"The Hero prayed for himself; the Villain prayed for ruin.
Both spoke to silence. Both built the gate."
— The Gate Sermons (fragment)
The cafeteria smelled faintly of boiled roots and bitter tea. The clatter of trays and chairs was distant, muffled, as though the room itself held its breath for the two of us.
Serwyn Galmort sat across from me, her hands locked around the chipped porcelain cup as if it were the last thing anchoring her. Her eyes were hollow, rimmed red from nights where grief outlasted sleep. She looked at the tea as if it were poison.
"Drink," I told her softly, sliding the sugar bowl across the table.
She did not touch it. Her lips drew tight when she whispered, "You're just a boy. Why help me?"
I leaned back, unflinching. "Do I need a reason?"
Her fingers trembled.
"That day," I said, voice low, "you were holding the corpse—your brother, perhaps. But it wasn't a brother I saw. It was a mother. And there is no pain greater than a mother burying her child."
The cafeteria seemed to fold in on itself; the noises dimmed, as if the ceiling bent down to listen.
"I don't need a reason not to leave someone alone in that," I finished. "At least someone should be there."
Tears slipped, tracing her face with silence. She lifted the cup with both shaking hands, and sipped.
"And what can you do?" she asked, voice raw. "You're just a boy."
I rested against the chair, tilted my head back, and stared at the ceiling.
It was no plain ceiling. It was art—living art. A fresco worked in paint and mosaic both, where two-dimensional brushwork swirled into carved relief. It looked like something halfway alive: a hero vanishing into fire, his cloak painted in scarlet that bled seamlessly into three-dimensional flames carved into the stone. His sword, raised high, was flat paint, yet the shadows it cast were real. The hero's face was fractured—half serene, half contorted in anguish—like the artist could not decide whether grace or ruin defined him.
"I plan to enroll in the University," I said at last, still staring upward. "Ossuary Crown. I will learn the ways of this world—and bend it to my will."
Sewyrn Galmort followed my gaze, and in that silence she asked, almost in a whisper:
"Have you heard of Cuttle Throne's prose? The Hero?"
The words fell naturally from both our mouths, simultaneously, like a prayer remembered from childhood:
A hero is ruin draped in grace,
a bleeding wound, a shining face.
They walk through fire, yet drown in rain,
they break the world to spare its pain.
Sewyrn 's lips curved faintly—her first smile since I had seen her.
"And what is your name?" she asked.
---
The scene fractured.
The memory shifted—a picnic beneath a fractured sky.
Daemon sat with the twelve children, Lysandra at his side. He had already decided her name was too stiff, too long, so he shortened it. "Lysa" was easier. Softer.
Derrick, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, looked like a bully, though his eyes had the dumb kindness of someone who did not know how strong he was. There was Marwen, always fidgeting with his nails, muttering little observations under his breath. Irel, with her hair tied in mismatched ribbons, who insisted she would become a knight. Corrin, who carried books he never read but liked to pretend he did. Esme, pale and sickly but sharp-tongued. Baret, who laughed too loud at every joke.
One by one they introduced themselves, each name marking them as real, fragile, and temporary. Daemon noted their flaws and strengths like tally marks, storing them away as one would sort coins.
They had brought what scraps they could gather—half loaves, bruised apples, dried fish. Lysa had been kind enough to stretch it further, sneaking food from the tavern, arranging it into something resembling a picnic. And so they sat, twelve children and Daemon, eating as though it were a feast.
He said little. He stared north, where the horizon darkened like a wound. His mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere.
Then a tap on his arm. He turned.
Lysa, smiling, held out a piece of pie. "Here."
Daemon stared at it, then at her, and smiled despite himself. He took it, bit into the crust, and for a moment—for the briefest moment—he was simply a boy among children.
The sun fell lower. One by one, the children rose, yawning, pulling each other along. They left in pairs and threes, waving goodnight. Their names scattered in the wind like fragile promises.
Daemon lingered. The north wind tugged at his collar. Lysa stayed, quiet beside him, hands folded around her knees.
