Asher, what are you doing? Ruvia's alarm was palpable. You shouldn't—
"No choice!" he gritted out, completing the rune. He channeled essence into the bloody marking, feeling a surge of heat that quickly became searing pain. The rune blazed with orange light, and flames erupted from his arm, dancing along his skin without consuming it. The agony was intense, like holding his arm in a forge, but the rune worked—the fire was real.
No! Ruvia cried. Drawing runes on living flesh is taboo! It causes permanent damage!
"Tell me that later!" Asher shouted, thrusting his flaming arm toward the nearest wolf. The creature yelped and backed away, its ears flattened against its skull. The other wolves hesitated, their electric blue eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
The fire spread from Asher's arm to the crimson spear, which blazed with renewed energy. The pain in his arm intensified, and he could smell his own burning flesh, but the wolves were retreating.
"Now's our chance," he gasped, sweat pouring down his face from the exertion and pain. "Which way is east?"
That direction, Ruvia indicated with a pulse of light. But Asher, your arm—
"Later!" he insisted and began backing away from the wolves, keeping his flaming arm extended toward them. The pack followed at a distance, unwilling to challenge the fire directly but equally unwilling to abandon their prey.
As Asher reached the edge of the clearing, a new sound reached them—a deeper, more resonant howl from somewhere in the trees. The lead wolf's ears perked up, and it answered with a howl of its own.
The alpha, Ruvia warned. We need to move now!
Asher didn't need to be told twice. He turned and ran, plunging into the forest in the direction Ruvia had indicated. Pain lanced through his arm with every step, and he knew the fire rune was burning deep into his flesh, perhaps to the bone. But his life depended on reaching the Republic now—both to escape the wolves and to find someone who might be able to treat the damage he'd done to himself.
Behind him, he could hear the wolves giving chase, their paws thudding against the forest floor. The alpha's thunderous bark urged the pack onward, but the wolves seemed reluctant to close the distance, still wary of the flames that continued to dance along Asher's arm and spear.
"How long will this last?" he panted as he ran, leaping over fallen logs and ducking under low branches.
The flames? Not much longer, Ruvia replied, her voice strained. But the damage... that may be permanent.
"Wonderful," Asher gasped, wincing as a fresh wave of pain shot through his arm. The fire was beginning to die down, the rune's power fading as his exhausted essence core struggled to maintain the spell.
He pushed harder, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the throbbing in his arm. The wolves were gaining now as the flames diminished, their caution giving way to predatory instinct.
There! Ruvia suddenly exclaimed. Look ahead!
Through the trees, Asher could make out a steep slope rising before them—the first foothills of the mountain range that separated the Thornehart Kingdom from the Republic. If they could reach higher ground, perhaps the wolves would abandon the chase.
With renewed determination, Asher sprinted toward the slope. Behind him, the alpha wolf let out a frustrated howl as it realized its prey was about to escape.
The lead wolf made one final, desperate lunge, jaws snapping just inches from Asher's heel. Without looking back, he channeled the last reserves of his essence into the fading fire rune. Pain exploded through his arm, but the flames flared brilliantly one last time, causing the wolf to veer away with a startled yelp.
That final burst was enough. Asher reached the slope and began to climb, using his good arm to pull himself up while cradling the injured one against his chest. The spear had reverted to Ruvia's orb form, the crimson light hovering protectively near his shoulder.
Below, the wolves paced at the bottom of the slope, their electric blue eyes glowing with frustrated hunger. The alpha threw back its head and unleashed a final, thunderous howl that seemed to shake the very air—a promise that this wasn't over.
But for now, at least, they were safe. Asher collapsed onto a flat ledge partway up the slope, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire rune on his arm had finally gone out, leaving behind charred, blackened skin surrounding the deep cuts where he'd carved the symbol.
Asher, Ruvia's voice was gentle but urgent in his mind. We need to tend to your arm. The damage is severe.
He nodded weakly, too exhausted to speak. As the adrenaline faded, the full extent of the pain was becoming apparent. His entire forearm felt as though it was still aflame, the nerves screaming in protest at the abuse they'd endured.
