Luenor POV-
The carriage crashed to a halt, jostling me forward in my seat. I stepped down into the clearing, my boots squelching half an inch into the wet earth. Mist hung low over the springy moss-covered ground, and towering pines enveloped us on all sides, their trunks disappearing into the canopy that filtered the radiant light into a haunting grey. The silence surrounding us was thick— stifling and stultifying. No wind, no birdsong, and no sign of civilization. No cave, nor door, nor trails.
Just trees. Just quiet.
I frowned. "There is nothing here."
Hunter dropped down beside me with a casualness that suggested he never had reason for concern. His slim black coat swayed slightly as he hopped down, drenched from the rain we had picked up midway from Vescana. "Not to the untrained eye."
I turned toward him, my teeth clenched. "Then find it."
That annoying grin came wide. "Not me," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "This is your test, Master Luenor. Hidden entrances hold evidence of mana. You want to grow stronger? Now is your chance to work on that sensitivity of yours."
I fought the impulse to swear out loud. Three days of dead ends, lost trails, and misdirections, and he wanted to make it into a lesson! But he was right. The one who sold the Crimson Vein pill— the only known sample— was nearby. I simply could not afford to be the weak link any longer.
I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, and sought a depth of silence in the all-encompassing dissonance of the forest. Mana was everywhere, if you knew to listen: the steady cadence in the air; the sudden pulse within stone; even the faint glimmer of squirrels flying unseen across branches. I dropped into a crouch, and pressed my cool fingers against damp black soil.
Nothing.
Simply the usual pulse of life. No distortion. No hidden ward. No illusion field. I scrunched my brow deeper.
Hunter stepped up to my side and crouched, word now softer. "You're widening too much. Stop searching the forest— search the flow. Hidden places will channel mana differently. In piles, and on purpose. Like searching for a kink in a stream."
I gasped and forced myself back into silence.
I inhaled sharply and forced myself to go deeper into silence.
It was then that I felt that ache in my chest—that emptiness was palpable. I was reminded that I did not have a mana heart. I couldn't generate mana. I could only absorb mana and project, like a lung inhaling borrowed breath. It made every spell and every strand of sensing harder to access. But it also made me sharper than most. I had to feel mana like a blind man feels air currents fluttering in a room.
Once I was haunted by that emptiness; I now wore it like armor.
And then I felt it.
A knot. A pulse.
Not a natural pattern. Not wind or animal or tree. It was throbbing lightly, like a buried heartbeat beneath the soil, right at the base of a gnarled downed tree close to the center of the clearing. The mana was not wild or chaotic. It was organized and rhythmic. A signature.
My eyes opened. "That tree."
Hunter chuckled and rose to his feet. "You're getting better."
As I carefully approached, I examined the large, twisted roots that slept with their serpentine shapes curling over the ground. "So how do we open it?"
"Not in the tree," Hunter said as he stepped past me. "Under the tree."
He conjured a tiny ball of mana, no more than a spark, and pressed it to a large root. Blue light flared instantaneously, and veins of runes blazed to life as though they were nerves awakening. The roots groaned, splitting apart slowly, and began to retract into the earth. Once the dirt eroded away, a large ramp appeared, wide enough for a wagon.
"I...," I started to stutter. "Runes?"
"'Old work'," Hunter said flatly, and he was already walking. "Whoever this giant is, he is not just an alchemist. He is a rune's expert."
I stepped down after him, allowing my fingers to brush against the carved symbols on the root walls that still glowed faintly. The runes were elegant; flowing, stacked, not like anything I had seen in the scrolls. They weren't mass produced glyphs or simple warding circles.
These were art. Every single one was part of a language I could not yet read.
"Don't bother," Hunter said over his shoulder. "You're not ready to decipher them."
I followed him into the dark, clenching my jaw. The roots barred entry behind us, and for a fleeting second, there was only darkness. Then the torches along the walls ignited, swathing us in a gentle amber shade as they illuminated stone carvings. The ramp narrowed down into spirals.
