It felt a lot like writing, if Fate had to compare it to something. Only instead of a pen, Fate used his Mana. And in lieu of a language, he used something several stages higher in significance: his Facet.
He completely lost himself in the sharp turns and wicked lines within the glass ball, his Mana gliding effortlessly along the path laid out by Professor Redek. True to the professor's words, as Fate grew more and more engrossed in trailing and tracing the copper wire, he could see the veteran's thought process during the creation of this work of art.
For it was a work of art, one that used the highest medium to convey its intentions.
Every sudden change in direction was a window into Redek's philosophy of striking back with twice the force levied against you. Every curve, whether gentle or harsh, was representative of Redek's belief that Pride was unyielding, a sentiment Fate could relate to.
Fate, himself, was a prideful person. What else could you call his decisions?
When he was faced with starvation, his father not giving two shits about his situation, Fate could have asked Old Man Travis for a raise. He was a Mage, he had hundreds of Lights to spare for his best worker.
When, on that fateful day, he spent his last coin on a morsel of bread, and realized he was desperate, he could have asked Samantha for help. She was rich, though she didn't like to talk about it, and she would've gladly helped him out in return for all the times he did the same for her.
Before the Guard handed down Fate's sentence, to be whipped thirty-six times with no regard for his life or death after the fact, the man gave him an out. Seeing as he was barely fourteen years of age, the Guard knew Fate was unlikely to survive. So the Guard, reflecting Empress Settan's generosity, gave him a second option. The first option was the aforementioned thirty-six lashes. The second… Fate had to apologize to Ms. Appleton.
But Fate refused to do so. He refused to do any of those things.
On the surface, Ms. Appleton was a sweet lady, but he knew well that she paid the village's boys to throw rotten apples at him. She even provided the apples. How did he know this? He overheard it with his own ears, that very same day he snuck into her orchard.
Before making his way to the trees, he crept around her house to see if she was home, using the abundant bushes and hedges to conceal himself. That was when he found her on her porch, rocking in her signature wooden chair with a half-finished quilt in hand as she pointed at a bucket with a sewing needle.
"There's the rotten apples in there," she had said with a gentle smile belying her insidious nature. "Another batch ruined by that horrid boy's presence. I've been saying for fourteen years that the boy's cursed, and there's the proof right there.
"Every third batch of apples comes out spoiled. Gretham Jenkins can't even get a month's worth of corn out of the ground without finding locusts gnawing away at them, and don't even get me started on poor Herbert. All of this started when that dastardly boy was born. You sweet things will help an old lady, won't you? There's coin in it for you, like always."
Needless to say, it was an eye-opener. Fate had known for years that the village's crop yield had plummeted, but he didn't know that the farmers blamed him for it. So he laughed in the Guard's face and gladly submitted for the lashings.
The whole reason Samantha cut ties with him was that he had the option to ask for help and didn't take it. Old Man Travis proved right away that he didn't mind paying Fate more. Fate knew he had ways to save himself from heartache and an empty belly, but his pride was one of the few things he had had left in the world.
Not just that, but it was something integral to his survival at the time.
He had begged the bullies to stop once, a long time ago. He was five at the time, and his mom had been in the next village over that month on an errand for the church's priest. A task that would pay enough to get a new set of clothes for Fate, something he seemed to go through once a week.
His face had been covered in tears and snot ran down, mixing with blood from his shattered nose. The kids his age had decided to play a game called "throw rocks at the freak," the rules of which were obvious.
His begging had only made it worse. Getting a reaction they had deemed "funny," they only threw all the harder. And when he went home that night…
His father's belt was waiting.
Just like when Fate was whipped to the point of incoherence, his father cared nothing for the reason of his actions, or even the results. He only cared that his son had shown weakness, shown that perhaps his father's parenting wasn't perfect.
That was when he started his secret training in the woods. He'd wake up early in the mornings and stay up late at night, punching trees until his knuckles bled and running until his knees felt like they would give out. His mother always wondered why he came home drenched in sweat, but he simply passed it off on the heat in Old Man Travis' workshop.
The enigmatic patterns these wires followed reminded him of those times, when pride was a shield and a sword to protect himself with.
Those lightning-like strokes were the sword, as harsh and vindicative as he was, lashing out at attackers with the intent of putting them in their place.
These curves, as winding as a river, as indestructible as water, were the shield, bending with the attacks levied against him only to prime the sword for retaliation.
His eyes opened with a flash, blue pupils glowing within the darkness of his sclera as he completed the pattern. With a thought, he sent some Mana into the object, activating the newly formed enchantment within.
The sound of shattering glass resounded, the ball before him breaking into hundreds of pieces and flying in every direction. The students nearby screamed and ducked under the table to avoid the rain of shards, but Fate remained unmoved.
He was scratched and cut, blood trickling down from dozens of shallow cuts along his arms, chest, and face. His eyes remained unharmed, however, an errant piece of glass hovering scant inches from his eyeball as he stared blankly at the spot the glass ball had sat in.
Then, his Facet stirred.