The next morning guards come to escort me from my madeshift prison. Nobody has visited during the night, but the pain of my burns has faded away as if through magic. I’m not sure if that means my face is healed, or that the pain has just been numbed to the extend I don’t feel it any more. Touching my face feels different. I wonder if Mairi would even recognize me if she saw me? I really hope she isn’t putting herself in danger on my account, but there should be at least one more day before she takes any drastic action.
I’m heaved into a standing position when I’m not quick enough getting up, and the two guards half drag, half push me from the room. I blink at the sunlight streaming in my face when we step outside. I’d expected a dungeon, but it appears that the building I was in just keeps out the light very well. We’re in a kind of small courtyard, surrounded by three meter high cobbled stone walls. In one of the far walls is a closed gate, reinforced with metal, and with the crossbar in place. A smaller door inside the large gate stands open though. It somehow immediately gives me the feel of an embassy, but it seems weird for a country at the brink of war to maintain one, and one of the first places the League would look if anything went to shit, so that can’t be it.
The courtyard is mostly cobbled, but surrounding the large mansion it sits in front of is a well maintained garden, which in turn is surrounded by the same three meter high wall. The mansion towers several stories into the sky, but reminds me of nothing so much as a church, or temple of some kind. I can hear the sounds of the city surrounding us, and can see people passing by in the small glimpse I have of the scene though the open doorway. I briefly contemplate yelling for help, but realize that it’s probably pointless. There’s too much noise, the distance is too great, and it’d just get ignored.
They lead me up the steps into the mansion. We walk through a maze of corridors, their boots echoing off stone walls that could have been lifted straight from a medieval monastery. Elaborate archways occasionally break up the monotony of rough-hewn stone, their weathered surfaces hinting at centuries of history. Despite my painful burns, I can’t help but notice how the architecture shifts from utilitarian to something more ceremonial as we progress deeper into the building, with occasional stained glass windows of unknown scenes casting colorful shadows across our path.
As we continue our journey through the winding corridors, I find myself lingering on the stained glass windows we pass. They seem oddly out of place in this austere setting, splashes of vibrant color against the cold stone walls. The first depicts a robed figure with hands raised toward a sky filled with what looks like falling stars—or perhaps energy descending from above. The glass catches the light in a way that makes the scene appear to move, as if the power is actively flowing into the figure’s upturned palms.
Another window shows what I can only describe as a battle scene, though unlike any historical battle I recognize. Figures in elaborate robes face off against shadowy forms, with tendrils of colored light—magic, presumably—connecting the combatants. The artistry is remarkable; whoever crafted these windows managed to convey both beauty and terrible power in the same image. The lead figures stand tall while others around them cower or fall, their faces etched with an eerie combination of rapture and agony.
We pass a particularly striking window depicting a circular arrangement of figures surrounding what appears to be a pool or well of light. The central glow is crafted from pieces of clear glass that sparkle like diamonds when the sun hits them just right. The surrounding figures—men and women both—have their hands linked in what might be prayer or ritual, their faces turned toward the light with expressions of reverence.
“What are these scenes?” I ask one of the guards, but receive only a stony silence in return. Classic.
The final window we pass is larger than the others, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling. It shows a single figure holding what appears to be a simple cup, similar to the kind you’d see in any medieval tavern. But from this cup pours light that transforms into streams of water, fire, earth, and air—at least that’s what the colored glass suggests. The figure’s face is serene but powerful, and strangely, it’s the only face in any of the windows that seems to be looking directly at the viewer.
A shiver runs down my spine as we move past it. There’s something unsettlingly familiar about these images—like walking through the illustrated pages of a history I should know but don’t recall studying. The sinking feeling in my stomach suggests whatever awaits me has something to do with the strange powers depicted in these windows.
The room they finally lead me to is vast, its high vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow despite the afternoon light streaming through tall, narrow windows. The space reminds me of the chemistry labs from high school, though the comparison feels almost sacrilegious given the ancient grandeur of this place. I’ve been in cathedrals less impressive than this room. I feel like I should have recognized this building if I had seen it from the outside. It’s hard to hide a four story tall cathedral, even in a city this size. Stone tables are arranged in a semi-circle, each bearing an assortment of implements that gleam dully in the filtered light.
It’s silly how empty this room is, as if it’s currently unused for it’s intended purpose. There should be pews, or an altar, or basically anything to indicate some form of worship, but the room is otherwise empty.
My footsteps echo hollowly as I move further into the room, taking in the various stations with growing apprehension. One table holds what appears to be a collection of crystals arranged by size and color, while another displays an array of metal implements that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval torture chamber. A third table bears nothing but a single clay cup filled with what appears to be water, though something about it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The whole setup triggers memories of practical exams from my school days—the neat arrangements, the methodical organization, the implicit expectation of performing some activities. But where those tests had involved simple chemistry equipment and safety goggles, these stations hold items that pulse with barely contained power. Even without accessing quick-sight, I think I can feel some pressure humming in the air, making my skin prickle despite the lingering pain of my burns.
Dust motes dance in the shafts of light that pierce the gloom, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere that contrasts sharply with the practical nature of the setup before me. The stone walls seem to press in around us, their ancient weight bearing down with the accumulated gravity of centuries. Whatever test they have planned for me, this room was clearly designed to remind people of their own insignificance in the face of whatever power these people worship or used to worship. The way they’ve cleared out the room to use it for a test doesn’t suggest any particular reverence.
As I wait, a familiar sensation tugs at my awareness—that same magnetic pull I felt in the forest, though far more concentrated and precise. It grows stronger by the moment, and I find myself turning toward the door before it even opens, like a compass needle drawn to true north. The source moves with purpose through the building, growing closer with each passing moment, and I wonder if this is what they meant by ‘testing.’
The door creaks open to admit a single figure—an older man in a faded grey tunic that’s seen better days. His weathered face and stooped shoulders give him the appearance of a retired craftsman rather than whatever I expected from someone in this imposing place. But there’s no mistaking that he’s the source of the pulling sensation—it radiates from him like heat from a furnace, though I can’t tell if it’s coming from him directly or something he carries.
