[Memory Crystal One: Dust]

  Arthen's Perspective:

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  Her feelings were secondary to her safety, I convinced myself, hobbling to the runeforger. Now, she’d have no curiosity about my involvement in her past; and, hopefully, she’d keep the Mountain’s secrets. If that hadn’t already been her intention. She was probably going to stay put at the tavern for the foreseeable future—and, for now, that was what was best for her.

  Twelve years later, and I’m still keeping you both safe, Marcel.

  I approached the forge, stopping fast at the entrance. Uncle Tommy, the runeforger, was a stickler for time efficiency. He preferred if one’s memory had already been chosen before entering his forge.

  I already had a memory crystal in hand, so his job was already that much easier. But I still wondered if I could have anything else extracted.

  It couldn’t be my amputation; I’d been unconscious during the procedure.

  It had hurt like hell when Sandman stomped on my leg, but ‘Pain’ runes were easily overridden by adrenaline. Especially in battle. It would be better suited as memory dust.

  Marcel had punished me with his ‘Despair’ rune, but forging a rune from rune-effects was taboo. Uncle Tommy wouldn’t do it. Even if he were so inclined, Reminiscents couldn’t create psychological runes.

  Or rather, they couldn’t be trusted.

  So I just had the memory of being crushed by rubble. That was already more than enough.

  I made my way inside, and was instantly blasted by the furnaces’ heat. Memory crystals had a melting point higher than steel, and only a select few materials could burn hot enough to work with them. The inside of the forge was nothing short of an inferno.

  “Good afternoon, Uncle Tommy,” I called, stepping inside.

  “Is that Arthen?” He called back. Even though you could see the furnaces from the outside, his actual workstation was strategically placed behind a corner to avoid the heat.

  “Of course,” I replied, turning the corner to shake his hand, “And I’m ready to create my first rune.”

  “Really now?” He said. He was a relatively tall, dark-skinned man, though he wasn’t of Cosmaran origin. He was bald, but had a salt-and-pepper mustache.

  And he was missing his left arm.

  But Uncle Tommy was a rare example; he was both a blacksmith and a runeforger, and his establishment was much more lucrative because of it, despite his disability.

  “And I already have the crystal,” I fished it out of my pocket and presented it to him, “careful, though.” He took it out of my hand and peered into it, inspecting its contents. His remaining hand was rugged and leathery; he seemed unaffected by the torturous contents, even though it was making direct contact with his skin.

  “That why you got a peg leg now, son?” he inquired. I often came to his forge to have my sword sharpened and my armor repaired. He’d never seen me so gravely injured.

  “Unfortunately,” I breathed. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with wistful understanding.

  “Mighty clear crystal, though,” he said, retrieving a crucible from under his workbench, “almost transparent.”

  “Perfect memory,” I shrugged. Most crystals had ‘contaminants,’ irrelevant details present in the person’s psyche during the memory. These were involuntary and uncontrollable for most, such as feeling cold or perhaps a little hungry, but they could still negatively impact the subsequent runes.

  But my crystals were not subject to such.

  Uncle Tommy clinked the crystal shard into the crucible, along with a small chunk of runeiron. He stood and walked to a nearby furnace, placing the crucible inside. He then placed a red rune, grabbed his hammer, and—

  DOOON!

  Struck it, instantly igniting the runeiron fuel inside. Runeiron tended to melt before it caught flame, but once ignited, it burned hot enough to melt memory crystals. Runeforging required a careful balance between an instant ignition in the furnace and a slower burn in the crucible.

  But the ignition blaze itself…it had to be debilitatingly hot. One needed runemagic to consistently reach temperature. That was how Uncle Tommy lost his arm, and why most people chose not to become runeforgers. After all, there’s only one way to obtain a Fire rune…

  Uncle Tommy and I made small talk while we waited for my rune to smelt. I couldn’t blame people for excusing themselves to other errands while Uncle Tommy worked. Spending hours in this blistering hellscape was a tall order for anyone, especially children. But I made a point to sit and talk with him until the rune had been completed.

