Prototyping the rest of the commission for Lord Garman takes the better part of my three-day week to complete the shape of the grotto. Copying all the water-carved curves and sharp angles correctly is backbreaking. I had to start over after cracking my first attempt at the spikes that will become the stalactites and stalagmites. I stay late on the third day to put the finishing touches on the whorls and sharp edges inside the grotto, only leaving the studio when I start to lose sunlight. A new idea to take the display piece to the next level pops into my mind on the way back to Silaraon.

By the time I trudge back to my cabin in the evening, I’m too tired to hike all the way to Mikko’s house to spend the night like I promised his parents. They treat me like their own son, but I'm growing up. I can’t always do things their way. My little cabin is hardly more than a nice hut, but I like having a place to claim as my own while I’m working out of town. My adopted family’s farmstead is on the opposite side of the city from the Peliharaon Glass Studio, which means I’m saving over an hour of walking each direction. It's bittersweet, renting out the cabin instead of returning to the place where I grew up over the last decade and a half since my parents passed, but it's an essential step in my path toward adulthood.

A note is waiting for me when I arrive, pinned to the door by an elaborately-shaped nail. My lips curl up into a smile. The intricate etching and tiny, elegant script on the sides of the nail look like one of Mikko’s recent challenges. His master at the forge has been encouraging him to try finer detail work, since he usually prefers to do large scale pieces that require sturdy metals and powerful hammer blows. He is the strongest man I know, other than his father, Reijo. Hitting his First Threshold late last year propelled him to new heights; I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if he could smash open a chunk of granite with one of his hammers from the forge.

With a grunt, I work the nail back and forth, pulling it out of the door by degrees. Did he have to sink it in so deeply? I wonder as I slide the envelope off the sharp point of the nail, admiring the precise figuring. Mikko’s method of improvement intrigues me, since it's the exact opposite of what I like to do. Rather than shore up my weaknesses, I embrace my strength and avoid glass work that frustrates me or challenges me to learn new things. I can almost hear the echo of Ember’s sigh rattling in my head from when I told her that I'm going to pick and choose my commissions from now on. She lets me get away with it because it's lucrative and that helps the studio business, but she's been encouraging me to expand my horizons and become a more well-rounded glass worker for my own sake.

A quandary to solve tomorrow, when I’m more well rested, I tell myself. I’ll untangle that knot after a good night’s sleep. I unfold the letter and spread it out on the bed, smoothing the creases with my open palms. I flop down on my bed belly-first, prop up my elbows, and rest my chin in my hands as I read.

Dear Nuri,

I know the hot gasses from the studio furnace mess with your head, but try to remember to show up tomorrow for your birthday. If you're not here by lunch time, then I'm going to come drag you out of bed myself.

Much love, your big brother Mikko

“Hey! He might be a bit bigger, but I'm still the older brother,” I mutter, chuckling at his baldface impudence. It's not my fault the big lummox swings around a hammer all day and has more muscles than brains.

The mental image of my brother Mikko kicking down the door, swinging me over his shoulders like a little lost lamb, and loping across the city with me shouting in protest brings a huge, crooked smile to my face. It would be just like Mikko to dump me at the family table in the place of honor for my own birthday celebration. We were always close growing up, but after his family took me in, we’ve been best friends as well as adopted brothers. I can count on him for anything, no matter how outlandish.

“Better set my alarm so I don’t miss the festivities,” I murmur, shuffling to my desk and moving aside my overflowing collection of figurines and glass prototypes until I uncover the big clockwork device that Mikko gave me as a moving-out presentI. I wind up the clock, setting the alarm for an hour after dawn. Usually, I’m up before the sun, but I need some extra sleep after my busy week. I should still be able to get to my parent’s house well before lunch, even if I take the time to shower and straighten up my woefully-neglected cabin. A slow walk to shake off the fatigue from my limbs should get me there with plenty of time to spare.

I finish getting ready for bed with a warm glow of contentment in my heart. It’s nice to know I’m still loved, even after I moved out on my own. I drift asleep and, for the first time in years, dream of my father—and the terrifying void of his absence.

My only memories of my father are all haze and heat. I can never recall his face, only his back. The curve of his cheekbones, his prominence of his nose, the color of his eyes—these details are mysteries lost to the treacherous tides of time.

