Rain fell across the slate rooftops of Echlion, each drop gently pulsing against the stones in a steady rhythm of sound. In a small courtyard, off a drop in the grounds of Alfrenzo's estate, Luenor Sureva sat cross-legged, eyes focused on the parchment before him. Hunter waited by, arms folded, eyes fixed on Luenor.
"You understand principle number one, yes?" Hunter's voice, low, held no tremor.
"Magic conduction?" Luenor asked back, albeit as more of a statement than a question.
Hunter nodded. "Runes are not just patterns. They are a language of mana. Every line channels power. Every curve, every node, they are not decoration, but direction."
Luenor picked up his quill, and tried again. His fingers trembled, the ink was bleeding at the edges of the parchment.
Hunter stepping in, gently guiding Luenor's fingers. "Too crudely done. You are not forcing mana, you are giving it a suggestion."
With one smooth correction, Luenor watched as the line straightened, the rune began to balance.
"So, you are saying that this is guiding, not controlling?" Luenor asked, his voice soft with the realization.
"That's right," said Hunter, his tone coding appreciation through graduation. "Mastering runes can take a lifetime, at least. But the basics... well, the basics can save your life, or destroy a kingdom."
Luenor's eyes stayed glued to the rune as he traced it one more time, Hunter's words weighing heavily in his thoughts.
A knock at the door interrupted their lesson. Thalanar stepped in; his face pale, cast in shadow by the burnished light of the lamp.
"A shipment of mana stones that was meant for Carrowhelm... it never arrived." There was a slight quiver in Thalanar's voice. "There are no bandits. No wreck wreckage. Just burn marks on the road."
"Burn marks?" asked Hunter.
"Yes, burn marks." Thalanar answered. "I sent Burizan to investigate."
"Why that fat piggy? I would rather send Dion." Luenor said.
Thalanar coughed awkwardly, "He insisted, something about proving loyalty."
_______
Burizan made his way down the muddy road, feeling each footfall absorbed by the earth as if reluctant to betray him. His shirt clung to his back, sweat combined with rain.
He soon approached the burn site. Burnt wood, splintered legs of the wagon half-buried in the ash. No bodies. Not tracks. No signs of violence—just a ghostly silence.
"Burn marks…" he muttered fieblely. "But no indication people existed."
Burizan pressed on deeper into the woods, rid by the shadows of something not belonging. The breeze blew warnings, but he was compelled onward.
And then he found it. A hole burned into the hillside.
Burizan swallowed. "This is madness," he breathed. But his legs would carry him forward.
Inside the cave the temperature change surprised him first; hot air kissed his skin, a breath carrying the remnants of burnt wood. Ash remained aglow, translucent tendrils of smoke haphazed upward as a shield of silence wrapped around him. His gaze fell to the ground in front of him, where his eyes found a sword, propped against a jagged rock with the pommel deeply buried in ash.
He shifted a bit.
Schlink.
The blade tapped at his neck: cold, clinical, before it was ejected into the air with a dangerous aura.
Burizan froze. Heart hammering in his chest, reverberating in his ears.
A man stepped into view, a mask of a snarling wolf covering his face. He didn't say a word. All he had was a twisted illusion of water placed upon metal.
Burizan flinched. "I—I'm just a merchant… from Duskwatch! I—"
"Proof." The lips of the mask remained still, yet the words were a crystal marver.
Burizan flicked open his satchel, gingerly emptying its contents—his ledgers, cargo receipts, some seals impressed with the mark of Duskwatch. Breathless despair powered his trembling hands out into space. The man in the wolf-mask stepped closer into Burizan's light, snatched all of the documents from him, inspected every document like a scholar has reviewed a sacred text. Then... returned them.
"Gold," the man said, his voice somehow less than human.
Burizan could only show terror and confusion in his eyes. Without consideration for anything left or in his satchel, he dropped the remaining coins to the floor.
The masked man's sword was pressed flat against Burizan's belly.
"Go."
Burizan stumbled out of the cave, the rain starting again—the fine, almost urgent droplets already slatting against his face and neck. He was running now, his mind throbbing like a drum, while his lungs tore air.
Then he slowed himself down, panting after moments later. He reached into his pouch for his papers—just the normal shipment manifests. But when his heart skipped it's beat he could see something had changed.
"These aren't merchant forms..." he cracked, blinking as he widened his eyes. "These...they're shipment itineraries."
The forest came alive. A taut wire whipped beneath his foot.
The world tipped as he crashed down. He whirled into the air like a rag doll snagged in ropes. His hat flew off his head, pages fluttering like timid little birds under the rain.
"Wh--wh--no!"
The masked man came out of the shadows at the cave's mouth. He stood, the floor wet, the rain lashing against his cloak. He held his hands free, and he made no sound with his bare feet.
Burizan's mind screamed run.
"Let me down—!"
The wolf-masked man closed in again, sword painted above his head.
"You were investigating the shipment." His tone was calm, even - too calm.
"I—I was just checking—I wasn't going to say anything!"
A pause. Burizan's heart thumped hard against his ribs.
The masked man spat into the mud at Burizan's feet. "That was me."
That hung in the air like a drive-by shooting. Betrayal, cold and bitter in the mouth.
Burizan's head jerked up to the stare of the mask.
"I—I don't understand... you burned them to frame someone?"
Silence. The masked figure continued to close the distance.
Then, swish.