He approaches one of the stone tables and sets down a small vial that seems to pulse with contained power. The liquid inside glows with that familiar blue luminescence I’ve come to associate with juice, but there’s something different about it—more concentrated, more refined than the raw power of the fruits I consumed. The pull I feel from it is almost painful in its intensity, like a fish hook lodged beneath my sternum, and I have to resist the urge to step closer.
“Drink it,” he says simply, motioning towards the vial with one gnarled finger. His casual command sends a jolt of anxiety through me—this isn’t some forest fruit I stumbled across, but something deliberately crafted. The rational part of my mind screams that drinking strange magical concoctions in what amounts to a temple is a terrible idea, but another part of me is drawn to that familiar blue glow like a moth to flame. I stare at the vial, my heart pounding as I weigh my options, though I suspect refusing isn’t really one of them.
I lift the vial with trembling fingers, the pull almost unbearable now that I’m so close. The liquid slides down my throat like liquid lightning, nothing like the gentle sweetness of the fruits. It hits my system with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, my vessel convulsing as power floods through channels that were designed for a gentler flow. The sensation of replenishment turns violent, like trying to fill a water balloon with a fire hose, and I have to brace myself against the stone table to remain standing.
When the initial shock subsides, I’m left with a strange hollowness, as if the forceful refill has somehow stretched my capacity. The juice settles at roughly half of my usual capacity, but it feels different somehow—more volatile, less stable than what I got from the fruits. My vessel continues to shudder occasionally, like aftershocks following an earthquake, and I can’t shake the feeling that this artificial refill has changed something fundamental within me, though I couldn’t begin to explain what or how, or whether it’s good or bad. The vessel it otherwise pretty stable, so a shudder running through it doesn’t bode well.
The old man wastes no time on pleasantries, his weathered face settling into an expression of intense concentration. “Tell me what rune I’m forming,” he says, his tone making it clear this isn’t a request. He’s clearly aware I speak their language, and perfectly happy to skip any pleasantries. There’s something mechanical about his demeanor, as if he’s performed this exact test countless times before, and he already knows how everything will turn out, though his eyes betray a sharp intelligence beneath the practiced routine.
I slip into quick-sight, relief washing over me as the lingering pain from my burns fades to a distant memory. The world slows to its familiar crawl, and there, hanging in the air between us, is possibly the simplest rune I’ve ever seen—just three straight lines intersecting at precise angles. It’s so basic that I find myself wondering if this is some kind of trick, like a teacher starting with the alphabet before moving on to actual words. I figured that detection rune and the fire rune were simple, but this is almost banal. Like being handed a child’s wooden block after solving complex equations
After a moment’s hesitation, I clear my throat. “Would you like me to sketch it out for you?” The words leave my mouth before I can really think them through, and I immediately realize I’ve said something wrong. The old man’s studied indifference falters, and his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. He studies me with sharp interest.
The silence that follows feels heavy with significance, though I’m not entirely sure why. The old man’s frowns deeply, and I watch as he exchanges a meaningful look with someone behind me. I jerk around, surprised that there is anyone else there. I find myself staring into the captain’s bemused face. He must have come in at some point while I was still dealing with the effects of drinking that potion. Regardless, whatever I’ve just revealed, is clearly more than the old man expected from this test, and I have no clue whether that’s a good thing or not.
The captain describes to the man how I seem to have immediately picked up the heat rune as well somehow. How I’d grasped and replicated it almost instantly during our confrontation. It doesn’t even occur to him that I might have known it ahead of time. That edge of condescencion is back. Clearly it’s impossible that a commoner would have known any runes at all. The old man’s eyebrows climb even higher at this information, and I notice his gaze sharpening as he studies me with some intensity. Something about their reactions finally clicks into place—they’re impressed by my ability to recognize and reproduce them so fast.
The realization hits me like a bucket of cold water. All this time, I’ve assumed everyone can see the runes as clearly as I do, that the geometric patterns floating in the air during quick-sight were obvious to any channeler. But their reactions suggest otherwise—what’s crystal clear to me may be something else entirely to them, invisible entirely, or maybe a stronger version of that blur effect? The captain’s physical turn to look behind himself during our fight takes on different meaning—he might not have been trying to see what I was forming, he might have just been surprised there was anything at all. That seems wrong though, because he clearly knew it was there before looking.
I force my expression to remain neutral as I process this information, though my mind is racing. If most channelers can’t actually see the runes, if they have to work purely by feel, it would explain so much—why learning new runes typically takes months if you don’t have them written down, why the old man and captain were so shocked by my instant replication. What I don’t understand is why? What is different between us? The kids certainly seem to have had no issues seeing and replicating the runes just as quickly as me. Faster even. That tells me it can’t be a matter of natural skill. I’m willing to believe some of them are better than the others, but we didn’t pick the kids that got fruits for their natural talent, it was a pure lottery.
The old man must see the confusion on my face—I really should get better at hiding my emotions—and he elaborates. “Most channelers require weeks of dedicated practice to grasp even simple runes,” he says, his tone carefully neutral despite the intensity of his gaze. “Yet you claim to have replicated a combat rune after seeing it only once. How?” The question hangs in the air between us, and I can feel the weight of the captains gaze eyes on my back, waiting for my response.
What will I answer here? They’ve just broken all my assumptions about channeling. I figured it’d be the same for everyone. Whether it’s those men on the carts, or the government soldiers. I don’t want them to think I’m in any way exceptional. From what I’ve heard from the captain, being a commoner that can channel and fell over a few fruits is already exceptional enough. I need to figure out what the baseline is, and then stick to that regardless of my actual capabilities. If I become too valuable they’ll never let me escape. I decide on some meaningless drivel until I know more.
