“For you,” Lady Evershed tells me at breakfast, handing me an official envelope with the Grand Ile Glass Guild crest stamped in red wax seal. Her lips twitch in amusement when I freeze and stare at the envelope like she’s giving me a live pit viper.

I set aside my breakfast tea and buttermilk rusks, wipe the crumbs off my chin with my napkin, and take a deep breath before I gingerly accept the envelope. I cradle the message in my right hand, staring at it for a long moment. I pin one edge of the envelope down to the table top with my left forearm and master my trembling fingers on my right hand so that I can undo the flap in the message. With a cold lump in my gut, I open the envelope and tease out the letter tucked inside.

“Will you kick me out if I didn’t make it?” I tease my new master. I wave the folded letter in front of my face with an impish grin. “Maybe we should play a game of CnC for the right to open it. Oh, but if I win, I get to stay for as long as I please, even if I didn’t pass muster.”

“Zebulun, I’ll let you stay. Even if you were the worst student I’ve ever had—and I assure you that you’re not that bad—I still wouldn’t kick you out. A master ought to care for a student. Besides, I do not renege on my promises.”

“Thank you,” I say, nodding at her with a sense of relief.

She sips her tea, humming softly in satisfaction. “I heard from the other judges that you were the most respectful and hardest working contestant of anyone there. Additionally, your willingness to modulate your plan impressed them. That’s a good start.”

“I should have listened to you earlier. I had to change my plan,” I say.

“Still, I’m surprised you gave up your idea so quickly. You seemed rather taken with the plan when we last spoke. What changed?” she asks.

“Nothing in life is ever perfect. My plan wasn’t good enough. I had to make a change,” I say with a small shrug. “I may be stubborn, but I’m not entirely stupid.”

“No, not entirely.” Lady Evershed’s lips curve into a smile. “Although, I must say that I have yet to see evidence of your adaptability when we play CnC. You still insist on sticking to your initial strategy even when it spells your doom.”

“Ah, so you’re that confident in your CnC game?” I tease. “Does this mean you’ll agree to my wager?”

“Oh, just open the blasted letter!” Lady Evershed says with a peal of laughter. “You know as well as I do that you’re moving on in this competition. Let’s not drag out the suspense; it’s not good for this old woman's health.”

Despite her reassurances, I still find myself trembling as I unfold the letter to take a look. My eyes flick back and forth as I scan the page, but my attention snags on the very first word: congratulations! With a triumphant grin I toss the letter across the table to my teacher. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“I already was,” she says with a wry laugh.

=+=

Fresh off the excitement of moving on from the preliminaries, nothing can dampen my good mood. I’m practically skipping as I walk around the shop, a jaunty whistle on my lips, sorting through the various colors of glass for Lady Evershed. In my mind, I’m planning my next glass piece for the upcoming rounds of the competition.

Lady Evershed has confirmed the appointment with the [Mimic Mage] later on this afternoon. I’m hopeful that it will give us the first steps toward true recovery. I’m nervous about how the session may go, though, but not because I think it will be a disaster. No, I’m more concerned that the [Mimic Mage] will succeed, but I won’t recover apart from him. Nothing sounds worse than getting a taste of using my Skills again, but never touching them myself.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I reach it,” I mutter to myself. “Now, should I go with a classic goblet, or an artful abstraction for my next glass submission?”

“Zebulun,” Lady Evershed calls out from the kitchenette in the back room. “I’m making a light lunch. Elias recommends that you eat a simple meal, but don’t overdo it. You need to keep your energy up for the procedure.”

“Does that mean you’re making salad again?” I ask, trying not to groan. I’m not a cow. I don’t need to chew on leaves and grass!

“I am indeed making salad,” Lady Evershed says, her voice crackling with rebuke. “You’ll thank me for it later, Zebulun. Apparently, the invasive flow of foreign mana is quite rigorous. Mimicking your Skills will take a lot out of you and Elias both. Eating something heartier may cause you to throw up, and I’m not interested in washing my shoes. Again.”

I shake my head ruefully at her warning and shuffle into the back room to help her set the small table as best I can. I’m slow with only one hand, but I’m getting more and more used to daily activities. “I can confirm that foreign mana burns like a firestorm. Try to avoid it at all costs, unless absolutely necessary. And I said I was sorry about the shoes! How many times are you going to bring it up again?”

“Ah, I forgot about your wild tales of grappling with a Rift,” Lady Evershed says, waving away my protests about dirtying her shoes. “How I would have loved to see that display!”

