The days bleed together in Maldor's laboratory, each one a haze of tedium and revulsion. The horrors of this task and place have worn off somewhat, dulled by repetition. I spend hours etching runes into severed flesh, arms, torsos, faces, Maldor having expanded my canvas to all areas of the body. Genitals are particularly uncomfortable to work with.

  Yet with every cut, every repeated sequence, a strange comprehension grows. The patterns begin to reveal themselves, their structure unfolding before me.

  It feels.... uncomfortable. Dark, compared to the burning runes of Lucien’s scroll. But even so I do my best to embrace their meaning, interpreting them as best I can.

  Binding. Calling. Birth.

  Sequences that appear often. I still haven't memorized the runes though, it will take me more time. Possibly much more time. I haven't decided whether I'll leave with Luna and the others yet, but... I should be prepared if I do. After all, this could be my last chance to learn from Maldor...

  I should write them down, I need parchment and a quill. Something to record Maldor's work so I can study later.

  But after a quick glance I find no such tools on the tables. No scrolls. No ink.

  I suppose I could just steal a limb or two.

  .....Then again, maybe not.

  I'm not carrying one of these things with me.

  I frown and push back from the stone slab and stand. My eyes roam the dim space as I move away, letting my boots carry me slowly between cluttered tables and shelves, exploring the laboratory with cautious curiosity.

  Braziers line the floor in uneven intervals, their iron bowls heavy with cold ash. I snap my fingers as I pass, and each bursts into flame with a sharp whoosh, a comforting heat washing over me. Another benefit of my time under Maldor’s tutelage, these new runes have deepened my grasp of the old, the ones I've studied so tirelessly.

  Fire feels almost natural to my body now, I can withstand significant heat, and the sparks that burst from my fingertips answer to my will with far greater precision than before, darting and swirling as I guide them. With a small gesture I can kindle tinder from a short distance or engulf my own hands in flame. Such tricks cost me little energy now, and though they lack the lethality of the true firebolt, they provide utility that I enjoy.

  The laboratory brightens with each brazier I awaken, flickering light chasing shadows from the walls. Yet there’s still no trace of parchment.

  You'd think a laboratory would have an ample supply.

  My steps slow as my gaze catches on a narrow archway to the side, one I hadn’t noticed before. It's dark, leading deeper, beyond the route Two had shown me when we first came here. Curiosity blooms inside my chest, urging me toward the unseen.

  I'm not sure what the future holds for me in this place, but I should learn its layout.

  So I gather my nerve... and continue my exploration.

  Spiders crawl everywhere in this corridor, big and small. They scuttle across the ceiling, disappear into cracks, and nest within the many crude alcoves. They seem to pay me no mind, unlike before, as if somehow understanding that I am under the wing of their master.

  My thought drift back to the one I killed at Podrick’s farm. It had been a little larger than these. Monstrous and terrifying, but also somewhat... intelligent. Something in its eyes...

  They'll attack the moment I raise a hand to Maldor. I'm certain of it... I'll need to be careful.

  I move deeper into the corridor, where the air grows mustier with each step. The walls begin to narrow and slope, and shift from a dark gray to a murky white. They're not carved, but nor do they seem natural. Instead, it seems more... grown, like bone calcified around the stone.

  A faint chittering grows louder from deeper in, more spiders I assume. But I can go no further. A massive veil of webbing bars the way. Layer upon layer of thick, fibrous silk stretched from wall to wall, glistening faintly in the dim light. I reach out and press my hand to it. It clings instantly, sticky and elastic, pulling at my skin as if it wants to trap me. I push harder, but it doesn’t give. The strands resist with a terrible resilience, like muscle cords straining against intrusion.

  I can’t push through it... and I’m not sure I want to. A sick dread wells up within me, whatever lies beyond that curtain of silk.... I'm not meant to see it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Hopefully not ever.

  I step back instinctively, heart pounding.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Behind me, I hear the soft scuttle of approaching legs and turn quickly, only to see Maldor standing in silence, watching.

  My heart jolts, and I fumble for words. "Just... looking for parchment," I manage, the honest truth for some reason clumsy on my tongue.

  Maldor’s hood tilts. "Why?"

  "To write down what you've shown me," I reply. "So I can study it... alone."

  He regards me in silence for a beat longer than is comfortable. Then he shakes his head slowly. "Ink and parchment will not do. The depths of my work cannot be captured by such means."

  He turns slightly, gloved hand gesturing deeper into the laboratory. "There may be another way... if your eagerness is genuine."

  I hesitate, then nod... and follow.

  He leads me to one of the chained prisoners, fresh, still alive. The man hangs limp from iron restraints bolted into the ceiling, skin bruised and bloodied, eyes wild with fear. Maldor gestures to him and says simply, "Mark him. As you did the limbs."

  He wants me to slice up... a living man?