I moved forward, hurriedly, lose in excitement, when Hunter swing me around held by my shoulder and said, "Stop."
"What now?"
"This place is rigged," he said pointing toward the floor. "Mana traps. You step bad, you end up with no leg, or worse."
I looked downward. The floor looked completely normal. But, now that he'd mentioned it, I could feel it. There were subtle clusters of mana just below the surface. Banks of treachery, if I had to guess.
"Great."
"Use your awareness," Hunter said. "Same idea. Close your eyes and feel what shouldn't belong."
I reluctantly obeyed and drew breath again, letting my senses come to me. Filtering out the candle light, the damp of moss in the edges, the faint hum of the mana in the stone. I willed my awareness to zero in on the floor—and felt it. They were like invisible landmines. Fixed coordinates. Dead zones.
I moved slowly, skillfully winding through the traps. One step. Halt. Feel again, another. Each movement was full concentration.
"Good," Hunter said behind me. "Keep it up, and you may survive long enough to slay a king."
A dry smirk crept to my lips. "That's the intent."
Finally, we acquired a stone door, carved with runes that began to shimmer softly as we neared the door. I raised my hand to open it, but its rumbling opened wide before I could.
And there he was.
A giant—a true giant. Twelve feet tall and broad as a carriage. Hunched slightly under his own door's archway. His skin was pale mottled grey; like granite that could breathe. His hair looked silky thin and white, shoved back like a tide pushed by wind. His belly bulged slightly, but there was power in that body. He cast a cursory glance towards us with sharp amber-eyed wonderment—ancient curiosity.
His vocal cords rumbled like a mountain shifting. "And who," he asked. "Are these two tiny humans who wander into my sanctum?"
In my huge sack, I stepped forward with the vial—the pill, red and visibly humming with the strange mana of the Crimson Vein. "For this thing."
_______
Not far away and in the dead of night, Burizan was tossing and turning in his bed.
Sleep would not come. Sweat was dripping from his brow despite the night air's breeze, and he could feel his heartbeat pounding painfully in his chest. No amount of wine was dulling the memory. That knight in the mask--silent, ghostly, unstoppable--was locked in to all of his thoughts. Mira was once the most dangerous person he ever knew. Now Mira was dead. And the thing that was left was worse.
Burizan rolled over. He knew what he was doing. He knew. Feeding bits of intel to the enemy, holding back small things.
It was technically treason.
But if he ever came for him...
Burizan shivered. He could still see it--the blank wolf mask, the silent sword, and the way the air turned cold around him.
Thus far, he had avoided Thalanar's suspicion. But Telmar? That man had eyes like a hawk. And even worse? The whole missing shipment incident... it didn't help. He could only say the obvious: a fire mage had eliminated every scrap of incriminating evidence.
Except... it wasn't just fire. The man swung a sword, too.
A low hum filled the air.
Burizan suddenly jerked up, reaching for his coat pocket. His heart dropped in his stomach. He pulled out the mana communicator, which was a crystal half the size of his palm.
The projection lit up.
The wolf mask stared back at him.
Burizan swallowed. "Y-yes?"
The voice was low and calm. "Any news on the Sureva heir?"
"I--I wasn't in the last meeting," Burizan said shakily. "But I heard he left with Lord Gardan. I believe they were looking into an artifact from the auction."
"Where?"
"South of Vescana. That's all I know."
A pause.
"And their progress identifying me?"
"I'm not privy to that level," Burizan said quickly. "I'm not part of that circle. I—I swear."
More silence.
Cold. Choking.
Then the voice again. "So why don't I just kill you, Burizan?"
His mouth went dry. "I'll get you more. I—I swear I'll get you what you need."
Another pause.
Then the projection disappeared.
He remained; frozen like a statue, his breath uneven.
A second voice broke the silence.