The Min stream snaked at the foot of a rugged mountain, its crystalline waters breaking the ice still clinging to its banks in a wooded area where leafless trees, laden with fresh snow, cast long shadows under a grayish sky. The season, neither too cold nor too warm, had begun, and the air carried a whisper of change, a faint warmth that melted the frost and made the tree branches creak. On a smooth stone by the stream, a young man lay, his body motionless as if part of the frozen landscape. A white-crowned sparrow chick, its feathers gleaming under the pale light, curiously pecked at his cheek. The boy frowned in disapproval in his dreams, as if annoyed at being woken from his nap. Suddenly, the mother sparrow appeared, more aware of the danger than her innocent chick. She swooped down abruptly, grabbed her offspring with her talons in a swift maneuver, and, at the same time, launched a fleeting peck toward the human's nose before fleeing quickly.
"—Aghhh, don't send me back to that wrinkled old man, please!" Cassel shouted, jumping up in a fright. "Where am I?" The boy shook his head from side to side, terrified, scanning the surroundings.
"The Min stream? Agh! Blood?" he wondered, touching his nose. Across the stream, on a small tree, he glimpsed the sparrow with her chick.
"Damn you!" the boy yelled, throwing a stone at the bird, missing miserably.
"Ssss! It burns! My chest!" Cassel said, exhaling sharply with a grimace of pain. Frowning, he pulled the tattered fabric from his chest forward and examined it. There, across his right pectoral, a series of bloody scars still glowed red-hot, clearly not yet healed. On the left, over his heart, three simple lines forming a triangle were barely perceptible to the naked eye.
I can't believe he did it... A cross of those two bloodlines... Listen carefully! Disaster stalks this land... and the whole world... Keep a low profile. Don't go around showing your runes... and don't tell anyone about them, especially the one I drew over your heart. Don't use it too much…
"It really happened! It wasn't a dream!" Cassel thought, his face etched with worry. "That old man said something about doing someone a favor. Who? That ice woman?" The boy's expression grew increasingly troubled the more he thought about what had happened; it had all been so sudden. He didn't know what had become of his cousin Jean either. Cassel's gaze dropped to the ground, he slowly closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and…
"HA, HA, HA, HA! RUNES! FINALLY! I'M A MARKED ONE!"
Cassel jumped, shouted, and laughed ecstatically, disturbing the rest of some birds that flew off, annoyed. The adventure and risk of climbing the mountain seemed to have been worth it.
"Finally!" Cassel said in a tone that held a mix of years of pent-up anger and relief as he clenched his fists. His uncle Dann's words echoed in his mind as he calmed down. The boy closed his eyes and tried to feel. There, in his chest, amid the burning of the unhealed wound, at one of the tips of the lines of the mark on his right pectoral, a small ball, like a dot within his blood vessels, vibrated faintly. It was hard to perceive; he needed to focus. The slight tingling told him the rune had awakened his bloodline. He had no idea what lineage it was, but he trusted his uncle's words—it had to be something extraordinary.
Closing his eyes to block out distractions, he felt the small tingling, imagining a tiny worm made of his own blood wanting to crawl freely through his veins, and then it happened. A small movement. The little worm, lazily, shifted a centimeter along the path marked by his runes. Cassel couldn't see it with his eyes closed, but he was sure: that small stretch of his tattoo where his blood had moved glowed faintly with a sanguine light.
The tingling intensified, as if the worm stretched beyond his skin, and suddenly, Cassel felt a strange lightness, as if his body floated for a moment above the Min stream. A shiver ran down his spine, not from the cold air but from something deeper, as if a part of him detached and brushed the world around him. Within a four-meter radius, the forest came alive in his mind: the grasses between the stones whispered a rough rustle, the small fish in the stream danced with glints of movement, the tall trees pulsed with an ancient stillness, and the birds on the branches—the white-crowned sparrow among them—watched him with eyes blending curiosity and distrust. Each form of life was an echo, a murmur vibrating in his chest, where the rune pulsed like an alien heart. Cassel opened his eyes, gasping, and the world returned to being just the forest, but the shiver lingered, a reminder that something in him had changed.
Suddenly, a brown and gray blur leaped from the bushes, and Cassel barely had time to turn. Sharp jaws grazed his left leg, opening a deep cut that made him scream. He fell to his knees by the smooth stone, warm blood trickling down his calf. "Damn it, what the hell!" The creature stopped a few meters away, turning with a wet growl. It was a large rodent, grotesque, warped by something unnatural. Its stocky body, covered in matted fur and black patches like rot, vibrated with aggression. Red eyes gleamed with blind fury, jagged yellowed teeth snapped in a wide snout, and tattered ears twitched nervously. Its short, rigid tail, like a broken branch, thrashed the ground. A Rot Beaver, one of the most common Creatures of the Cracks that had recently appeared in the area, drawn to the streams where the thaw revealed hidden fissures. The people of Mith avoided these waters for fear of these beasts, whose bite could infect and weaken.
Cassel stood, limping, blood dripping onto the grasses. "Thank the heavens it's you and not something worse," he thought, recalling rumors of greater horrors in the cracks. Lately, venturing outside the cities was a risk few dared to take. Before, a Rot Beaver would have been his end; now, with the rune pulsing in his chest, he felt a spark of courage. "Damn it, let's see what you can do," he muttered, clenching his fists. The Beaver charged again, its heavy body moving with a speed that belied its size.