To my surprise, I laugh as we sit down to eat and I talk about the experience. “I certainly didn't think that I’d ever have such a nonchalant reaction to the worst trauma of my life, but I’m still alive and breathing. That’s got to count for something.”

“It counts for everything,” Lady Evershed murmurs. “You always have a chance as long as you still have the spark of life in you. But I’ve always wondered what changed? What helped you to steel your spine and march onward?”

I chew my mouthful of kale and honeyed sliced apples before I answer. “As the weeks have gone by since the Rift, I’ve found ways to continue working with glass—albeit awkwardly and slowly—and that’s been a healing balm. Much of the anger, frustration, and self-pity faded away after I discovered that I could work with glass again.”

“Glass has always been therapeutic for me as well, once I discovered the artform a few decades ago,” Lady Evershed says. Her eyes mist over briefly, but she blinks and regains her composure. “So, you’re still determined to go through with the [Mimic Mage]’s procedure?”

“I am,” I confirm, stabbing an errant strawberry in my salad for emphasis.

Lady Evershed twists the ivory handle of her cane between her old, gnarled fingers, and pierces me with a searching gaze. “Why? You don’t have to tell me, but make sure you know the answer in your own heart. Don’t just grasp for straws.”

I shrug. “I don’t mind answering. Regaining access to my Skills, even if it’s by proxy, is my best shot at producing a glass submission good enough to win the competition. That’s why I’m here: to win.”

“There’s more to life than just winning,” Lady Evershed says mildly. She leans forward in her seat slightly and raises her eyebrows at me, as if daring me to disagree.

“Perhaps, but I’m single-minded. I don’t have anything else,” I remind her. “I’m not going to give up easily. What would it say about my character if my determination to win collapsed at the first sign of an obstacle? Perseverance requires hard work, sacrifice, and pain. I won't have it any other way.”

“Excellent perspective,” she says with a firm nod. “I’m proud of you, Zebulun. You did fine work in the preliminary round, and displayed good judgment. Your adaptability will see you through to the end of the competition. As I said, I heard good things about you from the judges.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, glancing down at my salad bashfully.

“Even better, I’m no longer getting grief about the special dispensation that we were granted for you to compete. That wasn’t good for my reputation.”

I snort. “Ah, yes, I forgot how important the perception of others is to you. I’m so glad you aren’t suffering through the loss of prestige that might accompany your new student failing out of the preliminary rounds!”

“My young friend,” Lady Evershed says, sitting up straight again, her voice shifting away from casual conversation and taking on the timbre of a career aristocrat, “I’ve told you before that you have no idea how important my reputation is to me. I’ll reiterate the point now. I assure you it’s no mere vanity at play.”

I nod and murmur a noncommittal reply while I finish my salad, but something about the intensity of her statement makes me think back to her similar assertions in the past. She seems to put special emphasis on the power of reputation and prestige, as though there’s a solidity and weight to people’s perception that I’m unaware of entirely. Perhaps it’s got something to do with one of her Skills, I muse.

Then a revelation strikes me. I snap my fingers. “Wait, earlier you said you’ve only discovered working with glass a few decades ago. Does that mean that [Glass Smith] is your second Class?”

Lady Evershed’s smug expression is confirmation enough.

=+=

Elias the [Mimic Mage] lives in a blocky, slate-blue stone home at the far edge of the Riverside district. A narrow, tree-shaded waterway flows along the side of the estate, but we’re able to approach via one of the last streets before the rivers take over. The neighborhood is quiet and dignified.

Lady Evershed tells me that Elias is well off but not well known, preferring to stay out of the public eye. Now that I’ve seen his house, I think I understand what she means. There’s a quiet, dignified luxury to the location, decor, and the gardens and grounds.

His [Butler] greets us at the door, ushering us within with a smile and a bow. He leads us through a stately entryway, to the left through double glass doors, and down a hallway tiled in creamy white. Our boots echo through the big, empty house with every footstep.

“Elias has a beautiful home,” I say as we walk, the awkward silence broken only by the too-loud thud of our footfalls. The [Butler]’s eyes shift my way, but he neither answers me nor breaks stride. I cough and glance down, feeling embarrassed. This isn’t the friendliest reception I’ve ever received. I hope I’m not making a big mistake by coming here.