Swathed in shadows, the glasswork studio also loses definition in the murky depths of memory. In reality, I know every burn mark on the treated hardwood floor, every knot in the paneling on the walls, and every patch of peeling paint on the once-blue, now-blackened ceiling. In my mind’s eye, however, the space is half-formed and hollow, as though something has eaten the meat and left me nothing but bones. They are my only memories of the man; no matter how much I furrow my brow and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to delve the depths of my mind for more domestic scenes or familial comforts, I see nothing else.

The caricature of my father plays out in my mind. Steady and relaxed, he settles into a wide-set stance as he waits for the glass to hit the perfect temperature and consistency. He is unmoving except for his strong hands, which ceaselessly turn the metal rod with almost reverent devotion. “There’s only one sin in the glassworks,” he told me once in his amused basso rumble. He always sounded like he was enjoying a private joke. I suppose I’ll never know the punchline now. “All else may be forgiven, but never let the glass grow still.”

Those are the only words I actually remember from him.

The cherry-red glow of molten glass within the crucible pierces through the leaden gloom, illuminating the artisan in action. Indomitable, his backlit silhouette wreathed in flickering flames, he dominates my memories like a hero out of myth. His broad shoulders make him look more like a seasoned warrior than a crafter. As a child, his strength comforted me; as a man, I feel inadequate measured against the memories I carry of him. All the same, I’m glad for their familiar warmth.

In this shadow world of times gone by, I huddle in the far corner of the glassworks, away from the terrible, torrid reach of the furnace. A deep, bone-rattling thrum of bellows shakes my chest like an earthquake, and my little body trembles in anticipation of the light show about to explode inside the shadowed workshop once the charging begins. Emberlin, the head glass smith, claps twice to warn us that she’s about to ignite her Skills to accelerate the fuel and prep the batch. [Burn], she commands the furnace, and the entire world obeys.

Even now, my skin crawls and itches with the specter of my oldest memories: the hungry, preternatural flames licking up the charcoal in an instant before seeking something more to devour. Wood, oxygen, or, perhaps, that greatest delicacy of all, lifeblood, should a careless boy venture too close—incinerating everything without prejudice, seeking simply to consume and grow, burning without end.

I wake feeling groggy and missing my parents more than ever. Skipping breakfast, since I know Kirsi prepared a huge feast, I hurry across town to my adopted family's house so I don't miss my own birthday celebration.

=+=

“Happy Birthday, Nuri!”

The chorus of cheers and celebration catches me off guard. I almost stumble on my way through the doorway, righting myself at the last minute by grabbing onto the huge, carved oak door frame and stabilizing my balance. Half the shop workers are here, along with a few of my acquaintances from the local pub, to wish me well as I come of age.

Honeyed flatbread and curried goat fill the platters on the table, while candied nuts and sliced oranges await for dessert. Scented candles burn cheerily all around the house, despite the sunlight through the windows. Everything feels warm and welcoming, and it’s all for me.

I spread my arms wide, grinning as I take in the festivities. “Thank you all for coming. I’m glad to have the privilege of celebrating with such fine folks. Let's feast!”

More cheers meet my declaration.

“Look at you all grown up!” Kirsi, my adoptive mother, sweeps across the room to engulf me in a warm hug. “I let you out of my sight for a few weeks, and you filled out, grew a beard, and took over a new job. What happened to my little boy?” She makes a show of wiping away a pretend tear.

“Wait until you see what the next few weeks bring,” I reply, waggling my eyebrows. She laughed freely, and I plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Nuri, I hear good things from the [Gaffer] in Peliharaon,“ Reijo says, clapping me on the shoulder. “He says that you take to administration like a fish in water.“

Mikko sneaks up and elbows me in the ribs while I'm half distracted greeting our father. He flings an arm around my shoulder. “Fish in water? Isn’t that just a fancy way of saying that Nuri likes bossing people around as much as a pig likes mud?”

“Hey, nothing wrong with pigs. They're kind, highly intelligent, and loyal creatures,” my coworker Lionel interjects. He salutes me and then holds out his hand. We clasp forearms in greeting, like we're old-fashioned heroes instead of modern men who just shake hands the way normal people do. Lio, Mikko, and I have built up a reputation over the years as mischievous partners in crime, but Lio and I were always the true troublemakers, while Mikko just went along with whatever craziness we found ourselves mired in.

“Ah, I see my mistake,” Mikko says, his peals of laughter ringing out with the deep, sonorous tones of a struck bell. “King and highly intelligent sounds nothing like Nuri—though he's surprisingly loyal when he’s not stealing work from me. I’ll give him that.”

