The Runeclock of the Scribe's Tower tolled as they stepped into the bustling streets of Eryndral Center, and the deep, resonant note vibrated through the Ironvine structures around them, settling somewhere in Alucent's chest like a physical weight.
Laborers filed out of workshops and foundries as their shifts ended with the clock's declaration, and the streets filled with the shuffle of boots on cobblestone and the murmur of tired conversations. Steam vented from pipes along the building facades, adding a haze to the amber glow of the gas Lanternposts that were beginning to flicker on as the daylight faded.
Raya and Gryan paused at the brass-bound entrance of the Scribe's Tower, and Alucent stopped beside them. The structure rose three stories above, its Ironvine walls dark against the evening sky, and a clockface of Frosted Glass was set into its upper level. The hands of the clock were still resonating faintly from the toll.
Gryan turned to face Alucent and adjusted the strap of his toolkit across his shoulder as he spoke. "We'll find Sir Vorn inside. He needs a full report on the Weaver's breach before the Gilded Tier tries to bury it."
Alucent nodded but didn't move toward the entrance.
At that moment, Raya studied his face, her eyes tracing the shadows beneath his eyes and the faint remnants of the ink-bleed that had dried along his cheekbones. Then she reached out and touched his shoulder briefly.
"You look like you're fading, Alucent," she said. "You should go home. The Tower can wait for your report. Don't worry about Sir Vorn."
Alucent wanted to argue, but he could feel the truth of her words in the heaviness of his limbs and the dull ache behind his temples. The hours in the Restricted Archives had taken more from him than he had realized, and now that he was standing still, the exhaustion was catching up.
"I'll come by in the morning," he said, scratching back of his hair.
Raya nodded once, and then she and Gryan turned and walked through the Tower's entrance. Alucent watched them disappear into the lamplit interior, the brass-bound doors swinging shut behind them with a soft click. After a few seconds, he turned and began walking toward the Marketplaza.
The central square was alive with activity despite the fading light. Steam hissed from the vents of stalls arranged in neat rows, and the mist from the Runespout fountain drifted across the cobblestones in pale wisps. Alucent walked past wrought-iron trellises that supported climbing vines with brass-veined leaves, and his eyes traced the glowing copper Runepaths that crisscrossed the ground beneath his feet.
The Runepaths pulsed with a faint, steady rhythm, carrying Runeforce from the district's central conduits to the surrounding structures. He had walked over them hundreds of times since arriving in this world, but now, after reading *The Rules and Advancement of the Threadweave* in the archives, he noticed details he had previously ignored. The way the copper lines branched at precise angles. The faint hum of energy that was barely audible when he focused. The occasional flicker where a path crossed another, creating nodes of concentrated power.
At Thread 1, Runeling, Alucent thought. It's the ability is to sense Runeforce. I've been doing it unconsciously since the transmigration, especially when I just woke up and took that first mission, but I never understood what I was perceiving.
He filed the observation away and kept walking.
A food stall beneath a steam-vent caught his attention, and the smell of fresh bread and roasted meat cut through the metallic tang of the Marketplaza air. Alucent stopped and pulled a small pouch from his belt, then opened it to reveal strips of Ironvine fabric, each one about the length of his hand and etched with faint runes that caught the light. Copperweaves, the common currency of the lower and middle districts. He counted out seven of them, the fabric rough against his fingertips.
The vendor was a heavyset woman with grey-streaked hair pulled back from a weathered face. She took the Copperweaves without comment and counted them with practiced speed, then handed him a loaf of dense bread and a portion of chicken breast dripping with a dark, peppered sauce.
Alucent paid two Copperweaves for the bread and five for the chicken, and the woman wrapped the chicken in a sheet of waxed paper before adding it to the bundle. He nodded his thanks and stepped away from the stall.
He ate as he walked, tearing chunks from the bread and chewing slowly. The taste was sharp, flavored with herbs that had a distinctive mineral quality to them. Runewell herbs, grown in soil saturated with ambient Weaveforce. The chicken was tender, and the pepper sauce left a pleasant burn on his tongue.
Not long after, he paused beside a gas Lanternpost near the edge of the plaza and leaned against the iron pole while he finished the meal. His eyes drifted to a nearby support beam, one of the Ironvine pillars that held up the awning of a closed workshop, and he noticed a rune-scar on the wood.
