"When we're married, will you come with me to the Fields of Sunflowers in the Central Lands?" Amelia asked, her voice soft as she gazed at the gray-grassed mesas beside the forest. "They say that during the summer solstice, King Soma and the Mbyá nobles march together to the plains to watch the petals open for the first time each year. Cassel? Are you listening? Your gaze seems lost."
Cassel tore his eyes from the girl, a warm flush coloring his cheeks. In truth, he wasn't listening. She was one of the few who could make the mischievous boy, raised by Dann Boreas—known across the region as a notorious scoundrel—feel shy. But it was inevitable: Amelia's deep green eyes stole his breath whenever their gazes met; the freckles on her cheeks were like tiny flecks of fire on a canvas of snow-white skin. But what struck Cassel most was her vibrant orange hair, like rays torn from the sun itself, mesmerizing him as they danced, caught by the wind. She was Amelia Cunin, daughter of the current leader of Mith's Clan Cunin, a prodigy whose talent had drawn spies from neighboring lands and whispers that reached the Central Lands. And, too, his betrothed.
"Of course we'll go together!" Cassel said, pointing forward with fervor. "In fact, one day we'll even see beautiful flowers bloom in these mountains, right here. Uncle Dann told me about the legends before the Great Disturbance. The northern lands weren't as gray as they are now, and in spring, the dry grasslands turned into green meadows, and the scents of freshly bloomed blackwood pines drifted down from the mountains, bringing joy to the people of the north."
"Talking about Dann Boreas again," Amelia said, a mischievous smile curling her lips. "If he were as good to you as you say, he'd have already gotten a Scribe to etch a rune on you, but your body remains blank, as it was when you came into this world. Or could it be a problem with your talent? Even Yannick of Clan Remil struts through the city with a Rune of Lightness etched on his leg. Ha, ha, ha!"
This time, the heat didn't just rise to Cassel's face but reached the tips of his ears.
"Don't talk about Uncle Dann like that!" the boy exclaimed. "He says the most common blood runes reject me because my body has qualities seen in one in a million. He was working to bring beast blood and minerals from far-off regions to craft inks worthy of my talent, until he disappeared…" But as he spoke, his gaze dropped to the ground, his voice growing softer until he could no longer continue.
"Ha, ha, ha! I know, Cassel, I was teasing—I believe you," Amelia said. "How could I doubt Dann Boreas's intuition? He's not only known as a fool but also as one of the Marked, the most talented bearers of rune power Mith has seen in decades. Besides, I'd never doubt the words of my future husband," she added, her eyes closing as a dazzling smile spread across her lips.
"Amelia!" Cassel shouted, suddenly grasping the girl's hands. "I know our betrothal was arranged by the elders from our birth, and the world looks upon our union with scorn, but I swear to you—" The boy took a deep breath, a determined expression on his face, and shouted, "As long as you wish it and I remain in this world…!"
"Shhh! I understand, I know, you don't need to say crazy things."
***
The crackling of a fireplace echoed in a small cabin, a simple space with a wooden table on worn legs, a stone counter holding several knives and a cutting board with strange meat atop it. It felt like a cozy place. Hanging from the ceiling above the counter was a crystalline stone, deeply orange, like a living flame, illuminating the room better than the finest lamp. Such light was necessary for what was happening there. In a corner of that humble space, a man stood beside a wooden bed, small streams of blood dripping from white sheets.
Had anyone witnessed the scene, they might not have discerned what kind of creature this being was. Tall, but hunched with a hump that seemed born of centuries bearing an immense weight, wrinkled like ancient parchment, his skin etched with black lines like rivers of stagnant water—scars from the excessive use of his runes' power, which had drained his blood time and again. His sunken eyes gleamed with a faint, ghostly glow, yet each of his movements was as precise as a clock crafted by a Brondar.
On the bed, asleep, wracked by sporadic convulsions of pain, his skin red as if his pores and blood were screaming for help, lay Cassel. His closed eyes trembled, as if sensing he was about to awaken.
"I hope you don't wake now, boy, for your own sake, though I'm nearly done. Ha, ha, ha!" the old man murmured, his raspy voice emerging from a throat that seemed unused to speech for ages. He held a needle finer than a hair, black as the darkest shadow, and if one had extraordinary sight, they might see its tip stained with a vivid red liquid mingling with Cassel's blood as the man carved tiny, intricate patterns into the right side of the boy's chest. He was etching a rune.
"Oh, boy! Bad luck for you. If you'd waited just a bit longer…"
***
"What heat! That's right, I went to the mountains with Jean to find Uncle Dann and those damned runes. Why does my body hurt so much? What is this pain in my chest?"
"Ugh, ugh…" Hoarse sounds escaped Cassel's throat as his eyes slowly opened. The first thing he saw was a blinding light that burned his pupils. Gradually, he adjusted to the glare and realized he was lying in a bed, glimpsing a wooden ceiling. Little by little, he became aware of the pain. A ghastly burning seared every cell of his body. The left side of his chest, over his heart, throbbed with stifling spasms that stole his breath. But the right side was worse: it felt as if a blade were slicing through his skin and flesh; he could clearly sense his blood vessels writhing in a ghastly dance, being reshaped. His blood fought fiercely; two forces clashed within him, vying for control.
