The branding iron on the Burning Ledger Platform hovered three inches from Shen Yan's forehead. The iron plate glowed red, ready to burn a nameless mark into his skin. More than three hundred furnace workers stood below, silent, as a gray-robed clerk read aloud the material requisition slip from seven years ago. Signed by Shen Yan. All twenty-seven people on the roster had gone into the furnace. He admitted that the names were there because he'd signed the paper. Just as the heat was about to strike, the main furnace exploded. A crack split the furnace wall from its mouth all the way down, and rolling flames, like molten iron, poured over the platform. The crowd surged inward, shoved outward, and trampled people underfoot. Shen Yan rolled off the platform and dragged away the young flag-bearer, now black and red from the flames licking at him. Then he turned toward the crack, still spreading. He wrapped his outer robe around his hand and thrust it inside. The blisters on his palm burst and sizzled against the hot iron. All he could think of was the seam-filling recipe he'd learned from the old clerk: three parts charcoal ash, one part aged salt, six parts prepared clay, mixed until it could be rolled into a cord. When no one moved, he called out and crawled over himself to grab the ash. Blood turned the clay dark red. He shoved it into the crack, one lump at a time. The opening shrank from a palm's width to a finger's. The flames stopped. He held out his hand, burned down to the bone, and saw faint words emerge from an old scar in the web between his thumb and forefinger: "Repair the seventh furnace's inner wall seam, one job, two coins." The gray-robed clerk stared at the faint red mark on his forehead. His lips formed the words: It didn't brand him.