“I’ve always been good with patterns,” I say slowly, choosing my words with deliberate care. “When I see something, I can usually reproduce it pretty quickly.” It’s not exactly a lie—I am good with patterns, and I can reproduce what I see. It’s just a big question mark if they can see as well as I can. The old man’s eyes narrow slightly at my response, and I can practically feel him filing away this information for later consideration.
The old man’s weathered fingers absentmindedly trace patterns in the air, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. “Walk me through your process,” he says, his voice carrying the practiced patience of a longtime instructor. “When you feel a rune being formed, what exactly do you… perceive?” There’s something careful in how he phrases the question, as if he’s trying to avoid making assumptions about what I’m actually capable of.
I consider my response carefully, aware that I’m treading dangerous ground. There’s a hint in how he worded that though. He didn’t use 'see’ at all. Do I 'feel’ a rune being formed? The answer is a resounding yes. Even if I don’t see them, I know the runes are there. I could percieve the runes I formed behind my back when snapping my bonds after all. I knew they were there, and what they were, but did I really perceive them properly? I close my eyes, and try to ignore the image of the rune the old man just formed. Do I still ‘feel’ it as clearly when I can’t see it? It’s hard to separate what I know to be there from what I can ‘feel’ to be there. Even if I’ve used my spark on instinct a lot, it’s still very much a new organ. It’s the difference between just seeing the world using your eyes, and knowing the mechanics of how light gets passed through your lens and gets received by the photoreceptor cells. I know nothing about the spark.
“Well?” The old man prompts me. I realize that me standing there clearly thinking over my answer may give them the wrong impression too, so I rush to answer.
“It’s like watching someone write in the air,” I say slowly, trying to describe something that seems so natural to me now. “The lines appear one by one, or multiple at the same time, building a pattern piece by piece.” I pause, noting how the old man’s expression shifts subtly at my description. “Though often they’re a bit… hazy, like looking through fog, especially if someone else formed them.” This last part feels safe to admit—even if I perceive them more clearly, I have to assume the obfuscation is constant.
Without warning, the old man reaches for a sheet of parchment from one of the nearby tables, placing it before me along with a stick of charcoal. “Show me then,” he says simply, gesturing to the simple three-lined rune he’d formed earlier. My hand moves almost automatically, recreating the geometric pattern with quick, confident strokes. The familiar angles and intersections flow onto the paper as naturally as if I were copying text from a book, though I’m careful to both not look at the rune that’s hanging there, or to make it look too perfect—it’s clear to me now that that might raise even more questions.
The captain moves forward to examine my drawing, his eyebrows rising steadily as he studies the precise lines. “I’ve never actually seen it drawn out before,” he admits, a note of wonder creeping into his voice. “But that… that looks exactly right.” He glances at the old man, who nods slowly in confirmation, his expression now completely unreadable. The silence that follows feels heavy with unasked questions, then both staring at the paper with the rune on, and exchanging a heavily loaded glance. I can practically see them reassessing everything they thought they knew about me, or channeling itself, I’m not sure.
The old man’s weathered fingers drum thoughtfully against the stone table as he considers my drawing, his eyes occasionally flickering to where I stand with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. After a long moment, he turns to the captain with an expression I can’t quite read. “Perhaps we could test the limits of her perception,” he suggests, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of his words. “Something more… intricate?” The question hangs in the air between them, heavy with unspoken implications.
The captain’s reaction is immediate and visceral, his face contorting with disbelief as he gestures sharply at my drawing on the parchment. “Are you mad?” he hisses, keeping his voice low despite his obvious agitation. “We might as well hand over our military secrets wrapped in silk ribbons! She’s already demonstrated an unprecedented ability to replicate what she sees—giving her access to my advanced formations would be like…” he trails off, apparently unable to find a comparison dramatic enough to convey his concern.
The tension between them crackles almost palpably in the air, their disagreement highlighting just how valuable these geometric patterns truly are. The old man’s academic curiosity seems to war with the captain’s practical security concerns, and I find myself struck by the irony of their argument. They’re debating whether to show me more complex runes, unaware that I’ve already memorized several, even if I have no idea what exactly they do. The thought sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine as I realize just how dangerous they might consider me if they knew the full extent of what I know. Though I half want to form that ridiculously complex one in front of their faces just to see their reaction. I’m fairly certain it’s not entirely correct, as I didn’t get to finish before needing to burn the bark, and the bark might have been incorrect in the first place, but they probably wouldn’t know the difference.
I suddenly have a thought, and wonder if I can form my own runes without seeing them previously. Not the time and place now though, so I file it away for later testing.
The old man’s next test proves deceptively simple—he asks me to form the basic three-line rune he showed earlier without looking at a reference. I comply easily, the geometric pattern flowing from my spark as naturally as breathing. What catches me off guard is his immediate follow-up request to hold the rune steady while he probes it with his own spark. The sensation is bizarre, like someone running their fingers through my hair except the hair is made of pure energy. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise at whatever he discovers.
He mutters something under his breath about “unusual resonance patterns” and “non-standard formation methodology” while making notes on a piece of parchment. I try to keep my expression neutral, but my mind is racing. If normal channelers rely primarily on their spark to sense runes, then does my ability to see them create fundamental differences in how I form and maintain them? I don’t know enough to tell, but…
The old man’s reaction has me intrigued. I clear my throat softly, an idea forming.
“Would it be possible…” I hesitate, then press on, “for me to try probing one of your runes? Just to better understand what you’re experiencing with mine?”
The request hangs in the air a moment too long. I realize I’ve probably overstepped, but curiosity has always been my downfall. The man’s bushy eyebrows rise toward his hairline, and he exchanges a quick glance with the captain. To my surprise, his stern face cracks into a slight smile.
“Hah,” he murmurs. “Most initiates take weeks before working up the courage to ask.” He straightens his robes as he looks in the direction of his still formed three line rune, then at the page on which I’ve sketched it out. His smile turns wistful as he responds “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”
“Before you attempt this,” he says with sudden seriousness, “understand that what you’re asking is not trivial. To probe another’s rune without explicit permission is normally considered equivalent to an attack. In some jurisdictions, it’s grounds for imprisonment.”
