Michael sat up in his bed abruptly, his breath hurried. For a moment his mind was in disarray, but it suddenly grasped something—something important.
Without wasting a moment, he shot off the bed and ran to his old study desk, rifling through the drawers until he found some spare parchment.
"Shit, no ink!"
He didn't have time for this. The value of these runes were so monumental that he couldn't risk forgetting them. If he were to leave to get ink and get stopped by someone, the distraction might make him lose sight of it.
With determination, Michael bit his finger hard, tearing off a chunk of skin. Wincing slightly, he brought the tip of the quill up to the blood that had begun to pool—using it in place of ink.
He ignored the pricking pain and began to draw all of the runes that he remembered in the outer layer of the magic circle. Even as he scribbled them, they looked foreign—to the point where it was difficult to know if he'd transcribed them correctly.