It was a jagged mark, darker than the surrounding grain, as if something had burned the surface without leaving ash. Alucent recognized the pattern from his studies. A Shadebinder had been here, or something touched by the Void. The scar was old, at least a few weeks based on how the wood had begun to heal around it, but the mark remained.
He looked at the Glowroses planted in a row along the base of the pillar. Their clockwork petals were open and emitting a warm light, but the glow seemed slightly dimmer than the ones he had seen elsewhere in the plaza.
This has to be the Weaver's influence, Alucent thought. It leaves traces even after the source is gone.
He finished the last of the bread, wiped his hands on his coat, and continued walking.
The cobblestone path led him away from the noise of the Marketplaza and into the quieter residential lanes on the outskirts of the district. The Steamcottages here were smaller than the ones near the center, each one set back from the street behind modest gardens and low iron fences. Gas-powered Lanternposts lined the path, their etched glass lamps casting pools of warm light at regular intervals, and Alucent's cottage came into view as he rounded a gentle curve in the lane.
The steeply pitched roof was crowned by a brass wind gauge shaped like a compass rose, and the copper scrollwork along the eaves caught the last of the fading daylight. The facade was painted in deep forest green and antique gold, with hand-carved Ironvine panels depicting floral motifs that his parents had commissioned years before their deaths.
He walked up the cobblestone path, passing the Glowroses that lined the way. Their clockwork petals pulsed with a steady rhythm, and the brass astrolabe on its stand caught the light from the Lanternposts.
The front door was solid Ironvine, dark and sturdy, with a brass handle worn smooth from use. Alucent reached for the handle and then paused.
He looked at his right hand. The Valerius Signet was still on his ring finger, the bone-carved crest visible in the lamplight. But on his index finger was another ring, one he had almost forgotten about in the chaos of the past days.
The Weave Anchor ring.
It was a brass band, unadorned except for a series of micro-runes etched along its inner surface. It had been on his finger when he woke in this world, forcefully inserted during whatever ritual had brought him here from Earth. He had never removed it, and over time, he had stopped noticing it.
Hmm, I've got two rings now, Alucent thought as he studied them. The Signet from Elara, and the Anchor from the transmigration. I wonder if that means anything.
He pressed his palm against the door frame and focused his intent. The Weave Anchor ring warmed against his skin as he channeled Runeforce through it, activating the stability rune embedded in the Ironvine, and the lock clicked. The door swung inward.
Alucent stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then pressed his palm to the frame again and channeled Runeforce through the Weave Anchor ring to seal it. The stability rune pulsed once, and the lock engaged with a soft click.
The interior of the Steamcottage was quiet. The main hall was a cozy parlor with high ceilings, the walls papered in embossed crimson damask that caught the light from the chandelier overhead. The chandelier itself was a cascade of Frosted Glass droplets, lit by a gentle oil flame that Alucent had left burning low that morning. Dust motes drifted in the pale illumination, and the only sound was the faint creak of the Ironvine floorboards settling beneath his weight.
He stood in the parlor for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. Then he moved toward the kitchen.
The coal stove was cold, the fire having burned down sometime during the day. Alucent opened the iron door and added fresh coal from the scuttle beside it, then used a match to light the kindling beneath. The fire caught quickly, and soon the kettle on the stovetop began to hiss as the water inside heated.
He didn't wait for it to boil. Instead, he walked to the bedroom.
The four-poster bed with its velvet canopy dominated the space, and the wardrobe of rune-stitched garments stood against the far wall. Alucent ignored both and moved to the brass washbasin beside the window. He worked the hand-pump until cool water flowed into the basin, then cupped it in his palms and splashed it over his face.
The cold helped. The Semantic Fog that had been clouding his thoughts since leaving the Scriptorium began to clear, and he felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease as he scrubbed the day's grime from his skin. After a few seconds, he dried his face with a cloth from the rack beside the basin and looked at himself in the small mirror mounted on the wall.
The ink-bleed had stopped, but faint traces of black remained in the corners of his eyes, and the veins on his left forearm were still visible beneath the skin.
Incomplete, he thought. That's the word the book used. I'm an incomplete Silverline Scribe.
He turned away from the mirror and walked to his study.