  I freeze at his request and he sees the hesitation clearly. Stepping closer, his speaks, tone cold and measured. "This is for the sake of your tutelage. I will impart knowledge to you now. Do not waste the opportunity."

  For a moment, I consider refusing. But then... I step forward. The prisoner whimpers, voice cracking with desperation. "Please... please, don't."

  I steady him with one hand, press the blade to his arm with the other. My stomach churns, but my movements are practiced now. I carve what I've memorized, each rune slicing cleanly into living flesh. Unlike the limbs, he cries out with every mark, body convulsing against the chains.

  But.... more than his cries, I notice something more. An energy pulses under his skin, heat and light moving beneath the runes. They begin to shimmer and swirl, not just on the surface, but deep within, as if threading themselves through his very soul.

  I step back, shaken. Maldor’s voice cuts through the moment, calm but insistent. "You saw it, did you not? The mana."

  "Mana…" I echo.

  He nods slowly. “The formless energy that exists beyond the physical realm. The unseen current of the cosmos, flowing between this world and all others. It is an amalgam of thought, dream, and power, drawn from and focused by your mind and will. Most importantly, it is what we sorcerers harness to power our magics."

  He circles the prisoner, eyes glinting beneath his hood. "To command it, we must draw it forth. But such extraction is no simple task. It resists definition by its nature. We must give it structure, force it into being." he gestures to the glowing runes etched in blood, "These are our key. The script, the ancient language of will and change. Runes allow us to channel that power."

  He points to my hands. "The scars burned into your palms facilitate your fire. And the markings we carve into this living vessels-" he motions to the prisoner writhing in chains, "-they channel his."

  His voice drops lower. "I'll ask again. You felt it, did you not? The energy coursing through him as your blade worked. That is mana, drawn out by my text. In the dead, we can extract some fragments. But the living... the living offers all. All subjects life has to give."

  The prisoner sobs as we speak, his voice raw and pleading. "P-Please sirs! I have a family! I don't understand-" I feel an emptiness inside me as I watch the man. His eyes meeting mine, pleading.

  Maldor steps forward and lays a hand across his face. The man shudders, then slackens, slipping into sudden, unnatural sleep.

  I find my voice. "What’s the point of drawing forth his mana?"

  Maldor answers without pause. "The mana within ourselves is often insufficient for higher workings. Greater rituals demand more. More power, more structure, more will." He says with a sigh, as if it's a shortcoming he's personally experienced.

  "That which is inside us can of course be expanded through use. Practice. Time. Like anything else. However, there are limits, and utilizing that which lies in others is a simple way to overcome such limits. Provided one possesses the specific means to shape and direct their input."

  He recenters the discussion, his tone steady. "But that is beyond you. For now, know that if you truly wish to take this knowledge with you, to study it alone, then dead parchment will fail you." he says. "To capture the depth of my work, true flesh must be used."

  I blink, unsure. "Flesh?"

  "The surest way," he says. "Is your own."

  My stomach turns.

  He wants me to carve runes onto myself...?

  Maldor nods in reply to my unspoken question. Then, slowly, he lifts both hands to his hood and draws it back.

  The sight is mortifying. His face is gaunt, skeletal, his scalp bare and pale, skin stretched thin over bone. Every inch is etched in runes. Forehead, cheeks, throat, there’s not a patch of clean flesh. Even his eyelids and the whites of his seemingly blind eyes are engraved, the lines pulsing faintly as if alive.

  "This," he says, "is the cost of knowledge."

  His blind gaze fixes on me. "I leave the choice to you. You must decide what you are willing to sacrifice."

  With that final word, he dismisses me. My work is done for the night, but the weight of his words presses heavy on my chest. I walk in silence, each step echoing with doubt, a severed arm in my hand. How far will I go to learn this magic? To survive Two? To claim strength over Vael? I replay Maldor’s suggestion over and over... his body covered in runes, a testament to his sacrifice. I think of the blade in my hand, the runes I’ve carved, the man I marked. About doing it to myself.

  Would I become like him if I did?

  I kick myself at the thought.

  Always it comes down to the same question. Will I be like Zaenith? Like Two? Like Maldor? If I walk a similar path to them.

  Does it really even matter?

  At the end of the day, whatever path I take... it always is still me in the end... right?

  ...............

  Cutting runes... into my own body...

  Am I really so far gone... that I'm considering it?

  I know what Luna would say...

  I sit in silence under the torchlight, holding up the severed arm I took from Maldor's laboratory. The runes look familiar. The ones I've worked with the most by far. The ones I've come closest to understanding.

  I've decided.

  What I'll do about Maldor. About Luna. About Two.

  The plan forms in my mind, carefully considered, finally, coming together after days of thought.

  I hope this works. I really do.

  Because if it doesn't.....

  I drop the severed arm on the stone floor, beneath the torchlight and draw my knife.

  Then I pull back the tunic on my right arm.

  And carve.

  Results

  + 1 Mana