I blink, surprised by the gravity of his warning. I’d had no idea. Of course, I’d never needed to feel out a rune before—I could always see the damn things plain as day, watching the kids form them with varying degrees of success. The concept of blindly probing with my spark had simply never occurred to me.
“I understand,” I say, trying to sound appropriately somber. “Thank you for allowing me to learn.”
With careful concentration, I extend my spark toward his rune. It feels awkward at first, like trying to pick up something delicate while wearing thick mittens. I focus harder, feeling my way around the edges of his creation. The sensation is strange—where my runes feel like extensions of myself, his has a distinctly foreign quality, like reading someone else’s handwriting.
“Why exactly is it considered an attack?” I ask, withdrawing my attention and genuinely curious. “It doesn’t seem that intrusive—”
“That’s enough,” the captain interrupts sharply before the old man can answer. His voice isn’t particularly harsh, but brooks no argument. “Some information is earned with time and position, not questions.”
The old man closes his mouth with a snap, a bit sheepishly I’d say, any forthcoming explanation silenced by the captain’s intervention. I notice a brief look passing between them—something unspoken about information that’s clearly not meant for imprisoned commoner channelers, no matter how curious.
The examination continues, the old man’s weathered hands moving through the air as he tests various aspects of my rune’s construction. I never even knew you needed to move your body to do anything channeling related, but it certainly seems like it’s a critical part of his. Each probe seems to reveal something that makes him increasingly perplexed, though he maintains his professional demeanor. I find myself grateful that he’s only testing this simple three-line pattern—if he were to examine one of the complex runes I memorized from the cave, I suspect his reaction would be far more dramatic. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that even this basic test is deviating from the norm further than I’d prefer. I don’t know what’s different, but the plan was to be a lucky commoner, find out whatever information I can before running for it. Not to become a test subject.
When he finally tells me to release it, I can’t hold it in any more. “What’s strange?” I ask, unable to keep a hint of defensiveness from my voice. “Am I forming it incorrectly?” I let the rune dissipate, watching as the old man’s expression shifts from academic fascination to something more guarded. The way he glances at the captain for permission to respond tells me I’ve stumbled onto something significant—perhaps another fundamental difference in how I and the kids interact with these magical constructs compared to other channelers.
The old man’s hesitation is palpable as he weighs his words, clearly torn between professional curiosity and institutional secrecy. When he finally speaks, his voice carries that particular careful tone of someone trying to explain something without revealing too much. “Your formation methodology is… unusual,” he says slowly, his weathered hands gesturing vaguely in the air where my rune had been. “Channelers rely on their spark to sense and shape runes, but you seem to be using yours differently. The resonance patterns are unlike anything I’ve encountered in forty years of teaching.” He falls silent then, though I can see the unasked questions burning behind his eyes. Unfortunately, as much as I want to, I have no answers for him either. I guess he’d love to know I can see runes visually if that is truly the difference, but why that would affect the way I form runes is a mystery to me.
The old man shifts his stance, his weathered hands falling to his sides. “Stay perfectly still,” he instructs, his voice carrying that particular tone of authority that comes from decades of teaching. “I’m going to form several instances of the same rune we’ve been working with, and I want you to tell me how many there are and where they’re positioned.” There’s something almost playful in his eyes now, like a teacher about to spring a particularly clever pop quiz on an unsuspecting student. The academic detachment from earlier has given way to genuine curiosity, though he’s clearly trying to maintain his professional demeanor.
The old man’s spark flares to life, and I watch as identical three-line runes materialize around me—one about ten feet behind my left shoulder, another maybe fifteen feet to my right, a third hovering near the ceiling about twenty feet ahead, and the final one close to the floor about eight feet to my front-left. It’s clear I don’t neccessarily need to see the runes to perceive them. Is spark based perception also clearer than normal channelers, or is this perfectly normal? Being too precise might raise unwanted questions, but appearing oblivious would be equally suspicious. Without knowing the baseline for normal channelers—do they sense vague presences or exact coordinates?—I’m navigating blind. God, I hate working with insufficient data.
With careful deliberation, I decide to split the difference, describing the runes’ positions in broad terms while still demonstrating enough accuracy to satisfy the test. “There are four,” I say slowly, as if concentrating hard to sense them. “One behind me to the left, pretty far up. Another to my right, further away. One ahead and high up near the ceiling, and the last one low to the ground, ahead and slightly left.” I watch the old man’s reaction carefully, trying to gauge whether my level of detail matches what he expects from a typical channeler.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The old man’s expression remains carefully neutral as he considers my response, though there’s a slight furrow in his brow that suggests he’s mentally cataloguing every detail of my performance. His weathered hands move through a series of small, apparently unconscious gestures as he processes my answer, and while he nods in apparent satisfaction, there’s something in the way his eyes linger on my face that suggests he’s detected something unusual about my perception—or maybe he’s just still trying to figure out the reason for the difference in resonance patterns, whatever those are.
The old man’s carefully measured reaction offers no clues as to whether my ability to pinpoint the runes’ locations is remarkably accurate or suspiciously imprecise, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve inadvertently revealed the fact I’m deliberately deceiving them.
A sudden surge of energy behind my head triggers my instincts before my mind can even process what’s happening. My body moves on pure reflex, lunging forward and away from the threatening presence I can feel forming. The motion is awkward and ungraceful, but driven by the visceral memory of burning flesh and searing pain from my earlier encounter with that same rune.
I stumble to a stop several feet away, heart pounding, and whirl around to face the threat only to find empty air where the heat rune should have been. The old man stands exactly as he had before, but there’s a calculating gleam in his eyes as he watches my reaction. His weathered fingers remain perfectly still at his sides.
His slight nod carries the weight of confirmation, as if my instinctive flight had revealed exactly what he’d been testing for. The realization hits me then—he hadn’t actually completed forming the rune, had merely begun the process to see how quickly I could sense its presence. My ability to detect and react to an unfinished rune, pretty much the moment it’s formed, seems to have proven something significant to the old man, though exactly what remains frustratingly unclear.