“Indeed I am,” I announce grandly, planting my feet wide and pressing my fists into my hips. I puff up my chest and jut out my chin. “I'm so loyal, in fact, that I'm hiring you to help with Lord Garman's commission.”

“You mean the one you swiped right out from under my nose?” Mikko says with another round of raucous, joyful laughter. “Yes, I can see how that's a good example of your outstanding loyalty.”

I snicker. “I’d never dream of leaving my own brother in the lurch. How'd you like to make some gear work for me? Maybe it will fund our ongoing search for an affordable [Enchanter]. Or maybe we’ll make it rich and we won’t need to worry about the cost at all anymore.”

Mikko brightens at the suggestion. “I do want to complete the Iron Lunk sometime this year. You’re probably charging three times what I could, anyway, so I guess it works out. Don’t forget who tipped you off in the first place, though. You still owe me!”

Dad drifts off, shaking his head at our shameless banter. The room is full of laughter and the susurrus of half a dozen overlapping conversations, and I bask in the warmth. My friends, family, and closest coworkers are here on my behalf, and that makes me feel exceptionally good today. I glance around again, taking a quick inventory of the guests, and amend my statement. Everyone’s here except for the Linas, as we call the twin sisters who are the stars of the glass studio. I hail my master, Emberlin, and inquire about the missing twins, Avelina and Melina.

She gives me a withering look. “Do you think because it’s your birthday, I’m going to stop all projects and announce a paid holiday? Do I look like I’m in the habit of losing money just so we can celebrate the anniversary of when you wiggled your way into the world as a crying little baby? Someone has to take charge of the shop. Melina is a natural choice.”

“Yep. She has a good head on her shoulders,” I say, grinning at Ember’s brusque nature. That’s just how she shows that she cares. The gruffer she seems, the more she likes you.

“Melina knows how to keep things running exactly the way I like,” Ember says after an awkward pause. A vein in her forehead pulses, standing out as her jaw clenches. “I’ll switch with her in an hour so that she can pay her respects. And I suppose that it’s only fair that I also give Avelina time off. But no further concessions. Lionel is already here as it is.”

I grin at her discomfort. “Thank you, O most gracious master. It was kind of you to come. I know how much you hate social obligations. I’m glad Melina could step in while you’re gone. A good second in command is valuable.”

Ember’s voice goes soft for a brief moment. “I wouldn’t miss this, Nuri. You’re important to us. I’m proud of how you’ve grown.”

I hug her impulsively. Her muscles stiffen, but she reluctantly returns the embrace and pats my shoulder twice before disengaging.

Then the moment passes, and she straightens, coughing into her fist. “I heard you hired a helper.” Ember’s typical clipped, flat tones are back. For a moment, I think she's going to scold me for making a personnel move without her input, but she inclines her head a fraction of an inch to signal her approval. “I'm glad to see my lessons about delegation and training didn't fly over your head, Nuri. Nonetheless, I'll need to come in person and audit the books—particularly now that you have an assistant on the payroll.”

I grin slyly. “In that case, why don't you lend me a Skill to help finish the commission I just landed? I think I can convince Lord Garman to pay extra for a glasswork sun hovering over the grotto. Imagine the sun burning with heat as it rises and sets, moving across the vault of the sky. Just think how beautiful the glowing glass will look when it illuminates the Grotto of the [Guardians]!”

Ember snorts. “You want me to use [Embered Heart] so you can charge a premium.”

“Naturally. Passing up this chance would be downright negligent.”

Her eyes narrow and her lips press flat. She stands at attention, shoulders lifted and strong like a [Soldier]. All of her lines are square and solid. For a moment, I think she’s going to say no, but at last she gives me a curt nod, and I break into a grin. “Their studio could use the cash infusion to stay afloat. I accept.”

I pump my fist in triumph. Two collaborators secured. Halfway there. “Now I just need to ask Mel to make me a star chart, or presume upon one of the Silaraon City Academy students to secure a copy for me. I’ll get a [Woodworker] to make a display table, too, and then I can double my already sky-high price!”

“I look forward to my cut,” Ember says, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“I’ll make it up to you, Ember. I swear,” I say earnestly, smacking my fist into my open palm. “

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Nuri. Particularly not to your boss.”