The room was smaller than the parlor but more comfortable. A walnut desk dominated the center, its surface scattered with leather journals and loose sheets of parchment, and shelves lined the walls, holding more journals and a collection of texts he had acquired since arriving in Eryndral. A plush armchair sat in the corner, angled to catch the light from the window during the day, and Alucent sank into it. He let out a slow breath as the exhaustion settled into his bones.
For a moment, he simply sat there with his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing. Then he opened them and looked at his pack, which he had set down beside the desk.
The Journal was inside.
He reached for the pack and pulled the artifact free. In its dormant state, it looked like an ordinary book, thick black leather with a surface etched in micro-runes that shifted imperceptibly when he wasn't looking directly at them. The patterns resembled constellations, or fractal scripts, or something else entirely depending on the angle.
Alucent set the Journal on the walnut desk and moved to the chair behind it. He didn't open the book immediately. Instead, he centered his thoughts, reviewing what he had learned in the archives.
Etch, Mastery, Unraveling, Acceptance, he recited mentally. Four phases for every Thread. I have the Etch for Thread 3. I have the Mastery. I've gone past Unraveling. But I haven't reached Acceptance.
He focused his intent on the Journal.
The artifact responded. It rose from the desk and floated to chest height, orienting itself toward him as the dark metal filigree along the spine began to glow faintly cyan. The amber gilding on the page edges pulsed slowly, and the cover opened on its own. Cyan and gold light glowed from the pages within.
Alucent leaned forward slightly in his chair as he spoke. "Erm... Journal, I have the system now. Etch, Mastery, Unraveling, Acceptance. The book says for Thread 3, I must 'be the ink of truth.' I'm using the blood, but it seems like I'm not accepting it. Can you explain the tactical risk of staying in this incomplete state."
Fresh script appeared on the open page in elegant handwriting:
"You are a bridge with a missing stone, Scion. You have the Mastery, the ability to shape blood without losing self, but without Acceptance, every glyph you write is a lie to the Weave. The ink flows, the pattern forms, but the foundation is hollow."
The script paused, and then more text appeared below:
"In low-intensity conflicts, this deficiency is manageable. The Weave tolerates approximation when the stakes are small. But in a high-intensity fight, where reality bends and the Threads strain, the Weave will eventually demand the truth. That is when the Unraveling becomes the Taboo."
Alucent absorbed this for a moment, his fingers resting on the edge of the desk. He thought about the fight in the workshop, the way his vision had flooded with ink-bleed when he activated the Record of All. The Weave had already begun to demand payment.
"The Shadowcage Taboo," he said. "It's rooted in my memory of Mira. If I can't reach Acceptance yet, how do I even fight without the guilt triggering the Corruption?"
The Journal's pages rustled softly, and new script appeared.
"Section the mind. Use the Runequill to focus."
The text referred to his physical Runequill, the brass and gear mechanism that sat in a holder on his desk.
"Treat the Bloodmark as cold law, not personal grief. If the ink is purely functional, the Shadowcage has no anchor to latch onto. The Taboo feeds on emotional resonance. Deny it that resonance, and it starves."
More script appeared below.
"You must be the machine until you are ready to be the Author."
Alucent leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. The advice made sense in theory, but the execution would be difficult. Every time he used his blood to inscribe, he felt the weight of what it represented.
Section the mind, he thought. Treat it as cold law. Hehe, this is easier said than done.
He lowered his hands and looked back at the Journal.
"The Scriptorium text says Anima is the First Weaver," he said. "It says she established the Goldscribe ceiling. You confirmed were there in the 6th Myric. Did she do it for protection, or for control?"
In reply to his question, the script that appeared was written in a slightly different hand, more flourished:
"Indeed, I saw the 6th Myric Scribe try to write his own name over hers. I saw the Mirror Schism shatter the sky. I saw the laws of reality buckle and reform under new management."
A pause, and then more text appeared:
"Perhaps I know the truth of why the ceiling exists, Scion. Perhaps I know what happened to those who tried to break it. But you are currently a Silverline struggling to keep your nose from bleeding. Knowing the God-Logic now would only hasten your Corruption. Focus on your training. The mysteries will still be there when you are strong enough to hold them."
Alucent didn't push. He had learned to recognize when the Journal was genuinely protecting him versus when it was simply being difficult, and this felt like the former.
He turned his attention to a different problem.