And then, as shadows deepened, he spoke—not to her, not to anyone in particular, but to the gathering dark:
"The Weft-Rune," he said, "is the smallest unit of command. A living program, if you will."
His voice was steady, instructional. Almost priestly.
"The Root is the command. The verb. A line for force. A spiral for change. A jagged edge for fracture.
The Filament is the modifier. The adverb, the adjective. Dots for directness, circles for repetition, little hooks for intensity.
And the Weft-Mark—the target. The noun. Heat. Water. Perception. Even sorrow. Without a Mark, the command is nothing."
Lysa listened, eyes wide, as if he were speaking of scripture.
Daemon looked down at the crust of pie in his hand, crumbled now between his fingers.
"With enough of these threads," he murmured, "you can weave reality itself. You can make the world kneel."
Me and Lysa walked home. I was meant to head back to the tavern for supper, but halfway down the street, I saw him—a man bleeding against the wall, breath ragged, one arm pressed to his ribs.
From the shadows, Holland's voice rang out, sharp and mocking:
"Matthew, where's the boy?"
The wounded man spat blood and croaked back, "It's Charmevolé."
// Charmevolé — 'my joy was stolen.' Matthew means 'God's gift.' Feydur, from the old Slavic tongue, means 'fate-bearer.'
Holland chuckled, stepping closer. "Cordiraptor would've been a better pick anyway. Now, where's your son, Daemon?"
Charmevolé laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "The boy's not serious. When he's ready, he'll learn. Until then—deduct from my pay. He can afford to ditch work."
---
Elsewhere, Patrick washed his hands after butchering a goblin. The cutting board was scarred with claw marks from the thing's last struggle. Its skin, entrails, and private parts were strung up like butcher's trophies. A single eye dangled from a hook.
Goblin flesh was not inedible. Adventurers ate whatever they killed. Their blood, thick and black, was even more valuable—an ingredient for tunics that bolstered the body's immunity. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did nothing. Rare, risky, but sought after by alchemists who thought resistance could be bottled.
Patrick knew their taste. He had fought them before.
The "dungeon" was not a labyrinth of stone, but something stranger—villages and forests sunk into depression, a world beneath the highlands where the surface society lived. Trees grew tall enough to block out the sun. The air was heavy, damp. To descend was easy. To rise again required elevators linked by massive chains.
Patrick had finished his work. He left the ruined house, wiping his hands, and walked to one of the hundred chain-elevators. The men waiting with him were armed. One with twin cutlasses across his back. Another, lean, long mustache, wearing a thick leather coat and cradling a loaded musket. Patrick had only his fists, but at 6'5" and broad as a wall, his size alone was its own weapon.
At first, there was silence. Respect. Until Mustache stepped on Patrick's boot.
Patrick's rage was quick, volcanic. He slammed his fist into the man with the musket—blew him through the elevator door like paper. The gun went off mid-fall, bullet tearing through Patrick's thigh before shattering the lone bulb above. The light died, plunging the shaft into shadow.
The elevator groaned as it rose, guided by "protectors"—metal teeth that scraped the wall to slow its climb. Each contact echoed as a screech, counting the distance to the surface.
First.
Second.
Third.
By the fourth screech, the cutlass adventurer leapt. One sword stabbed into the wall, the other hooked into the chain. He began to climb.
Up above, guards stood waiting, guns drawn.
Out of the shadows came the pirate-like man—dirty sleeve covering one hand, sword in the other. He hurled something back down the shaft before anyone could question him.
An explosion roared from below.
The guards lowered their guns. One stepped forward for payment.
The pirate handed him a folded note, its paper marked with a glowing Weft-rune. The guard read it, then kept silent. No more questions.
They leaned over the edge.
Far below, the chain glowed red-hot, the elevator a burning husk. And clinging to the wall by bloody fingertips was a man—his hand leaving smears against the stone as he refused to let go.
"A rune is no mere scratch upon stone—each is a living will, a blade of thought. The Root drives, the Filament shapes, and the Weft-Mark binds. Miss one, and you carve nothing; master all, and you carve the world."