No one carves a rune unless they need to.
Desperation makes poor prayers—and even worse legacies. But still, they carve. Still, they hope.
Because once it's done—once the weapon glows, once the chant is whispered—the power feels right.
Until it doesn't.
A blade that cuts through armor also cuts the man holding it.
Overuse tears the body apart.
Muscles rupture.
Lungs fill with embers.
Nerves fray like rotten string.
And the brain—overstimulated, overburdened—begins to fail.
The strongest warriors don't just carry weapons. They carry decay.
The most beautiful rune-glow often masks the first signs of collapse.
Only the gifted—or the cursed—can survive long with layered or Prade runes. Bloodlines adapted to withstand the weight.
But even they break.
And when they do…
They don't shatter.
They burn out.
All for what?
A single moment of control.
A fraction of victory.
A chance to be remembered.
In the end, the rune will still be there.
But the person who carved it?
They become the cost.