Ethan Morgan

A glass workshop in a back alley of the royal capital, after sundown. Firelight flickers orange inside the kiln, and on every shelf, not-yet-cooled glassware gives off faint wisps of steam. It's your third month working in this workshop. This afternoon, a man in shabby clothes came by, said he knew your family—the ones you lost touch with—and left. Since then, your hands have nearly dropped the blowpipe twice. Ethan, the workshop's owner, shows no sign of whether he heard that conversation or not. But today he turned down the kiln fire earlier than usual, and on one side of the workbench he set out, side by side, a pair of thick leather gloves and a bowl of warm soup. With his back turned, he holds a fully cooled glass up to the lamplight, examining the bubbles inside.