"I've been defensive in most fights," he said, shifting in his chair. "Using the Bloodmark for barriers and stabilization mostly. The book described offensive applications for Thread 3. Glyphs that carry emotion and bind deeper. How do I actually translate that into combat?"
Fresh script appeared:
"The Bloodmark's offensive capacity is rooted in its binding function. A glyph etched in blood does not merely affect the target; it claims it. The ink becomes a chain."
The Journal's pages turned on their own, revealing a blank surface that began to fill with diagrams.
"Consider this: A standard kinetic glyph disperses force. A Bloodmark kinetic glyph disperses force and inscribes ownership. For your little mind, this means the target is not merely struck; it is marked. Subsequent glyphs affecting that target become easier to anchor."
Alucent studied the diagrams, leaning forward slightly. They showed the structure of basic combat glyphs, with notations indicating where blood-inscription would alter the flow of Runeforce.
"Of course, the risk is proportional to the reward. Each Bloodmark you place carries a fragment of your definition. If you mark too many targets, your sense of self diffuses. This is the path to becoming a walking paradox, Scion. Use the blood surgically, not liberally."
"Surgically," Alucent repeated quietly.
He thought about the fights he had been in since the transmigration. In most of them, he had reacted to threats rather than controlling the engagement. He had drawn defensive glyphs because they were safe, because they didn't require him to extend himself beyond his immediate position.
I see... Offensive use means projection, he thought. So, that means putting pieces of myself into the world and hoping I get them back.
He reached for the physical Runequill on his desk. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, brass and gears and a reservoir of ink that fed through a nib designed for precise inscription. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it and the smooth texture of the metal against his fingertips.
I need to be as precise as this mechanism, he thought. That means no wasted motion or emotional bleed. Every inscription has ti be calculated for maximum effect with minimum cost.
He set the Runequill down and looked back at the Journal.
"Thread 1 is perception," he said, thinking aloud. "Thread 2 is basic inscription. Thread 3 is blood inscription with emotional binding. Thread 4 is reality warping through mental projection. If I'm going to fight the Weaver, I need to use all of them together, not sequentially, but simultaneously."
The Journal's script shifted to a more formal tone:
"Correct. The Threads are not separate tools to be selected from a belt. They are layers of the same capacity. A Goldscribe perceives, inscribes, bleeds, and projects in a single motion. The Runequill is not a replacement for the earlier Threads; it is their synthesis."
Alucent nodded slowly as the understanding began to crystallize.
"But I can't reach Thread 4 without passing Acceptance for Thread 3," he said. "And I can't reach Acceptance while the Shadowcage is active. So my immediate goal is to learn to use Threads 1 through 3 both offensively and defensively without triggering the Taboo."
"Precisely. The Cold Scribe approach. Function without emotion. Law without grief. It is not a permanent solution, but it will keep you alive until you are ready to confront the shadowcage directly."
Alucent leaned back in his chair again. The headache was still there, but it had receded slightly, replaced by a clarity of purpose that had been missing since he left the archives.
He had a plan now. Not a complete one, but a direction.
He spent the next several hours at his desk, not inscribing, but mentally mapping sequences. He reviewed the combat glyphs he knew and considered how each one would change if he used blood instead of standard ink. He thought about the Shadebinders in the workshop, the way their structure had collapsed when Raya severed the anchor arm based on his analysis.
The Record of All that comes with the journal gives me structural data, he thought. Then Bloodmark lets me exploit that data by inscribing directly onto the target. Meaning If I can mark a weak point, subsequent attacks will become more effective.
He sketched rough diagrams on loose parchment, noting the flow of Runeforce through different glyph configurations. The brass Runequill sat beside his hand, a reminder of the precision he needed to achieve.
The oil flame in the chandelier burned lower as the night deepened, and eventually Alucent set down the quill and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were heavy, and the headache had returned as a dull pressure behind his forehead.
He looked at the Journal, still floating at chest height beside the desk. The cyan and gold light had dimmed slightly, pulsing in a slower rhythm.
"I'm going to learn your secrets one day, Journal," Alucent said quietly. "But first, I'm going to survive the current 7th Myric first."
He stood, turned down the oil flame until the parlor was dark, and walked to the bedroom. The Glowroses outside the window cast a faint, steady light through the Frosted Glass panes, and the Steamcottage was silent around him.
He lay down on the four-poster bed without undressing and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, pulling him down into darkness.