I can’t help but glance at the captain, who stands rigid as granite, his sharp eyes flicking between me and the ghostly space where the rune had begun to form. The calculating gleam in his gaze cuts through me like a cold blade, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I scream internally, my stomach clenching into a knot so tight it makes me nauseous. I’m certain I’m messing this up completely. My fingers twitch at my sides, muscles tensing as I debate making another attempt at a breakout, but I figure the captain and the old man together would easily be capable of overwhelming me. I don’t have a choice but to comply for now, and to mitigate the mess I make of this disaster of a test as best I can.
A wave of guilt washes over me. Each careful test, each measured observation reveals just how much depth there is to this art that I’ve been blindly fumbling through. I think of Mairi and the others, remembering how cavalierly I’d taught them to form the burst rune without any real understanding of the underlying principles or safety considerations. It was like teaching someone to handle explosives by showing them which end of the fuse to light, telling them it’s going to make a big boom, then sending them off with a pat on the back and a cheerful “good luck.”
The depth of my ignorance becomes more apparent with each passing moment as I observe the old man’s systematic approach to testing and evaluation. His careful probing of resonance patterns, whatever they are, his attention to the subtle interactions between spark and rune—these are things I should have considered, should have taught, tested.
The need to relieve myself hits me suddenly, an uncomfortable reminder of basic bodily functions in the midst of all this magical testing. When I voice my request, the captain’s expression flickers between annoyance and resignation before he motions for me to follow him. The journey through the stone corridors feels absurdly formal given its ultimate destination.
The facilities turn out to be surprisingly civilized—a proper water closet rather than the crude outhouses, or even the makeshift latrine in our hideout I’ve grown accustomed to in this world. The captain takes up position right outside the door, his presence turning the moment slightly awkward. I understand the precaution—with juice flowing through my system, I’m definitely too dangerous to leave unattended—but it still makes me feel weird. The idea to escape while going to to the loo should probably have occurred to me, but it feels somehow barbaric. Like those Vietnamese soldiers in that war story, caught with their pants literally down. Even in this medieval hellscape, some invisible line of civility remains unbroken in my mind. I could happily put a knife in someone’s ribs the moment they buckled their belt, but not while they’re mid-stream. Completely illogical when you think about it—dead is dead—but I guess human brains came pre-programmed with weird rules like that.
When I finally return to the testing chamber, I catch a glimpse of relief crossing the captain’s features, though he quickly schools his expression back to neutrality. I suppose I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the arrangement. The old man raises an eyebrow at the captains reaction, but there’s a hint of amusement to it.
The testing resumes after our brief interlude, with the old man methodically placing various objects around the room—a wooden cup, a small metal disk, what appears to be a chunk of raw crystal, and finally a simple clay pot. His weathered hands move with deliberate precision as he positions them. I notice he’s careful to maintain a significant distance between them. When he’s satisfied with their arrangement, he steps back and instructs me to form the three-line rune directly above each object.
I comply easily enough, drawing on my juice to form the simple geometric pattern four times over. The process feels natural now, like typing familiar code on a keyboard—each instance of the rune appearing precisely where I intend it, hovering just above its designated object. The familiar lines form from my spark with practiced ease, though I’m careful not to make them too perfect, still mindful of concealing just how clearly I can visualize the patterns.
It baffles me how I can know the runes aren’t perfect. Looking at them they seem exactly the same as what I’d consider ‘perfectly formed’ runes. Are the imperfections so small that they aren’t visible with the naked eye?
The old man’s reaction to my performance is puzzling—his brow furrows deeply as he moves between the objects, seemingly probing each rune in turn. There’s something almost troubled in his expression as he examines my work, though I can’t fathom what about these simple geometric patterns could cause such concern. His weathered fingers trace patterns in the air as he mutters calculations under his breath, each examination seeming to deepen his confusion rather than resolve it.
I maintain the runes steadily while watching his inspection, wondering what aspect of my formation could be causing such consternation. Is there something about the placement that should be more difficult than I’m making it appear? Or perhaps there’s some interaction between the runes and the different materials or objects that I’m missing entirely? The way his eyes keep darting between the various objects suggests he’s looking for something specific—some variation or effect that isn’t manifesting as expected.
After what feels like hours of examination, but must be only minutes, the old man finally straightens with a soft sigh, his weathered hands falling still at his sides. His expression remains thoughtful as he gestures for me to release the runes, watching intently as each geometric pattern dissipates into nothingness. The careful way he observes their dissolution suggests he’s still searching for something in how they fade, though whatever he’s looking for seems to elude him.
With slow, deliberate movements that speak of ingrained caution, he begins collecting the objects from around the room. Each item is handled with reverence, as if they’re far more precious than their mundane appearances would suggest. The wooden cup, metal disk, crystal, and clay pot are returned one by one to an ornate chest I hadn’t noticed before, its surface covered in what appear to be runes as well. The multiple locks that secure it once everything is inside seem almost excessive, though the old man’s methodical attention to each mechanism suggests they’re all necessary.
The complex patterns etched into the chest’s surface draw me like a moth to flame, my feet carrying me forward before I can stop myself. Something about the permanent nature of these runes, carved deep into what looks like metal and wood, resonates with a memory of that cave wall and its mysterious symbols. The familiar itch to write down the whole thing tingles in my fingertips as I lean forward, trying to get a better look at the intricate designs.
The captain materializes between me and the chest with fluid grace, his movement so quick and precise it momentarily startles me out of my analytical trance. His expression holds no hostility, but the set of his shoulders and the way he plants his feet speaks volumes about his intentions. There’s almost something apologetic in his eyes as he blocks my view, like a parent gently but firmly steering a curious child away from something dangerous. The message is clear—whatever secrets those runes hold, they’re not for me to know.
