The minutes crawl by slowly under the old fort. In the laboratory proper once more, I wait as ordered by Maldor. The smell still hangs in the air, sickening, almost literally so. I try to get accustomed, but my throat tightens with each breath and I feel light-headed. The sight of butchered limbs strewn across the area does little to quell my unease too.

  I need to get out of here... I'm not sure how much of this I can take.

  After a few more minutes pass, Maldor returns with a burlap sack, heavy and dark with blood. Spiders flank him on both sides, apparently following him wherever he goes.

  I can't kill him while those spiders stick so close...

  He comes to a stop and beckons me over, letting the sack down by a large wooden table, stained with blood. Without a word, he draws forth a severed arm, a woman’s, judging by the fine fingers and the broken bracelet still clinging to the wrist. He slaps it down on the stone table with a wet thud.

  From his belt, he produces a slender, curved blade, blackened and wickedly sharp. "Watch closely," he murmurs.

  He carves into the arm with a methodical grace, each incision deliberate, precise. The flesh parts easily, red rising from each cut but not flowing.

  After a few moments I see what he's doing. The cuts take the shape of runes, they form a line along the forearm, delicate yet alien.

  He moves onto the upper arm now, etching a second array of symbols with a sculptor's control. As he carves, he speaks in a low, instructive tone "Examine each rune," he says. "Let your eyes drink them in. They will resist you at first. Blur, twist, even repulse... but you will adapt in time." His knife glides without hesitation, and the symbols seem to pulse faintly.

  When he finishes, he retrieves another arm from the sack and places it before me. "Do it."

  Luna was right... this is blasphemy.

  But... at least he's not having me do it to living people. These arms... they can't be hurt any more than they are.

  Hells, what has Two gotten me into? Am I really going to do this? I should have stayed away.

  I take the knife with a steady breath and begin to mimic his cuts. The flesh gives beneath the blade with unsettling ease. One rune. Then another. The shapes are strange, but I recall the motions clearly.

  Strangely enough, as I copy his work, replicating each rune.... the nausea ebbs. The fetid stench dulls, receding into the background like a bad dream. My mind, fogged by dread moments before, begins to clear. Pain blossoms behind my eyes as the runes come into focus, but it's the kind I know, the familiar sensation I always feel when studying Lucien’s scroll.

  When I finish, I step back.

  Maldor leans in to inspect my work, then gives a single nod. "Well enough. You missed nothing and your penmanship is acceptable."

  Calmer now, I venture a question. "What do they mean? These runes?"

  He touches one lightly, the shape splayed like a twisted branch. "This is reach."

  He points to another, a curled triangle with a line through it. "Grasp."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  A third, looped and rigid. "Hold."

  And the fourth a jagged star. "Destroy."

  "On their own," he continues, lifting the arm, "each bears only the faintest intent. But bound together, with purpose and craft... they stir the world itself."

  As I watch, the runes seem to shimmer... just faintly. They twist, not in shape, but in arrangement, forming a spiral that flows across the skin.

  Just like Lucien's scroll...

  I blink, and they are still, like they always were.

  I turn the blade slowly in my hand, eyes fixed on the fresh carvings. "And these runes... what do they together? As a whole?"

  Maldor does not look up. "Concern yourself not with such matters," he says, voice like stone dragged over stone. "Their meaning lies beyond you, for now."

  He moves aside and gestures to the burlap sack. Its mouth gapes open, revealing severed arms, at least a dozen. Pale, mostly cold, each bearing distinctive features like body hair, rings, skin tone and so on.

  "Do the same for the rest of these. Commit the runes to memory. You must train your blade as a scribe trains his quill."

  Could they be.... another cypher? A template to cast his form of magic?

  If so... then that means I could learn....

  Before I can finish the thought, Maldor glides away into the gloom, vanishing deeper into the large laboratory. Moments later, the hush of the chamber is broken by the clink of chains and the low, groans of the prisoners held within.

  The silence stretches on, broken only by the sound of blade on flesh. I set to work with the examples Maldor gave me, carving each rune with care into the pale, severed arms. The shapes come easier with repetition, each line, each curl, lodging itself into memory.

  Though the shapes themselves are the easy part, understanding their sequence is what causes my head to ache.

  They're not meant to be read line through line like ordinary script. Their placement is deliberate, each rune reinforcing or guiding the flow of the next, creating the strange movement I see when focusing too long.

  I recall the structure of Lucien’s scroll, what I've learned from it... and slowly, some of the intent becomes more intelligible.

  Still... it will take time.

  Hours pass in this grim rhythm. Flesh. Runes. Memory. And when at last my fingers cramp from the strain, I pause and stretch, eyes scanning the laboratory.

  How long have I been at this? Feels like I've used up the whole day...

  I look to the arms I've engraved. Dozens now, all bearing the same careful sequence of runes. The coppery scent clings to my hands, beneath my nails.

  I hear footsteps echo behind me and the sound of something wet dragging...

  Maldor returns, another sack pulled behind him. He drops it to the stone floor beside me with a heavy thud. The fabric slips slightly, and I see the contents.

  Heads. Human. Mouths agape, some eyes still half-open.

  He does not comment on them. Instead, he walks to the table and surveys my work in silence, his hood shadowing his expression.

  After a few moments, he nods. "You work swiftly... good."

  He turns slightly, voice distant. "The sun has long since set. The Mother requires solitude. Take your leave for now, apprentice. I shall call upon you again come morning."

  He turns to leave, but I take a breath and speak quickly. "Maldor-" I stop myself, correcting my tone before continuing. "Master... may I witness your magic? It would motivate me deeply... to see the power that awaits me."

  He halts mid-step, pausing in silent thought. Then, with a slow nod, he lifts his gloved hand.

  Darkness pools in his palm, swirling like smoke and dimming the room, consuming what little light exists in this place. He turns, extending the hand toward one of the larger spiders perched along the far wall.

  He intones a single word, deep and guttural: "Bl?ctr?l."

  The shadows erupt outward like a net of writhing tendrils, lashing into the spider’s body with a series of wet, sickening snaps. It screams, a high, reedy, unnatural shriek, as the tendrils pierce deep into its legs, abdomen and thorax. The creature convulses violently, legs flailing, its body twisting mid-air as it is lifted from the stone and suspended like a marionette.

  The tendrils ripple with a pulse of black ichor, and slowly, they begin to seep into the spider's flesh. Its eyes bubble, its limbs go stiff. The struggling ceases.

  Then, without ceremony, the spider drops. It lands hard on the stone, twitching once... then drags itself forward, legs bending low in a twisted bow.

  It cowers.... subservient.

  Maldor lowers his hand, the darkness receding.

  "The will of the Mother is binding and decay. Her servants do not stray."

  The air feels colder now. The torches dimmer. And the spider remains there, kneeling.

  I swallow hard.

  So this is what real sorcery looks like....

  So this... is the dark arts.

  Results

  + 1 Mana