A young man walked through one of the main streets of the city of Mith. His gaze darted back and forth, inspecting every corner and alley, as if searching for something. He looked worried. He dodged merchants unloading their wares from carts parked on the cobblestone street and others who clogged the width of the road with their vehicles pulled by weary gray buffalo, all while moving at a brisk pace. His target was the building at the end of the street, slightly more ostentatious than the rest due to its more ornate architecture and white-painted stone, meant to appear more elegant.
Though the place called itself "the capital of the north," it was hardly splendid. With dilapidated wooden buildings and a few made of gray stone no taller than four stories, and its ever-present gray sky with snowstorms, it felt somewhat dull and stifling to the young man, who had known the vibrant cities of the neighboring country of Huari, farther south. In fact, "the north," where Mith lay, was not a proper country or kingdom but a fragile coalition of territories governed by a few families who had earned the right to administer the lands by gaining the favor of the Central Lands.
Suddenly, a shout cut through the street's clamor:
"Look, Jean Boreas! Where are you off to in such a hurry? It's as if you'd stolen a lettuce from one of these louts!"
The mocking voice came from Yannick, of Clan Remil, who emerged from a nearby alley with a lackey trailing in his shadow. Yannick walked with an upright, almost theatrical posture, his black wool cloak billowing with an air of superiority. His face, sharp-featured with dark eyes that gleamed with petulance, seemed carved to look down on others. A crooked smile adorned his lips, as if the entire city were beneath his lineage. Beside him, his lackey—a burly man with a submissive gaze—carried a bundle of fine fabrics, clearly meant to highlight his master's status.
To Jean's surprise, rumors in Mith whispered that Yannick had mastered his Rune of Lightness with unusual skill. The mark, etched on his left leg, allowed him to move with an almost inhuman grace, as if guided by the wind itself. Though both young men shared a palpable hostility, born of clan rivalries and Yannick's arrogance, believing himself destined to outshine the other Marked of Mith, Jean did not respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the white building at the end of the street. He continued his walk without stopping.
Yannick, with a grimace of irritation, quickened his pace, his figure almost a blur due to the speed granted by his Rune of Lightness. Without a word, from the side, he threw a punch straight at Jean's face, his arm slicing through the air with inhuman swiftness, a faint bloody glow emanating from the white, scar-like lines on his left leg.
Jean reacted on instinct, raising his arm to block the blow. A faint glimmer arose from the pale lines on his bicep, where his Rune of Vigor lay etched like an ancient scar. The impact echoed in the air, but Jean held Yannick's fist, his skin and muscles hardened by the rune's power; on his arm, a few blood-red lines flickered with a faint glow, a sign that he, too, was a Marked.
"Are you sure you want to fight, you useless fool?" Jean exclaimed, gripping his adversary's fist with a cold stare. All he received was a mocking smile from the young master of Clan Remil.
The scuffle drew the attention of passersby, and from behind, the burly servant pushed Jean toward a nearby alley, dragging him along to avoid prying eyes. Jean, furious, let himself be led, knowing he could not ignore the challenge. Once in the dark passage, Yannick stepped back, adopting a stance ready for combat, while Jean positioned himself, the faint glow of his rune still visible on his arm.
Yannick waited no longer. He surged forward with a crack of stone beneath his feet, his silhouette a blur that circled Jean in a tight arc. The air hummed around him as he unleashed a flurry of rapid strikes, each aimed at vital points with precision.
Jean stood like a bulwark. His muscles thrummed with the energy of the rune on his arm; each blow he took drew a grunt, but he did not yield. With a short roar, he twisted his torso and threw an upward punch that, though slower by comparison, carried the force of a hammer. Yannick dodged it by a hair, but the wind of the blow tousled his hair and forced him to leap back to regain his balance. With his back nearly pressed against the alley wall, he barely had time to sidestep when Jean threw a fist straight at his chest. The blow grazed him and crashed into the stone, leaving small cracks that spread like spiderwebs on the wall, a stark reminder of the power hidden in Jean's rune.
The young man of Clan Remil seized the moment. With the wall at his back and Jean's arm sunk into the rock, he spun, using his rival's shoulder as leverage, and delivered a low kick to Jean's opposite leg. The speed of his rune turned the move into a whip-crack that made Jean stagger a step. Yannick then slid his body to one side, freeing himself from the trap, and landed a quick blow to Jean's ribs before stepping back again, seeking to regain distance.
The alley became a confined arena of feints and clashes. Yannick darted in and out like a shadow, probing for a gap in Jean's guard, while Jean advanced with heavy steps, measuring each move, shielding himself and launching brutal counterattacks that shook the ground.
Jean drew a deep breath and noticed for the first time that his joints burned; Yannick's precise strikes, always aimed at soft spots, were taking their toll. Each time he raised his arm, he felt a dull stab in his shoulder, and his hip ached as if filled with lead. Yannick, meanwhile, panted with sweat beading on his brow: the speed that favored him drained his strength quickly, and the constant movement left him breathless.
Both felt dizzy, a deep hum rising in their temples, their vision growing cloudy. It was the price of wielding the power of the marks: the blood that fueled the runes boiled within them, consuming them bit by bit. Their eyes met in silence for a moment, each understanding that the other was also at their limit, yet neither willing to yield first.