“Reijo! Don’t scare me like that,” I shout in protest as I spin toward my adopted father. “I didn’t even see you come back.” I wrap an arm around his shoulders and squeeze as hard as I can; petty revenge for making me jump. It’s still not enough to make him budge his sturdy frame. I can see where Mikko gets his muscles. “Always with the life advice.”

“Always,” he rumbles in agreement, tousling my hair like he did when I was little. “That’s my job, Nuri, even though you’re moved out now and working for a local Lord. Well done. Keep making us proud.”

“Will do. It’s in my blood,” I answer with a wink.

He chuckles. “You have an advantage, after all. Not one, but two, excellent families. By blood and by choice.”

“Stop embarrassing the poor man,” Mikko says, nudging me with his elbow. The gentle nudge almost topples me, and I hold in a grunt. “We're not children anymore, Da. Hey, speaking of, any big plans now that you’re a full-grown man, Nuri?”

“Nah, not really,” I reply reflexively, although I enjoy running a shop on my own. I hope that position becomes more permanent soon. “Well, I still want to see more of Densmore and maybe have an adventure or three. Nothing too major.”

Mikko nods sagely, then hands me a mug frothing with mead. He calls for attention in his booming, boisterous voice, hushing the pleasant conversations around us. “Everyone, grab a glass and raise it high. Let’s celebrate the best brother a man could ask for.” He clinks his cup against my mug, and shouts, “To a lifetime of adventure!”

I drain the mug, reveling in the sweet, smooth burn of the honey mead as it trickles down my throat. A roar of approval from my gathered friends and family practically shakes the house’s foundations, and the festivities begin in earnest.

=+=

The infamous Linas finally arrive just as the food and drink starts winding down, and the raucous celebration begins to fade into something mellower, but more permanent and pleasant. She pulls me into a quick hug, then claps to get everyone's attention.

She leads me to the center of the family room and makes me stand in front of the whole crowd with my eyes closed. Scattered whispers and soft laughter surrounds me. I fight off the urge to peek, although I’m dying of curiosity. This kind of theatrics is unusual for Melina, who is usually the mature, responsible one of the bunch.

The patter of hurried footsteps reaches my ears, followed by a clank and the rustle of fabric. Frantic whispers bounce around, then cut. I am more confused than ever.

Melina’s excited voice rings out. “All right, open your eyes!”

A wooden easel stands in front of me, with a group picture of glass makers in a hot shop. One of them looks like a younger version of the venerable old [Gaffer in the Peliharaon Glass Studio, and I’m fairly certain it’s actually him, but I can't place the other workers. They're clustered standing around an imposing figure in the center. He looks like me with a beard, although older and more heavily muscled. His stern eyes radiate pride and confidence.

“I certainly hope I look that dashing when I’m older!” I joke while I try to place the scene in my mind, coming up empty when I try to find the right words to tell Melina thank you.

Avelina snorts, drawing my attention to her. She's tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed as she glares at me. She rolls her eyes at her sister, and then bursts out laughing at my confused expression. “I told you that he wouldn't get it. You better pay up this time, sis.”

“Glad I could be the subject of another bet. I hope Ava doesn't bankrupt you, Mel,” I tease Melina.

“Someone has to support her expensive hobbies, since you know she can’t be bothered to earn it herself. Consider this my charity,” Melina shoots back, sticking out her tongue at her twin sister. “But that's not the point! Nuri, don’t you know who that is?”

The unusual level of excitement in Molina's voice prompts me to look again. I shuffle closer, peering at the grizzled man in the portrait who looks strikingly similar to me. Something about his bearing tugs at my memory. He stands tall and strong, feet planted wide as though he owns the world. His hands appear ready for action, and his powerful shoulders and arms tell the tale of a man of action. Adorning his chest is a simple crest that marks him as an honorably retired member of the Densmore Royal Army. At his side, a crystalized sword is strapped to his wide leather belt.

A shock of realization jolts through me. That's my father’s sword!

I whirl around to stare at the twins, who are grinning at me now like a pair of smug alley cats on their home turf. Lionel and Mikko saunter over to join them, both of them smiling so hard I’m amazed that their jaws don't fall right off. My four closest friends stand side by side, their arms linked together, and beam at me. I’ve never been so happy in my life.

“Where did you find this?” I ask softly, tears welling up in my eyes. I blink them back, but my jaw clenches as I consider just how princely a gift I’ve received. “Thank you all,” I say again, struggling to speak under the weight of the emotions. “This is the first time I’ve seen my father’s face in fifteen years.”