In fact, the bar he was working on looked unchanged, but he’d pulled enough iron from it that the cloud between his hands was nearly black. He bent his fingertips, and the particles spun, whirring into a tightening spiral that grew narrower and denser. Jesper dropped his hands, and a slender needle fell to the floor with a musical ping. Wylan snatched it up, holding it so the light gleamed over its dull surface. “You’re a Fabrikator,” Matthias said grimly. “Just barely.” “You either are or you aren’t,” said Wylan. “I am.”