The old man catches my lingering gaze on the chest, and for a moment, something like sympathy crosses his weathered features. He opens his mouth as if to explain, perhaps to satisfy at least a fraction of my obvious curiosity about the intricate patterns carved into its surface. But before he can speak, the captain makes a sharp gesture of negation, his expression brooking no argument. The message is clear—some knowledge is too dangerous to share, even in explanation.
With a resigned shrug that speaks of decades of similar exchanges, the old man waves for the captain to remove the chest. As the captain hefts the ornate container with careful reverence, I notice how the old man’s eyes follow its progress across the room, his expression thoughtful. There’s something almost wistful in his gaze, as if he too remembers what it was like to encounter these mysteries for the first time, to feel that burning desire to understand their secrets.
The old man’s weathered face emerges from its contemplative mask as he straightens, his joints creaking audibly in the chamber’s hushed atmosphere. “Let’s explore the limits of your range,” he says, his tone carrying that particular blend of academic curiosity and professional detachment that seems to characterize all his tests. “Form the three-line rune at increasing distances until you can no longer maintain it.” The request seems simple enough, but it sends a wave of self-recrimination through me as I realize how little I actually know about the practical limitations of these abilities.
The thought of Mairi and the others hits me with renewed force—how carelessly I’d approached their training, never once thinking to systematically test the boundaries of what we could do. Everything had been immediate needs and practical applications, never taking the time to understand the fundamental principles or limitations. Now, standing before this weathered teacher with his methodical approach, I feel woefully unprepared to even guess at what might be considered normal or extraordinary in terms of range, control, or power consumption. Each new test seems to highlight another aspect of channeling I should have explored more thoroughly with my impromptu students.
Following the old man’s instructions, I begin forming the three-line runes at increasing distances, starting near and working my way outward through the chamber. The simple geometric pattern materializes with practiced ease as I push the boundaries of my range, each new formation just as crisp and stable as the last. I find I can easily place them anywhere within my line of sight, the runes appearing precisely where I intend them without any degradation in clarity or control.
The true test comes when the old man asks me to form runes behind me without turning around. Here, I discover a surprising limitation—while my spark provides a sort of spatial awareness that lets me form runes without visual reference, this perception extends only about six meters in any direction. Beyond that distance, the sense becomes muddled and uncertain, like trying to feel my way through thick fog. The discovery catches me off guard, having never bothered to test this particular aspect of my abilities before.
The stark contrast between my visual and non-visual range is jarring—while I can form runes clear across the chamber as long as I can see the space, my spark-based perception feels almost claustrophobically limited in comparison. I experiment a bit, trying to push past this boundary, but the limit remains frustratingly fixed. The further you push, the harder it becomes. I can manage seven if I really work for it, but anything more is a pipe dream. It’s like having a radar system with an extremely short range, making me wonder how this limitation might have affected my previous encounters without me even realizing it.
I watch the old man observe my attempts with that same careful neutrality he’s maintained throughout the testing, though I catch a slight nod of what might be approval when I demonstrate the precise edge of my spark’s perception range. There’s something almost reassuring about finding this limitation, and about his reaction—it suggests that at least some aspects of my abilities fall within expected parameters, even if others continue to puzzle my examiners.
The captain returns to the room, his previous wariness momentarily forgotten as he apparently thought of something to ask while he was putting the chest away. “Tell me,” he says, running his fingers absently along his sword hilt, “when you form a rune, do you need to go through the process of constructing it piece by piece, or can you simply… manifest it complete?” The question catches me off guard, not because of its content, but because of the way the old man’s head snaps around to stare at the captain with undisguised surprise.
The old man’s weathered fingers twitch as if wanting to form notes in the air, his eyes darting between the captain and me with sharp eyes. It’s clear from his reaction that this isn’t a standard test question, perhaps not even something that should be discussed in front of an untrained, unproven channeler. The tension in the room ratchets up several notches as both men wait for my response, though for distinctly different reasons—the captain’s face alight with academic fascination, the old man’s clouded with what might be concern.
I consider my answer carefully, aware that this seemingly innocent question might have layers of significance I don’t fully understand. The ability to manifest complete runes instantly would certainly be faster than forming them line by line, but something about the old man’s reaction suggests this might be more than just a question of efficiency. “I form them piece by piece,” I say slowly, watching their reactions. “Is there… another way?” The captain’s expression falls slightly at my answer, while the old man’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly, though neither man seems inclined to explain the significance of this exchange.
My answer seems to have struck a nerve, though I’m actually pleased with myself for getting this one right. Constructing a rune piece by piece strikes me as absurdly inefficient. Why bother with that tedious process when you could just memorize the complete form and manifest it all at once? Forming and holding the whole thing simultaneously requires more concentration, true, but it seems so much more efficient than the gradual method most channelers apparently use.
I wonder why it’s impossible for them to tell though. They must have seen me form the runes I used just now no? They’d know they form all at once if they’d been paying any kind of attention. Nothing in their reactions seems fake though. I’m inclined to think the old man could keep up his indifference and hide his evident relief if he wanted to. So many questions.
It occurs to me that this might come less naturally to people that don’t enjoy memorizing shapes, or that have a hard time seeing the rune? Forming runes one line at a time relies more on your spark to sustain them while you think of what to add. That seems like something you’d eventually outgrow though. Maybe they’re just trying to gauge how advanced of a channeler I am without any training?
The captain’s skepticism hangs heavy in the air as he paces a tight circle around me. “You claim to form runes piece by piece,” he says, his voice carrying that particular edge of someone who’s caught a contradiction, “yet during our earlier confrontation, you manifested the heat rune almost instantly.” Ah, there it is. Yes captain, that’s indeed a serious contradiction. His hand unconsciously drifts to the scorched portion of his uniform, a physical reminder of our violent exchange. “I’ve fought hundreds of channelers, and none have ever replicated a combat rune so quickly, let alone wielded it with such… enthusiasm.”
