

Scalpel turns the full weight of her gaze on the guard, and his objections falter and die out. She flutters her fingers at the guards. Without further argument, they beat a hasty retreat from the room.

Once the door slams shut behind me, I close my fingers around the offered crystal, and let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. I draw the power contained within into my body, bypassing my channels. The familiar jolt of pain hits me, but I press on, searching for the primary fire rune. Now that I know the way, it’s much easier to find it hidden within the maze of modifiers and cut-up pieces of the Skill. I feed the energy into the rune, then push the fire into existence outside of my body. I’m not keen on immolating myself.

A white-blue jet of fire as long as my forearm springs into being above my clenched fist, shining brightly in the dim confines of the laboratory.

She unfolds from her chair and stands tall behind her massive, rectangular desk, her lips pressed into a flat line as she stares at the fire. Her face is unreadable.

“I figured that out after one session,” I say, grunting as the mana in the tiny crystal runs out, leaking everywhere due to my horrible inefficiency. I meet her eyes, take a deep breath, and take my shot. “Imagine what we could accomplish if you’re willing to teach me for real. Just think of the possibilities! We could rebuild all my Skills—or maybe discover new, previously unknown Skills in the Artisan line! Your genius and my hard work are an unstoppable combination.”

“You are hardly in a position to negotiate with me,” Scalpel says, a trill of amusement in her voice. I take that as an encouraging sign.

“On the contrary, I believe that I am justified in opening dialogue,” I reply with conviction, lifting my chin. I set my feet wide in a strong stance, taking ground and standing firm in the face of her judgment. “Your other test subjects are just that: subjects. They’re brutish, violent men with no regard for learning or research. I can be a true apprentice, someone who contributes to your understanding and who speeds up your progress in decoding the Skill structures that we all rely on.”

Her claw-like nails click on the top of the desk as she taps her fingers. “Why should I let you see all my hard-won knowledge? Merely because you lucked out and remembered the rune for fire? No, even if I felt like sharing my life’s work with you—which I very much do not—my larger problem with your proposal is that you presume much and know little. You’re far from reconstituting your Skills to a satisfactory level.

“With respect,” I say, inclining my head, “I believe that we’re overlooking an important component of my Skills. I am an artisan—a maker of glass. All of my abilities, and the majority of my epiphanies, have manifested due to working with glass. Thus, it stands to reason that if we’re trying to uncover the secrets of my Skills and Class, then I believe I need to resume my glass work. I will, of course, assist you however I can, but only on the condition that you arrange for me to work in a hot shop. Even if it’s only once a week, I believe it will prove beneficial.”

“What makes you think I’m ever going to rebuild your Skills? You’re nothing more than an entertaining diversion,” Scalpel says, amusement still coloring her tone.

I’ve never seen her act so human before, for lack of a better term. Still, my surprise must show on my face, because she sighs and continues explaining herself.

“I’m not interested in restoring your Skills to their former glory. In fact, your unique skills only muddy the waters, to borrow from the quaint vernacular. I prefer working with those fools from the prisons precisely because their Skills are so bland and repeatable. There's great value in corroboration. Your skills are varied and rare, which makes them quite complicated. Other than your [Greater Heat Manipulation] and [Manasight], I have no baseline against which to compare them. Do you see how that makes my work difficult?”

I nod slowly as understanding sets in. “You prefer overlap. The redundancy allows you to confirm your theories. But surely there are differences as their Skills develop—” I cut off, my eyes widening as I hit on her method. “That’s the secret, isn’t it? This is no different from any other research. Set a baseline, then track divergences. A fully-fledged, high-ranking Skill on its own is interesting, but too complex to decipher. Multiple basic Skills with only slight variations based on personal use and development? Much easier to compare. Clever.”

“I didn’t realize you were an aspiring [Scholar],” she replies dryly.

I shrug. “I had a good teacher.”

“Oh? Who?” Scalpel demands. She seems as though she’s actually interested.

“Ezio, a [Scholar] from Silaraon, and his assistant Rakesh. They’re the best researchers in Densmore. And I’m proud to call them my friends.”

“Ah. I’ve read one of his books,” Scalpel says, nodding to herself. “While his subjects of research lack imagination, his methods are . . . acceptable.”

I bristle in protest, but I calm myself down when I realize this is probably high praise from Scalpel. What a hateful witch, I seethe inwardly. Thankfully, I keep my thoughts to myself.

“Very well,” Scalpel says crisply. She snaps her fingers, gesturing around the cluttered workshop area. “Make yourself useful. Dario will recover in the infirmary. While he’s unavailable, you’ll make up the research I will miss thanks to your little outburst. That means more delving sessions for you.”

“I’ll need a notepad,” I say defiantly, meeting her black-orbed gaze. I hide my right hand in my pocket so she won’t see my trembling fingers.

For the first time I can remember, a genuine smile crosses her face. She opens a drawer in the side of the desk, withdraws a fresh notebook bound in black leather, and slides it across the desk to me. “Your terms are accepted. Now, let’s get to work.”