Inside Workshop Three, the air was as hot and dry as a smoldering iron pot. The sour smell of steam-treated oak mingled with rust, filling every inch of the room.
Anton wiped the sweat from his face, his callused hands holding a curved oak board steady. Instead of bringing his hammer down by feel as he once had, he looked up at the sheet of parchment posted on the wall directly in front of his workstation.
It was the "Standard Oak Barrel Manufacturing Manual, Third Edition."
The diagram broke the process down into detailed steps, with neat lines of Common Tongue instructions beside them. Anton narrowed his eyes, his gaze settling on the fourth specification: "Curvature calibration: steam-softening time must be no less than fifteen minutes. Maintain a seventy-five-degree angle when inserting the board into the mold to ensure uniform tension along the inner wall."
Three months ago, those twisting, snakelike letters would have been utterly incomprehensible to him. Now, they were tools-tools even more useful than the hammer in his hand.
Anton took a deep breath, adjusted the board's angle, and brought his hammer down.
Thonk.
Clean and solid. The board slotted snugly into the base without the slightest rebound.
A few veteran craftsmen nearby who had yet to pass the literacy assessment stole glances at him, their eyes filled with envy and jealousy. They still had to rely on experience and trial and error, tapping away for ages before finding the right position. Anton's efficiency now was frightening.
"What are you all staring at? Have you stopped working?"
A rough shout broke through the workshop's rhythm. Rogan strode inside, slapping his clipboard with a series of sharp cracks.
The clanging in the workshop grew sparse.
Rogan stood in the middle of the aisle, sweeping his gaze over everyone