Loading the kiln! They chose a cloudy dawn.

The massive wood kiln loomed like a sleeping dragon, its mouth yawning open.


Charlotte, Lewis, Wilson, and two hired laborers carefully carried the glazed pieces into the chamber.

Each piece felt impossibly heavy. Charlotte's heart pounded in her throat.

"Something's off with this glaze," Wilson muttered, examining a piece under his flashlight. "This matte white has a blue tint. Doesn't match your test batches."


Charlotte leaned closer, squinting in the dim light. "Probably just the lighting? I followed the formula exactly." She kept her voice steady despite her racing heart.

The final piece entered the kiln. Heavy bricks sealed the door, leaving only the stoking port and spy hole open.


Fire!

Dry pine crashed into the firebox. WHOOSH! Flames erupted, orange-red tongues licking hungrily at the kiln walls.

The temperature began its climb.

The vigil began—three days and nights!

Charlotte barely slept, taking shifts with Lewis and Wilson. Stoking! Monitoring! Through the spy hole, flames shifted from orange to golden to blinding white… the thermometer climbing relentlessly.

Sweat drenched her clothes. Soot blackened her face. Her eyes burned from the fire's glare.

"Steady! Keep it even!" Lewis rasped. Too hot and pieces would warp or collapse; too cool and the glazes would be lifeless.

Every moment was agony. The fire consumed not just wood, but money, energy, and their last desperate hope.

On a distant hill, Jones's men watched through binoculars, cold smiles playing on their lips.