Another couple of weeks passed, and Frost's visits to the workshop became a regular part of his routine.
On the days when training left him with enough time and energy, he would stop by before returning to his room, sometimes coming back after dinner if Jasmine was still working. She usually was.
At the moment, he sat beside her workbench, watching the tip of a slender quill move across a spherical orb.
He had hardly breathed properly for the past few minutes.
Jasmine was bent over the object, her goggles pulled over her eyes and her lips pressed into a thin line.
One hand held the orb in a padded clamp while the other guided the quill through a series of careful strokes.
A small triagram shimmered around the tool's tip, its faint, shimmering light churning as each new marking joined the inscription.
Frost had come to learn that the quill was worth considerably more than its appearance suggested.