Cassel rolled to the side, barely dodging the teeth that snapped near his thigh. The creature crashed into the stone, growling, and Cassel seized the moment to stand, retreating toward a pine. His inexperience weighed like a slab; he'd never been a fighter, his days in Mith filled with taunts rather than brawls. The rune pulsed, sending a warmth that eased the pain in his leg, but he didn't know how to use it. "Damn old man, you give me this and don't tell me how it works!" The Beaver turned, its red eyes fixed on him, and charged again, zigzagging over the stream's rocks.
Cassel dove behind the pine, using the trunk as a shield. The creature's teeth grazed the bark, tearing off splinters. Cassel, heart pounding, struck clumsily with his elbow, hitting the snout. The blow was weak, but the Beaver stepped back, its growl faltering. The beast charged again, its claws scraping the ground. Cassel, unusually calm, dodged, tripping over a root, and felt a burning scratch on his arm as a claw caught him. "Damn it, this hurts!"
Gasping, he crawled toward the stream, the icy water biting his wound. The Beaver followed, splashing with fury. Cassel, using his wits, crouched behind a large rock, waiting. Somehow, his skin seemed to warn him of the wave of madness and killing intent about to surge from behind the stone. When the beast leaped, he rolled aside, and it crashed into the rock, stunned. Cassel seized the chance, striking its flank with a sharp stone from the streambed. The Beaver growled, staggering, its movements slower, as if the blow had stolen some of its vigor.
The Rot Beaver didn't give up. Its red eyes gleamed, and it charged again, snout snapping. Cassel, limping, retreated toward the pines, seeking solid ground. The beast caught up, grazing his side with a claw that left a shallow cut. "Damn it, I'm not Jean, I don't know how to fight like this!" he thought, frustrated. But the rune kept pulsing, and he closed his eyes for a moment, seeking the tingling. The blood worm stirred, and a shiver enveloped him, bringing a confused murmur: a flash of blind fury, not his own, that made him tremble. "What the hell? Why do I feel this rage so clearly?" He opened his eyes, disoriented, just as the Beaver leaped again.
Cassel dove into the water, drawing the creature in. Its teeth snapped near his shoulder, but he spun, striking with a fallen branch he found on the bank. The blow hit the neck, and the Beaver staggered back, its growl weaker, its eyes blinking as if struggling to stay upright. "I don't remember my hits being that strong; something's happening," Cassel thought, encouraged but confused. The shiver returned, more intense, and for a moment, he felt a burning chaos, a fury not his own. "This isn't normal. What's this rune doing to me?"
The fight continued, a clumsy dance of dodges and blows. Cassel, inexperienced, relied on his wits and the terrain. He rolled behind another rock, letting the Beaver crash into it, and struck its hind leg with the branch. The creature stumbled, slower, its fury waning with each hit. "Every time I hit it, it seems… less." The Beaver charged once more, but Cassel, acting on pure instinct, ducked and struck its snout with the stone. The creature growled, weakened, its movements heavy.
Cassel, exhausted, felt the rune burn, a pain spreading through his chest, his vision blurring. Blood from his leg dripped into the stream, and the scratches on his arm and side stung. But the shiver persisted, and with it, a strange murmur, as if the forest watched him. The Beaver, now sluggish, tried one last attack. Cassel, using the water to his advantage, lured it into the deep stream. As the beast splashed, he struck with all his strength, hitting its head with the branch. The Rot Beaver sank, convulsing, until it lay still, its fury fading.
Cassel fell to his knees by the stone, gasping, the rune pulsing faintly. The forest was silent, save for the stream's gurgle and a distant sparrow's song. His leg wound bled, the scratches ached, but he felt alive, strange. "Damn it, what was that? I took down a Creature of the Cracks, on my own!" The rune glowed one last time before fading, leaving the boy with more questions than answers.
Using his runes so much for the first time had left him exhausted; it was dangerous. The blood loss caused by the runes' hunger could leave severe consequences. And there was something else worrying Cassel: he didn't know, and likely no one except that old man and perhaps the ice woman knew, what kind of blood crystal would be suitable for his recovery and further cultivation. That was, in fact, why so few people, perhaps only the most reckless, etched runes without knowing which creature their bloodline came from.
"I have to get back; another one of those things could show up soon… I don't know exactly what happened, but I felt it," Cassel thought, looking at his chest.
Not all runes enhanced physical traits, and the boy was aware of that. In fact, those that didn't were often the most dangerous… and the hardest to cultivate.
***
The office, atop a tower in Mith, exuded a cold luxury. Black wood walls, mimicking the pine wood, absorbed the amber light of an iron lamp hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The obsidian floor reflected a massive desk, where a map of trade routes, pinned with daggers, traced paths between cracks. A window revealed snow falling slowly over the city, a whisper of the changing season.
The man behind the desk, wrapped in a dark tunic embroidered with silver threads, dropped a parchment. His gray fur cloak brushed the chair's back as his eyes, cold as ice, gleamed. A knock at the door broke the silence.
"Come in," he said, his voice low, laden with secrets.
Two figures entered, cloaks dripping with meltwater. One, burly, with scarred hands; the other, thin, with glasses and crumpled papers. They gave no names, only bowed their heads. The burly man spoke first, his voice rough.
The man at the desk leaned forward, drumming his fingers on a dagger. "He climbed? The boy raised by Dann Boreas? With more cracks appearing every day?" His tone blended disbelief and a hidden hunger.
A heavy silence filled the room. The wood's knots seemed like watchful eyes. The man stood, approaching the window. Snow fell like a veil over Mith. "Cassel Boreas… Amelia," he murmured, his voice sharp. He turned, eyes alight. "We cannot allow that boy to marry our daughter of the Cunin clan."