Yannick let out a crooked, mocking grimace. With a swift motion, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small, brilliant green crystal, the size and shape of a finger. Without breaking eye contact with Jean, he brought it to his mouth and crushed it gently between his teeth until it crunched softly. Instantly, his breathing steadied from a ragged gasp; the trembling in his hands ceased, and the fog in his gaze cleared.
Jean cursed inwardly, feeling his own pulse race. He had used up the last of the blood crystal his father had given him hours ago; all he had left was his endurance and the dwindling energy still coursing through his veins. Using his own blood to fuel the rune excessively was a lethal danger. He had to end the fight quickly, before Yannick's advantage became insurmountable.
"I'll give you one chance to slink away with your tail between your legs," Yannick said, straightening and rolling his shoulders with renewed calm. "Just hand over whatever you and your pathetic cousin found in the mountains."
Jean furrowed his brow, surprised that the news had spread so quickly.
Yannick let out a dry, disdainful laugh.
"What, did you think your pitiful adventure could stay hidden for long? Tell me, why isn't that worm with you?" He didn't even bother to say Cassel's name. "Don't tell me he stayed in the mountains. With the Rift Creatures waking more often… I'm surprised that buffoon dared to crawl out of his hole. Ha, ha, ha!"
Jean only returned a cold stare, typical of him, his hands trembling as the rune on his arm pulsed.
Deep down, he knew Yannick was stalling. The blood crystal in his mouth was already taking effect, restoring his strength while Jean had only his own blood to rely on. Every second tipped the scales in his enemy's favor.
The alley's air filled with gasps and the dull thud of blows. Yannick, revitalized by the blood crystal, moved like a swift shadow, circling Jean. He dodged a right hook and spun to deliver a low kick to the side of Jean's knee. Jean barely managed to harden his muscle with his rune before taking an elbow to the ribs. The force of the blow made him stumble back two steps, spitting saliva mixed with blood.
Jean gritted his teeth and pressed forward, throwing a straight punch at Yannick's face. The boy from Clan Remil tilted his head with an elegant motion, the fist grazing his cheek, and countered with two quick blows to Jean's torso, like precise hammer strikes, drawing a grunt from him. Yannick seized the moment to slip behind and ram his knee into Jean's back, trying to bring him down. Jean spun on his axis, blocking with effort, and the two separated, breathing heavily.
The back-and-forth continued: fists, knees, spins, shifts. Yannick seemed to always hold the edge in speed, striking Jean's flanks before he could raise his guard. But between each attack, Jean kept his left hand low, almost hidden behind his belt, as if guarding his side. His eyes, despite the fatigue, measured the distance with cold precision.
In a moment when Yannick advanced confidently with a hook, Jean pivoted on his back foot and, in one fluid motion, pulled a black iron glove from his pocket, fitting it over his fist like a claw. It was the clan's gift for his fifteenth birthday, forged by Rimef himself. His arm arced and threw an upward punch. The blow grazed Yannick's ribs, who reacted with feline reflexes to avoid a direct hit, but the impact still stole his breath and made him stagger, freezing him for a precious second where his speed was useless.
Jean didn't let the opening pass. With the black glove glinting faintly in the alley's light, he raised his arm to deliver a second punch straight at Yannick's face, this time intent on knocking him down. The boy from Clan Remil was still struggling to catch his breath after the rib strike, with no time to retreat.
But before the fist could land, a massive hand intervened, seizing Jean's wrist with surprising strength. It was Yannick's servant, who had been silently watching the fight from the side. Bald, with a thick mustache and a curiously kind gaze, his mere presence seemed to break the tension in the air. Jean was struck by how that solid, almost clumsy-looking body moved with such swiftness; that speed didn't match his build at all.
Lowering his gaze, Jean noticed a rune on the man's leg, not fully formed but far more defined than the irregular marks of adolescents. It was the shape of a stylized feather, the unmistakable symbol of the Rune of Frost Eagle, the mark typical of the core members of the Remil family, one that would, in time, take shape on Yannick as well. He realized instantly that this man was far stronger than both of them combined.
The protector bowed slightly, his tone respectful yet at odds with the strength of his grip:
"Forgive me, young master Boreas, but we must leave."
Without another word, he released Jean and slipped an arm behind Yannick, ensuring he could walk. The boy, still catching his breath, let himself be led but didn't break eye contact with Jean. His eyes, once mocking, now burned with a cold hatred, promising this wasn't over.
Jean slumped against the alley wall, the stone's chill seeping into his back. Dizzy and nauseous, he tried to focus his vision, but everything blurred, shadows and lights blending in a slow sway. His arm throbbed with pain, each pulse accompanied by a dark, bloody flicker in the rune's lines, as if it breathed through his skin.
I have to reach Father quickly…
***
In the heart of an icy valley, a crevasse of ice stretched like a mortal scar across the face of the earth. It was an abyss in nature, a gaping maw into the mountain's depths. A dense mist hung in the air, the perfect place for someone who wished to avoid the world's attention.
From the ravine's walls, steps of ice formed in rhythm with the strides of an indescribably beautiful ice fairy. Behind her, bound in the tight grip of her pristine ice tail, a sleeping young man emerged from the abyss.