Why did you do that? Ruvia asked, hovering near the injury. Drawing runes on living flesh... it's one of the most forbidden practices among Runic Weavers.
"I didn't know," Asher croaked, his voice hoarse from exertion. "It was the only thing I could think of."
It saved our lives, Ruvia acknowledged. But at a terrible cost. Such wounds never fully heal. The essence burns too deep, marking not just the flesh but the spirit.
Asher stared at his ruined arm, the reality of his situation sinking in. "Well," he said finally, attempting a weak smile, "I guess I'll have a permanent reminder to learn proper Weaving techniques when we reach the Republic."
If we reach the Republic, Ruvia corrected gently. We still have a mountain range to cross, and you're injured.
"We'll make it," Asher said with more conviction than he felt. He looked eastward, where the mountains rose against the darkening sky. Somewhere beyond those peaks lay the Republic of Fele—and perhaps someone who could help him understand the power that had both saved and scarred him.
With a grimace of pain, he tore a strip from his tunic and carefully wrapped it around his injured arm. The fabric immediately began to stain with blood and clear fluid from the burn.
"We should keep moving," he said, struggling to his feet. "Those wolves might find another way up, and I'd rather not be here if they do."
Ruvia's light pulsed in agreement. There's a path along the ridge, she observed. It might be easier than climbing higher.
Asher nodded, cradling his injured arm. "Lead the way."
As they set off along the ridge, the last light of day fading behind them, Asher couldn't help but reflect on how quickly his life had changed. Three days ago, he had been a war slave, powerless and without hope. Now he was a fledgling Weaver with a Sprin companion, fleeing toward an uncertain future.
He glanced down at his bandaged arm, where blood was already seeping through the makeshift dressing. His first real act of Weaving had left a permanent mark—a scar that would never fade, a constant reminder of both the power and the price of the path he'd chosen.
***
The brass gears along the wall turned with mechanical precision, releasing small puffs of steam at regular intervals. Sunlight slanted through the large bay windows of the airship's command office, catching on polished copper fixtures and illuminating dancing dust motes in the air. The gentle hum of engines vibrated beneath everything, a constant reminder that they were thousands of feet above the ground.
Lady Elara Blackwood sat behind her ornate desk, her slender fingers idly tracing the inlaid patterns of brass and mahogany. Her blonde hair was meticulously arranged in an elegant updo, accentuating her striking features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to evaluate everything with calculating precision. Despite her youth, she carried herself with the poised confidence of someone born to command.
Before her stood Hemsworth, her head butler and most trusted advisor. His tall, slender frame was impeccably dressed in a formal suit, his posture perfect despite his advanced years. Silver hair was neatly combed back from a high forehead, and his weathered face remained expressionless as he delivered his report.
"Congratulations on your graduation from the academy," said the butler, giving a slight bow.
Elara waved a dismissive hand. "The academy was just a waste of time, a formality." She straightened a stack of papers on her desk with unnecessary precision. "Anyway, how is the task I gave you going?"
"We have made some progress in that matter," Hemsworth replied, his voice measured and proper. "It's the Holy Kingdom pulling strings from the shadows. They have placed spies in both the high senate in the Republic and the Thornehart Kingdom, feeding information to both sides—and the stupid people are eating it all up without questioning."
Elara's lips pressed into a thin line. "They are all blinded by greed." She looked up at Hemsworth, her eyes suddenly sharp with intensity. "Any progress on finding that bastard who killed my father?"
Hemsworth's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "My apologies, Lady. We have yet to find any clues, but since the Holy Kingdom is pulling the strings, we'll find him as soon as we identify the spies."
Elara stood and walked to the window, gazing out at the cloud banks beneath them and the patchwork landscape of the Republic far below. Her reflection in the glass showed a woman barely out of her teens, carrying burdens most would find crushing.
"My father believed in the possibility of peace between the Republic and Thornehart," she said quietly. "He died for that belief. I won't let his death be in vain, nor will I allow his killer to escape justice."
"Of course, Lady Elara," Hemsworth said. "We are pursuing every lead."