James hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze lingering on **Amelia** He masked his pause by taking a slow sip of his tea, letting its warmth ground him before finally speaking.
"Amelia," he said, his voice steady but edged with something careful, something deliberate. "Would you teach me **Rune Mastery**?"
Across the table, **Claire** raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt. **Their guardian**, focused on his meal, didn't react. But Amelia—her fingers stilled against the rim of her cup, her expression unreadable for a moment.
Her lineage wasn't a secret. The **Runemaster Clan**—one of the **Five Royal Clans**, known for their mastery over arcane symbols and enchantments—had shaped generations of scholars, warriors, and innovators. The weight of such knowledge wasn't something freely given.
She studied him, silent, before finally speaking. "Do you even know what you're asking?"
James met her gaze, unwavering. "I know enough to want to learn."
A pause stretched between them. Amelia exhaled, leaning back slightly, eyes sharp with thought. **Teaching rune mastery wasn't just about learning symbols—it was about understanding the balance between power and restraint.**
"You absorbed those cores yesterday," she finally said. "And now you want to handle runes? That's a lot for your body to take on."
James smirked slightly. "I can handle it."
"Maybe. But it's not about handling—it's about understanding."
Her tone was cautious, but there was something else beneath it. Consideration.
"Fine," Amelia said, crossing her arms. "I'll think about it."
James held back a grin. Itwasn't a yes—but it wasn't a no either.
James leaned forward slightly, eyes steady on Amelia. "You'll think about it," he echoed, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "That sounds suspiciously like a maybe."
Amelia sighed, shaking her head. "It's not a maybe. It's me not saying no outright."
"And that's progress," James pointed out, resting his arms against the table. "I'm serious about this. Rune mastery isn't just some skill to have on the side—it's part of my class. And if there's something more to my abilities, I need to understand it."
Claire, still eating, raised an eyebrow. "You just woke up and you're already haggling for lessons?"
James ignored her, keeping his focus on Amelia. She considered him, tapping a finger lightly against the rim of her cup before finally speaking.
"You don't just 'learn' rune mastery, James. You study it, refine it—craft it into something meaningful. If I teach you, it won't be simple."
"I don't expect it to be." His voice was firm, honest.
Amelia exhaled, crossing her arms. "Fine. If you want to learn, we'll start small. Basics. Theory. Nothing beyond that until I see you actually grasping it."
James fought back a grin. That was enough—a start.
Claire snorted. "Congrats, you nagged her into agreeing."
James merely shrugged. He preferred 'persistence'.
Yet in the back of his mind, he knew there was something else he could have done—leveraged the fact that he had let them stay. They had arrived at the orphanage injured, weary, with nowhere else to go. He could have reminded Amelia of that, used it to push her into saying yes outright.
But he didn't.
He had never been the type to hold favors over people. If she was going to teach him, he wanted it to be because she saw his potential—not because she felt obligated.
James pushed his chair back and stood, stretching slightly before grabbing his bow, securing it over his shoulder with practiced ease. The familiar weight was comforting, a steady presence—but his quiver? Empty.
He clicked his tongue in mild frustration, running his hand over the worn leather of the quiver's strap. Every last arrow had been used up during the rescue—the fight, the escape, the desperate final shot that bought them time to reach safety. He hadn't thought much about it then, too focused on ensuring Amelia, Claire, and their injured guardian made it out alive.
Now, though, he felt the absence acutely.
James stepped outside, greeted by the crisp morning air that carried the lingering dampness of the night. The town was slowly stirring to life, bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun, which cast golden streaks across the cracked cobblestone streets. A thin layer of mist clung to the alleyways, curling around wooden stalls and the worn edges of buildings, reluctant to fully dissipate.
The market district was already bustling—merchants setting up shop, their rough voices calling out early morning deals while arranging crates of fresh vegetables, cured meats, and furs. The blacksmith, his face lined with soot and sweat, hammered rhythmically on a blade, the sharp clang echoing across the square. Sparks flared against the anvil as apprentices hurried to sort through weapons waiting for repairs.
Nearby, hunters convened in small clusters, some seated on crates, others leaning against wooden posts as they exchanged mission detailsandbeast trackingreports . Their worn cloaks and armor bore scratches and faded bloodstains, signs of past encounters with creatures lurking beyond the town's borders.
The scent of smoked meat, fresh bread, and damp earth mixed with the sharper tang of iron and oil, creating an atmosphere both rugged and familiar. Birds darted between the rooftops, their songs momentarily cutting through the otherwise grounded hum of conversation and movement.
James adjusted the bow slung across his back, his fingers briefly grazing the empty quiver at his waist. Every last arrow had been spent during the girls' rescue, and the realization tugged at him. A hunter without ammunition was nothing more than a man carrying an expensive piece of wood.
He made a mental note—restocking was the first priority at the Mission Hall. Without arrows, taking on a mission, or just going out to hunt, today was pointless.
With that thought in mind, he picked up his pace, weaving through the waking town and toward the Mission Hall, where his day would officially begin.