I resist the urge to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, knowing any sign of nervousness will only feed his suspicions. The truth—that I can see runes clearly enough to memorize them instantly and recreate them as complete patterns—feels dangerous to admit. Instead, I focus on maintaining an expression of confused innocence. That isn’t nearly as hard as I’d like it to be, considering how bewildered I still am by much of the stuff I’m learning right now. “I was running on pure instinct,” I offer, the half-truth falling easily from my lips. “Everything happened so fast, I barely remember forming it at all.”
The old man watches this exchange with keen interest, his weathered fingers drumming thoughtfully against his thigh. There’s something calculating in his gaze as it shifts between the captain and me, as if he’s assembling pieces of a puzzle I can’t quite see. The captain’s accusation about my formation speed clearly means something significant to him, though his professional detachent is back, and whether he’s reached the right conclusion about my abilities remains frustratingly unclear. His silence feels weighted with unspoken theories, and I find myself wondering just how many of my carefully constructed lies are already unraveling under their combined scrutiny.
The captain consults with the old man in whispers which I’m unable to hear. Afterwards, the old man straightens with renewed purpose, his weathered hands clasping behind his back. “Perhaps we should move on to something more… challenging,” he says, his tone carrying that particular blend of academic interest and careful restraint that makes my heart race with equal parts anticipation and anxiety.
The prospect of learning new runes, especially more complex ones, sends a familiar thrill through me—the same excitement I used to feel when discovering an elegant new programming solution. But beneath that eagerness lurks a growing sense of caution, a voice warning me that appearing too capable might lead to more scrutiny than I can afford. Every new rune they show me is another opportunity to reveal that it’s easy for me to see and memorize patterns that others apparently struggle to perceive.
I force my expression to remain neutral, carefully suppressing both my curiosity about what new runes they might reveal and my concern about maintaining my facade of being just another lucky commoner who stumbled into power.
The old man’s weathered hands move with practiced precision as he forms a new rune in the air before me—a complex geometric pattern that makes the previous three-line exercise look like a child’s drawing. Even the heat rune is simple by comparison, which I suppose is why they went with this one. The intricate design flows into existence with fluid grace, its lines interconnecting in ways that suggest both mathematical precision and artistic harmony. Unlike the previous demonstrations, this rune possesses a certain elegance that catches my attention, its structure hinting at sophisticated magical properties overlayed with an accent of beauty.
I study the floating pattern with growing fascination, surprised by how naturally I grasp its underlying structure. Unlike the countless hours I’d spent puzzling over my crude sketches of the cave runes, this direct observation provides an almost intuitive understanding of how the geometric elements relate to each other. The rune seems to speak to me on a fundamental level, its meaning somehow clearer and more accessible than any I’d attempted to decipher from memory alone
My fingers itch to recreate the pattern, though I force myself to accept the offered parchment to maintain my facade of ordinary capability. As I begin to sketch, I marvel at how different this experience feels from my previous attempts at learning complex runes. Where the cave drawings had required painstaking analysis and countless repetitions to understand and remember, this direct observation in quick-sight provides an almost immediate comprehension of the rune’s structure, as if my mind and spark are working in perfect harmony to grasp its essence. It’s a revelation that makes my previous struggles with memorized patterns suddenly seem like trying to learn a dance from written instructions rather than watching a master perform.
I hunch over the parchment, deliberately adopting the posture of someone struggling with a difficult task. “You don’t actually expect me to learn this today, do you?” I ask, letting genuine uncertainty seep into my voice as I trace the complex geometric pattern with hesitant strokes. I’m banking on their assumption that I’m just another commoner who stumbled into power, hoping my apparent difficulty with the rune will reinforce that image and perhaps lead them to reveal more about how channeling typically works.
The old man’s response catches me completely off guard, his weathered face creasing with what might almost be amusement. “Learn it? Child, we’re merely assessing your current capabilities. It takes most channelers years of dedicated study to master even basic formations—expecting you to grasp something of this complexity in a single session would be like asking someone to compose a symphony before they’ve learned to read music.” His words carry a weight of experience that makes my careful attempt at playing ignorant feel suddenly childish, even as they spark a dozen new questions about just how deep this magical art truly runs.
“How long did it take you to learn this one?” I ask the old man and captain, gesturing at the complex pattern still hanging in the air. The question feels safe enough—genuine curiosity from a novice seeking to understand the path ahead. The old man’s weathered face crinkles with pride as he recalls his own learning journey, while the captain shifts almost imperceptibly, his posture suggesting mild discomfort with the topic.
“I prefer to focus on more practical formations,” the captain responds smoothly, his hand unconsciously brushing the pommel of his sword. “Combat runes, defensive patterns—things that serve a clear military purpose.” There’s a hint of defensiveness in his tone, as if apologizing for not pursuing the more academic aspects of channeling, though his bearing suggests he considers his choice the more pragmatic path.
The old man’s eyes light up with remembered triumph as he answers, “It took me only a few months of intermittent study, and I was fortunate indeed. One of my closest friends was a mage who could demonstrate it for me whenever our paths crossed.” He pauses, his expression growing thoughtful. “Those who must learn from written descriptions alone often spend years mastering runes of this complexity, if they do so at all—there’s simply no substitute for seeing the formation in person, even if only briefly.” The last part confirms my suspicions about why the children and I had picked up new runes so quickly, though I’m careful to keep any reaction from showing on my face.
With a start, I realize my hand has been moving confidently across the parchment while I listened to their discussion, the complex geometric pattern flowing naturally from my memory onto the page. Horror floods through me as I see how accurate my sketch is becoming—far too precise for someone supposedly struggling with their first glimpse of an advanced rune. In a burst of panic, I deliberately drag the charcoal across my careful lines, adding hasty, messy strokes that transform the elegant pattern into something more like a child’s scribble. I force my shoulders to hunch further, adopting what I hope passes for frustrated confusion as I look up at the old man with carefully crafted embarrassment. “Sorry,” I mumble, “I got lost in the lines and… well, I think I made it worse trying to fix it.”
The old man’s weathered face softens as he examines my deliberately messy sketch, nodding with what appears to be genuine approval at my seemingly earnest attempt. Despite my intentional sabotage of the drawing, there’s something in his expression that suggests he sees more potential in my effort than I’d intended to reveal, though he carefully keeps any such observations to himself as he sets the parchment aside with the same reverence he’s shown all the testing materials.