"Boy, you're awake," a voice said.
That sound snapped Cassel out of his daze, and the black silhouette above him began to take shape. He saw a gaunt, withered face, etched with deep wrinkles like crevices, sunken eyes glowing feverishly in their sockets, grayish skin covered in horrible black lines oozing a dark liquid, lips dry as a mere line, and sharp cheekbones accentuating a calm yet exhausted expression.
"Ah…!" Cassel tried to scream, but the pain choked his voice; only a hoarse gasp escaped as his eyes widened at the sight of the ghastly old man above him.
"You should stay calm, boy. It's been a long time since I've done this. Ha, ha, ha! Cough, cough! Damn it!" the old man said.
"W-who… are you…? W-where… am I…? What's hap—" Cassel tried to ask, his voice broken and trembling, but before he could finish, the old man cut him off with a harsh grunt.
"Shut up! I'm almost done," the old man growled, not lifting his hands from the boy's body.
Cassel felt a deeper cut, and the pain clouded his mind. A thick dizziness enveloped him; he could barely keep his eyes open.
The old man, his back hunched and fingers stained with blood, continued working, muttering to himself as if Cassel were no longer there:
"I'm doing that bastard one last favor…" he whispered through gritted teeth. "I don't have much time left… no one does, really…"
His words, barely a murmur, mingled with the creak of wood from the boy's trembling and the metallic scent of blood.
Cassel, amidst spasms of pain, barely opened his eyes and managed to stammer:
"What… are you talking about…?"
His voice faded into a broken thread. The old man didn't even glance at him; he remained hunched over, his trembling fingers stained with blood and black runes tracing his arms.
"I can't believe he did it…" His breathing was uneven. "A cross of those two bloodlines… here, with all four limbs… and not driven mad like those damned Rotters…"
The wooden needle made a faint click against the flesh and stopped.
"Done!" the old man exclaimed. "The best work of my life! Ha, ha! And I did it in these wretched conditions! Cough, cough!"
"What did you do to me…!" Cassel managed to shout, but before he could finish, a profound sensation pierced him, leaving him breathless.
His pupils began to dart frantically; a sharp scent struck his nose: slightly sweet, fresh, spicy. Suddenly, his vision shifted: snow, endless snow, swirled around him; the flakes danced joyfully, as if welcoming a loved one. His body was gone—or not as it should be, or perhaps it was, but in another form: a massive black pine, its trunk sturdy, its branches reaching for the clouds. A Shadowfirm Pine. He had never felt so alive: strong, certain, believing his roots could burrow to the earth's core and his branches could cleave the sky if he wished. The cold embraced him, ready to obey his will and command. A few meters away, other pines watched him, their branches swaying, reaching toward him, joyful, as if greeting a dear friend unseen for ages; their roots beneath the earth entwined in a warm embrace with his.
The branches of the other pines continued to move around him, but now their motions seemed to take new form. Amid the bark and moss, he discerned something: faces. Faces that felt familiar yet foreign, some smiling, others curious; each pine seemed to hold a soul that greeted and recognized him. For the first time in his life, Cassel felt he was not alone.
"Was I always a pine?" he wondered silently, as a warm peace coursed through his trunk and roots. His entire existence seemed to fit there, among those figures, his "kin," in this forest that accepted him without reserve. All fear, all pain, melted away beneath the black, steadfast bark of his new being.
But a harsh sound shattered the harmony like a thunderbolt: the old man shook him violently, his raspy, urgent voice echoing in the room:
"Boy! Wake up, you bastard!"
The dream broke. His branches ceased to be his body, the cold vanished, and he felt the weight of flesh again, the pain of the wound, and his ragged breathing as his eyes opened to the real world. An existential doubt struck him:
"Who am I? Agh, it hurts!" But the doubt didn't last long; Uncle Dann, Amelia, Jean, Leader Orus, and many others flashed through his mind.
"Who is this damned old man? Help!" But as he focused on the figure before him, he noticed changes in his face: the man's breathing was labored; if minutes ago his face was ghastly, with black lines and dark liquid seeping from it, now it looked skeletal, almost entirely black, save for his bulging eyes, veined with red.
"Listen to me, boy, there's no time! We made a deal—she'll come for you soon."
"What are you talking about? Who's coming for me?" Cassel shouted.
"Shh! Listen! There are things you must know!" the old man cut in, unyielding. "What luck that no one marked runes on your body before I found you. It would've been a disaster. Listen carefully! Disaster stalks this land… and the whole world."
"What disasters are you talking about, you crazy old man?" Cassel shouted, but the old man interrupted him at once.
"Keep a low profile. Don't go showing your runes around… and don't tell anyone about them, especially the one I etched over your heart. Don't use it too much. And don't go putting just any rune on your skin! You'll ruin my finest work! And one last thing…"
Cassel couldn't make sense of what he heard. My finest work? What does he mean?
The old man ignored Cassel's confused gaze and, as best he could, slowly leaned toward the terrified boy's face, who frantically craned his neck back, trying to distance himself as if the man were a plague.
The old man whispered in his ear, so softly, as if afraid someone might overhear, which seemed absurd in that lonely cabin:
"Stay away from the Sons of the Sun."