While I’m staring at the floor, I notice that the tile is edged in a playful mosaic that’s a rare nod to color amid the austerity. I smile to myself. Maybe it’s not fair to assume Elias is totally cold and unfeeling; perhaps he’s simply restrained. Or maybe assuming that decorations define the man is absurd and unfair, I admonish myself as we exit the hallway and arrive in a large, mostly-empty sitting room with alabaster plaster walls.

“My dear Lady Evershed! So good of you to come,” a jolly voice booms out a moment later, followed by a middle-aged man with a neatly-trimmed beard. He bounds into the room and sweeps up Lady Evershed’s hand, pressing it to his lips in greeting. He’s sharply-dressed in a flattering, form-fitted, dark grey suit. Three silver rings chased with golden filigree flash on his right hand.

“My name is Elias. I'll be taking care of you today,” the [Mimic Mage] says, turning to me with a smile and a curt bow. “Tell me about your Skills and Class, Zebulun. I'll have an easier time identifying what I find if I know generally what they do ahead of time.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Elias. I'm, ah, a [Glass Smith],” I say it was some reluctance, unsure if the slight bending of the truth will hurt Elias’s ability to adequately and accurately suss out my Class and Skills. In truth, I’m a [Glassworker], not a [Glass Smith], but it’s close enough. Maintaining the fiction that I have a different class helps me wear the mask of Zebulun instead of my true identity as Nuri.

“Makes sense! I heard you were participating in Lady Evershed’s pet project. How’s that going without access to your Skills?” Elias asks, his voice still a touch too loud for the room.

“Fine, thanks. I’m moving on to the next round. Official as of this morning,” I say, lifting my head with pride as I make the announcement.

“Splendid! Imagine once you’ve recovered. You’ll wipe the field,” Elias asserts, clasping his hands and beaming at us. “Now, about those Skills?”

I nod. “I have a number of Skills related to glass. A glass creator Skill, a compositional analysis Skill, and of course my [Manasight]. Unfortunately, due to all the damage, I only have a single Skill that’s currently functional—if that’s the right word for it. I can’t retain enough mana to use my [Heat Manipulation] for more than a few seconds, not without considerable pain, but it still works.”

“Yes, right. That’s a shame,” Elias says, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Truly, I’m sorry to hear of your misfortune. But with my mana powering the Skill, we should be able to circumvent that issue, provided the Skill structure is in good shape. Shame we can’t see the creator Skill in action! You are confident we can use the temperature control?”

“I think that [Heat Manipulation] is still operational if we’re careful,” I confirm. “The other Skills are probably damaged beyond repair or recovery, however.”

“That's a story I'd like to hear more about sometime. Takes an extraordinary amount of power to damage something as robust as a Class Skill,” Elias says, giving me a curious look.

“Yes, it certainly was an extraordinary amount,” I say weakly, glancing away. “You know, for many years I only had a single working Skill. I hate making that admission; it was a sore point for me for many years, although I had my reasons to be suspicious of mana. In some ways, this is like going back to my youth when I was weak and untalented.”

Elias strokes his short beard. “I still only have a single Skill, Zebulun. In fact, I’ve actively worked to maintain that delicate arrangement! By not splitting my Skills, I no longer have to share mana.”

“You’re saying that a single Skill is an advantage?” I blurt out incredulously.

Elias chuckles. “Why, yes. Cultivating more skills would, ironically, reduce the flexibility and creativity of my overall approach to magic. I’d cap out at a few mimicries a day, depending on my mana pool. Right now, though? I’m nearly unlimited! No, my new friend, don't despise having ‘only’ one Skill. You simply have to learn to use what you have effectively.”

“That sounds like a way to cope to me,” I say with a teasing tone. “But I appreciate the encouragement. Maybe I’ve been too quick to complain.”

“Most people usually are! Takes imagination to see your way through to the other side,” Elias cackles.

I shake my head in amusement at his antics. I definitely misjudged my host. “Do you still want to hear more about my other glass-specific Skills, or should we stick to [Heat Manipulation] for now?”

“Let’s keep things simple today,” Elias says as soon as I ask. “Decisiveness and a clear objective is the superior choice. Due to the nature of your injury, I believe it's in our best interest for you to recline during the procedure. I’ve set up a comfortable spot on the divan in the drawing room. I think you should try to relax as much as possible while I delve into your inner space and interface with your Skill matrices. Shall we?”

I shake my head slowly. “I'm still hung up on the claim that a single Skill is a good thing.”

