Yesterday
The heat hit her first. A dry, aggressive wave that carried the scent of scorched clay and splintered wood. Then came the screaming.
Anya rounded the corner onto Willow Lane, her heart hammering against her ribs. The scene was chaos. Flames licked from the kiln room's shattered window of the Willowbrook Pottery Collective. A thick, oily plume of black smoke coiled into the sky.
Mira, her face a mask of soot and grim determination, was dragging a younger, weeping potter away from the blazing doorway.
"The seasonal inventory!" the younger woman sobbed, her hands clutching at the air. "It's all—it's all in there!"
A loud groan cut through the crackle of the fire. A roof beam, charred and buckling, sagged inward.
Anya didn't think. She ran forward, grabbing the younger potter's other arm. "Get back! The whole roof could go!"
Together, she and Mira pulled the hysterical woman to the safety of the street. The other potters huddled together, their faces pale with shock, watching months of their labor vanish into embers and ash.
---
Today
The smell of smoke was a ghost on Willow Lane, a faint, stubborn memory of the disaster.
Anya found the shop-front between a weaver and a woodcarver. The hand-painted sign was simple: Willowbrook Pottery Collective. The window was smudged, but the door was open.
She took a steadying breath, the memory of yesterday's heat still vivid on her skin.
Okay. Time to see the damage.
Inside, the air was cool and carried the scent of wet earth, a desperate attempt to wash away the fire. The main room was a workshop. Shelves lined the walls, filled with finished pots, bowls, and vases. No two were exactly alike.
Mira looked up from a pottery wheel in the corner. The kind eyes were the same, but the grim set of her mouth from the day before had settled into a deep, weary line. A streak of gray clay stood out in her dark hair. Her hands were covered in a fine layer of slip.
"You're the guild organizer," Mira said. It wasn't a question. Her voice was calm, but her shoulders were tight.
"Anya. And you must be Mira."
Mira nodded. She didn't smile. "We got your message. Thank you for coming."
She gestured to the room. Four other potters were at workstations, their movements careful, subdued. The rhythmic hum of the spinning wheel was the only loud sound.
They're terrified. They're waiting for me to pronounce their sentence.
---
"It was the new kiln," Mira explained, leading Anya to the back. "The one the guild recommended for 'efficiency.'"
The kiln room was a mess of shattered brick and blackened debris. The explosion had been contained, but the destruction was absolute. Anya recognized the scorched beam she'd seen sag from the street.
"Our entire inventory for the seasonal market was in there," Mira said softly. "Months of work. Gone."
She picked up a shard of a beautiful, glazed plate. It was a deep blue, now cracked and useless.
"Gareth's people were already here this morning," she continued, her voice flat. "They did an assessment. They said our 'output-per-labor-hour' was already less than ideal. This… incident… makes us an 'unsustainable risk.'"
She looked directly at Anya. "They're recommending the guild to revoke our charter. Cut us loose."
The words hung in the dusty air. A death sentence.
This is what efficiency looks like. It's clean, and it's cruel.
"But the kiln was their recommendation!" Anya protested.
Mira just shrugged, a gesture of profound exhaustion. "The report says we must have operated it incorrectly. The data doesn't lie."
---
Back in the main studio, Mira picked up a finished bowl from a shelf. She handed it to Anya.
"Here."
The bowl was heavier than it looked. Its walls were thick, slightly uneven. The glaze was a swirl of green and brown, like a forest floor.
Anya ran her thumb over the surface. It felt alive. Dense with intention.
"It's beautiful," she said, and meant it.
"It's slow," Mira corrected gently. "It's imperfect. It would get a low score in that new system of his."
She took the bowl back and placed it carefully on its shelf. Then she picked up another one. This one had a fine, hairline crack running down its side.
"This one," Mira said, "is a failure. By most standards."
She held it up to the warm afternoon light filtering through the dusty window.
"I could throw it out. Start over. Be more efficient." She looked at Anya, her gaze sharp and clear. "Or I can fill the crack with gold leaf. Make the break part of its story. Make it stronger, and more valuable."
She paused, letting the weight of the metaphor settle.
"Which does your union do, Anya?"
The question hit Anya like a physical blow. It was the entire conflict, right here in this dusty room. In this cracked bowl.
Gareth's union would throw it out. Her father's story was proof of that. People were disposable when they broke.
But her union? The one she believed in?
It has to be the one that mends.
She looked at Mira's hands, the clay permanently worked into the creases of her skin. She saw the other potters, watching silently, their hope as fragile as the pottery they made.
She didn't have a plan. She didn't have data or revenue projections.
All she had was a memory of her father's broken hands, and a belief that people weren't tools.
"I'm going to fight for you," Anya said. Her voice was quiet, but it didn't shake. "I don't know how yet. But I promise you, I will fight."
Mira studied her face for a long moment. She seemed to be looking for something. Sincerity, perhaps. Or just strength.
Finally, she gave a slow, single nod.
"Good," she said. She placed the cracked bowl back on the workbench. "Then we have work to do."
---
Anya walked out of the studio, the scent of clay lingering on her clothes. The bowl's weight was still a memory in her hands.
I promised. Now what? How do I fight a system with nothing but a feeling?
Gareth had data. She had a cracked pot and a righteous anger. That wouldn't be enough in a guild hall debate.
She needed leverage. She needed to understand why that kiln failed. If it was a flaw in the guild's recommendation, that was a weapon.
She needed to talk to Kai. An Artificer would understand the mechanics. He could look at the wreckage, find the truth the data was hiding.
And she needed Leo. He understood the heart of things, the philosophy. He could help her find the words for this feeling, to turn mending into a argument that could win.
She picked up her pace, her steps firm on the cobblestones. The fear was still there, but it was now joined by a fierce, protective resolve.
She had made a promise. It was a promise with weight.
And she knew exactly where she needed to go to make good on it.