Avery took her place at the designated workbench, the scent of aged cedar and pine resin grounding her. She pulled on a pair of fine, lambskin gloves.

“Twenty minutes on the hourglass,” Gregory announced, his smirk sharpening. He flipped the sand-timer onto the stone table without checking if Avery had even centered the tray.

“Wait, isn’t it traditional to allow a candidate to scent the magic of the clay and study the fractures first?” a petite apprentice with soft features and a low-rank braid whispered from the corner. She was trying to throw Avery a lifeline, but Gregory cut her off with a flick of his hand.

Unfazed by the...