Elias grins, warming up to the chance to explain his advantages in greater detail. “Most people spend many years ranking up multiple abilities. With a singular focus, I’ve been able to push up the quality and potency of [A Perfect Copy] to unprecedented heights over the same amount of time. My Skill is specialized, yet it allows me a versatility that’s unmatched by my peers—as long as I have a willing partner who will share Skills with me.”

“That’s extraordinary,” I say, starting to realize the benefits of what he’s describing. “But how did you get such a Skill like that, anyway?”

“Ah, ah! Trade secrets,” Elias replies with a wink. He strides away, and I scramble to follow him before we are left behind with his dour [Butler].

A short walk later, we reach a room festooned with lively green wall hangings, a variety of overstuffed chairs at odd angles, completely lacking any unifying style or color, and a haphazard bookshelf overflowing with a profusion of books. On the top of the book pile is an animated cover that looks suspiciously like the adventure novels I used to buy from Camdyn the [Book Seller]. Elias gestures toward the divan, and I take a seat.

He clears his throat. “Now, before we begin, professional courtesy requires that I confirm you understand the risks involved. Lady Evershed assures me that she's gone over this with you in detail, but I cannot in good conscience proceed without knowing for sure that you agree to the risks. Do you understand clearly that you might never use mana again if the damage is as extensive as I've been led to believe?”

I nod resolutely. “I’m well aware of the consequences. I'm willing to try anything at this point—it can't be worse than the agony I live through everyday. If I don’t clamp off my channels and refuse to harvest mana, then I feel like I’m burning alive from the inside out.”

“Well, that hardly inspires confidence,” the [Mimic Mage] says. Complicated expressions flicker across his face before he smooths his furrowed brow and stops his lips from twitching. “Part of me thinks we shouldn't proceed at all, but if this is what you want, then we’ll give it a try.”

“Just do it already,” I growl in frustration.

Elias and Lady Evershed exchange looks, and she nods at him. He sighs. “Very well. Please, make yourself comfortable, Zebulun. I wish I could offer words of wisdom, but I won't lie to you: this will hurt.”

I gingerly ease myself back, fluff up the pillow under my head, and take a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

Elias places a hand on my shoulder and smiles at me kindly. A surge of energy builds up within him, faintly visible even without the assistance of my mangled, useless [Manasight]. Tendrils of mana weave themselves around my entire body, encasing me in a complex net of power. With a snap of his fingers, the mana network constricts, sinking deep into my body.

Raging wildfire of pain erupts, spreading through my blistered channels. I grit my teeth and twist the fingers of my right hand into the decorative throw blanket draped across the seat. I refuse to scream, even though every inch of my body is a blazing inferno of agony.

“Stop fighting me,” Elias says, pushing the words out through gritted teeth. The [Mimic Mage] clenches his jaw in intense concentration, as though he’s attempting to swim upstream against a swift, turgid current. “You'll only make it worse for yourself.”

“I'm not resisting you,” I spit out. “I've taken a mana control test before; I know how to allow foreign power access to my core space.”

“Then perhaps the damage is worse than I feared,” Elias says. Panting heavily, he releases the flow of mana, and flops down in a nearby seat, pausing his assault on my being. He wipes his face, then drums his fingers on the polished patina on the wooden armrest.

“Did you make it all the way to my core? It didn't feel like it,” I say, dreading that he'll say yes and that I've already lost all sense of self. "If not, I think I have a suggestion.

Elias claps his hands together. “You have an idea? I love ideas!” His face grows rigid. “Just don't die. Professional pride will never let me take unnecessary risks.”

“Taking a risk is my choice,” I say, meeting his stare. My voice is quiet but firm. “I suspect the compromised channels prevented you from delving all the way. Maybe you’ll have more luck on a second try.”

“A workable theory,” Elias says. He hops up from his seat, pacing around the room with frenetic energy burning in his wake. After a few tense moments, he whirls to point at me. “But you are wrong about the choice belonging solely to you. True, in the immediate sense, your body and channels stand to suffer. You are forgiven if you think it follows that you shoulder all the risk, because you will bear the damage in your soul, but you are wrong.”

“I get that Lady Evershed might lose some prestige, and that’s important to her—”

Elias breaks into loud, amused laughter, like the braying of a donkey. The sudden sound cuts me off. He smiles at me with a rather insincere look of apology, but speaks up before I can continue my line of thought.