When I ask about the rune’s function, a faint blush creeps up the old man’s neck, and he clears his throat awkwardly before admitting, “Ah, well… this particular formation is purely academic—a teaching tool, if you will. It’s designed to help students practice complex geometrical relationships without the risk of, shall we say, unfortunate accidents that might occur with actual functional runes.” The captain fails to completely suppress a snort of amusement at this confession, earning him a sharp glare from his elderly colleague.
The captain’s face twists into a mixture of amusement and disbelief as he shakes his head. “That’s not a teaching tool,” he says, his voice carrying an edge of barely suppressed laughter. “That particular formation is known as the ‘lover’s embrace’—it’s designed to enhance physical pleasure and heighten sensual awareness when properly activated. The fact that you managed to draw it so… accurately while claiming ignorance is rather remarkable.” His eyes dance with barely contained mirth as he watches the implications sink in.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks as I glance back at my hastily smudged drawing, suddenly seeing the flowing curves and intricate intersections in an entirely new light. The old man’s strangled cough and reddening face confirm the captain’s words, and I realize with mortifying clarity that I’ve essentially been copying ancient magical pornography with all the innocent enthusiasm of a student tackling advanced geometry. The careful reverence with which the old man had handled my drawing takes on an entirely different meaning now, and I find myself wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
I bristle at the captain’s amusement, my embarrassment giving way to indignation. “So you suggested this particular rune because… what? You thought it would be funny to watch the commoner unknowingly draw something inappropriate?” The words come out sharper than intended, my professional pride stung by the realization that he’s essentially been testing me with magical erotica. It’s entirely clear to me that the captain is the one that suggested this to the old man.
The captain raises his hands in a placating gesture, though his eyes still dance with mirth. “On the contrary,” he says, motioning toward the floating pattern, “this formation is ideal for initial testing precisely because it’s absurdly complex while having zero dangerous applications. The old man isn’t entirely wrong about it being a perfect teaching tool—the intricacy forces students to demonstrate their grasp of advanced geometric principles without risking any… explosive outcomes.” He pauses, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “Though I must admit, the subject matter does tend to inspire exceptional enthusiasm in most students.”
The old man shoots the captain a withering look, his weathered face darkening with irritation. “This is precisely why we don’t inform students of the rune’s… specific applications during initial instruction,” he says, his tone carrying the weary patience of someone who’s had this conversation many times before. “We present it as a teaching tool because that’s exactly what it is—a complex formation with minimal risk that allows us to evaluate a student’s grasp of fundamental principles.”
He turns to me with an apologetic sigh, brushing imaginary dust from his faded tunic. “Once students discover its true purpose, their focus tends to shift dramatically from the technical aspects of formation to… more prurient interests.” His lips purse disapprovingly as he glares again at the captain. “Which invariably compromises the educational value of the exercise.”
The captain merely shrugs, unrepentant. “They find out eventually anyway. Besides,” he adds with a ghost of a smile, “I’ve always found honesty serves better than pretense when evaluating new channelers. Their reactions can be quite revealing.”
I watch this exchange with growing fascination, noting how even these experienced practitioners seem to approach certain runes with a mixture of academic detachment and personal discomfort. The realization that magical formations carry cultural and social implications beyond their practical uses adds yet another layer of complexity to a system I’ve barely begun to understand.
“So,” the old man continues, apparently eager to move past this minor disagreement, “the technical challenges of this particular rune remain instructive regardless of its application. The interlocking geometric relationships demonstrate principles found in many advanced formations.” His fingers trace the floating pattern with obvious pride, his earlier embarrassment fading beneath professional enthusiasm. “Note how the tertiary lines balance the primary structure while reinforcing the secondary elements…”
As the old man launches into what promises to be a detailed technical explanation, Emma notices how the captain’s attention has shifted back to her smudged drawing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the parts that remain recognizable beneath her hasty destruction. There’s a calculating quality to his gaze that makes her wonder if her attempt to appear less capable might have failed more spectacularly than she realized.
To distract the captain, I quickly voice the thought on my mind, about the practical application of this supposedly harmless rune. “So if I were to activate this here right now, nothing bad would happen?” The captain glances at the old man sharply, which tells me there is something more to this than he is letting on.
However, the old man’s weathered face crinkles with amusement as he gestures toward his floating rune. “Go ahead,” he says, his tone carrying that particular confidence of a teacher who knows exactly what will happen. “Try to feed it some essentia.” He’s talking about his own rune? Of course. They wouldn’t expect me to be able to form my own version here right now. My initial reluctance gives way to curiosity—after all, I’ve never attempted to interact with someone else’s formed rune before, always assuming it would work the same as my own.
The moment I attempt to direct my juice into his rune, I understand the source of his confidence. It’s like trying to pour water onto a perfectly smooth sphere—the juice simply slides off, finding no purchase on the foreign construct. No matter how I adjust my approach or how much power I try to feed into it, the rune remains stubbornly inert to my efforts, though I can feel it humming with potential under the old man’s control.
“Can you take over someone elses rune?” I ask, hoping this might be a common enough question from novices to deflect attention from my own peculiarities. The way both men tense at my query suggests I’ve stumbled onto something significant, though their reactions differ markedly—the old man’s face clouds with academic reluctance, while the captain’s expression hardens into military precision.
“Yes,” the captain states flatly, cutting off whatever carefully worded response the old man was formulating. “But that particular skill is not part of any standard training regimen, and we won’t be discussing it further.” His tone brooks no argument, and Emma notices how his hand unconsciously tightens on his sword hilt, as if the mere mention of rune hijacking triggers some deeply ingrained defensive reflex. The old man’s weathered features settle into resigned acceptance of the captain’s declaration, though his eyes betray a flicker of academic curiosity at Emma’s question. I guess taking over others’s runes would be pretty dramatic in a combat situation.