“Ah, my young friend, I’m far too self-centered to be talking about my colleague, the good Lady Evershed. Your words chastise me for my lack of empathy, though! No, I am talking about me. About my business. Zebulun, you forget that I peddle in wares that scare people. Granting me access to your inner world, revealing your soul to me? This is deeply terrifying to most people. Too intimate. Now add a tale that I destroyed a promising young artisan's career? I'll be sunk!”

“Then why tell me about all the dangers in the first place if you aren’t willing to take a risk?” I snarl.

Elias holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I am not a swindler or a showman, Zebulun. There is always a real possibility that things will fall apart, so I give an honest warning about the downside. I consider it my solemn duty to stop well before that point. Nonetheless, people deserve to know that this process isn't safe or painless. In fact, I am being transparent—a quality that a [Glassworker] ought to appreciate.”

Lady Evershed chuckles politely at the bad pun, but I freeze up. Elias could have called me a [Glass Smith], just like I claimed to be. But instead, he chose to quietly unmask my true Class. Why? What does he have to gain? Is he extorting me? Or giving me a chance to explain myself? How much else does he know?

“I’ll sign a statement declaring my extensive injuries and absolving you of any responsibility,” I suggest, clinging desperately to hope that we can make this work.

“In my experience, sensationalism most often tends to overshadow facts. I don't know that anyone will care to listen to the details or extenuating circumstances,” Elias says, shaking his head in disagreement.

“How many people know that I am here?” I ask.

“Only a few,” Lady Evershed says. “The overseer of the competition granted us a special dispensation, but I don’t think the information was widely shared that Elias is involved. Are you thinking we blame something else if things go poorly? I can equivocate and prevaricate with the best of them!”

“Not an entirely baseless idea,” Elias admits. He strokes his neatly-trimmed beard and makes a series of small noises in the back of his throat. “Still, rumors have a nasty life of their own.”

“Please,” I breathe, my voice barely even a whisper. “I need to try. I don’t have anything else left.”

Elias returns to my side, peering at me intently. “Not content with winning without any Skills, eh?” He tuts when I don’t reply, then lets out a soft, weary sigh. “Very well. I will try again—but only this once, if we fail. Last chance, no exceptions. Are we clear?”

I nod eagerly. “As clear as a pane of pure glass.”

Elias reaches for my shoulder again, frowning slightly in concentration. I grasp his hand instead, a sudden idea springing to mind.

“When I damaged my usual mana pathways and melted most of my Skills, the energy burned a new channel straight from my right hand, through my chest and core, and out my left hand. The expulsion of power disintegrated the fingers and palm. But perhaps you can delve down the broad new path, instead of trying to follow the twists and turns of the normal channels? You may meet less resistance. I don’t think it is clogged the same way.”

“By the ivory walls,” Elias swears, his eyes growing wide. “What in the abyss did you do to yourself, lad?”

“Trade secret,” I say with a wink, laughing weakly.

Elias groans, then joins me in laughter. “Ha! I suppose I deserved that. Very well. Let’s try your method, Zebulun. This will probably sting like kicking over a beehive while naked—not that I have any painful personal experience to draw on for that comparison!”

While I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the sheer stupidity required for Elias’s odd metaphor, he summons his mana. Before I can brace myself, the [Mimic Mage]’s singular Skill ignites. Torrents of raw energy rush forward. His Skill, [A Perfect Copy], takes root, slithering through the massive, gaping wound of a pathway that the Rift’s power cut through my center and piercing my core space.

Pain blooms in my chest. The spellform seems to shift from a wide network to a narrow needlepoint of pressure, drilling into my own Skill. The mana forces its way through the buildup of residue and debris preventing the flow of energy within me, burning like I’ve hugged a hot skillet fresh from the stovetop.

The warped, twisted structure of [Heat Manipulation] creaks ominously, then flares to life as Elias’s mana connects. A billowing wave of blistering heat erupts in the sitting room, lighting a curtain on fire near us.

“Stop burning things, Elias!” Lady Evershed snaps. A surge of mana accompanies her command as she activates her own [Greater Heat Manipulation], and the fire is extinguished in an instant. The room is plunged into a hissing field of freezing cold.

Elias drops the Skill, looking chagrined. As I’m about to celebrate, however, a shockwave of intense backlash shakes and thrums along my link to Elias in the wake of the Skill releasing. I scream at the pain, thrashing on the divan. Their concerned faces staring down at me is the last thing I see before darkness takes me.