  “Should be melted by now,” he got up and checked the crucible, “Runestrike?”

  “No,” I replied. My sword was still among the Hillcrestian wreckage, and even if it weren't, runestrike weapons were by no means a duelist's win condition. A runeblade is just as useless as a regular one in the hands of a poor swordsman.

  Uncle Tommy shrugged—ironically, his favorite gesture—and fetched a hexagonal mold from a nearby rack. He then fetched tongs, pulled the crucible out of the furnace, and poured the ripping-hot runic pitch into the mold.

  This man was more dexterous with one hand than I was with both.

  Even though my crystal had been broken, it still filled the mold evenly. Not that the size would have been an issue. Small crystals made small runes, not weaker ones.

  The runic pitch cooled from red-hot to jet black, and the rune’s inscription slowly, supernaturally manifested on its face. When it formed, it read one word. One syllable.

  ‘Crush.’

  “Ominous,” Uncle Tommy grunted, floating the rune out of the mold with his hammer. Runes were magnetically attracted to runeiron, but only when they were superheated. It would lose this property as it cooled.

  “Quite,” I agreed, hiding how eager I was to try it. I’d been part of militarized entities for twenty years, but I’d only ever been seen as a library, not a runemage. With this rune, I could wield a power that I could only experience vicariously.

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  Once the rune cooled, I pocketed it and thanked Uncle Tommy.

  “I don’t have any munins right now,” I said, “I’ll have to stop at home and grab some.”

  “You know the military pays me on behalf of soldiers,” he replied. I tried not to let my regret show on my expression; I’d completely neglected that detail. Depending on the Sandman’s fate, the military had either labeled me K.I.A. or as a defector. Both titles would put Uncle Tommy under scrutiny, or even in danger, if he told them about the service he’d provided for me.

  But, of course, I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “No, no,” I smiled, “I’ll cover it this time. I’m descended from the aristocracy, remember?”

  “True, but that seems too much trouble,” he scratched his head, “you’re a busy man, after all.” Damn your consideration, old man!

  “I’ve always felt cheap using that old military cop-out anyway,” I lied. “Please, let me pay for it this time. You’re everybody’s uncle, after all. Time you get treated like it.”

  “Well,” he laughed, “If I’m everyone’s uncle, then I suppose I’ll just have to cover it, on the house!” Bless your consideration, old man!

  “Are you sure?” I asked him. I knew the answer was yes, but it couldn’t hurt to keep up appearances.

  “Of course, Arthen,” was the reply, “It’s your very first rune, after all.”

  “Well, thank you so much!” I bowed graciously. He nodded approvingly and then shooed me away from his forge.

  ***

  Almost immediately after exiting the forge, I saw someone getting curbstomped relentlessly in broad daylight. The senseless violence was my least favorite part of the city. But I couldn’t help even if I wanted to. These things were rampant, and minding others’ business was a quick way to find oneself shaking hands with Hel.

  On my way towards the north end of the city, and against better judgment, I took a detour to my house. I didn’t think the little chunk of runeiron in my pocket was…appropriate. It was effectively a rock. Casting my new rune with it wouldn’t exactly be tactical.

  Most of the aristocrats were descended from warriors and adventurers, specifically from the Old Nemonik War. That was how… ‘they’ inherited their never-ending wellspring of wealth. And, despite degenerating into superficial pretension, they still thought they were of the sword and shield, and consequently loved to collect weapons. Even though they would never callous their dainty hands with them.

  So perhaps I could salvage a decoration off of the wall. Not like anyone would miss it.

  Eventually, I found my way to my house. I prayed for a quiet visit; I had a bad reputation among my family, and they would sneer as though face powder was somehow more dignified and honorable than a sword.

  I carefully climbed the steps to the estate and knocked twice, waiting a few moments before the door was opened. It was a pale-skinned, brown-haired maid that I didn’t recognize.

  “May I help you?” she asked, a twinge of disrespect in her voice. This was the type of automatic condescension that drove me away from these people.

  “You don’t know me,” I sighed, “but I’m Arthen.”

  “Oh, the Nemonik-lover?” she twirled her hair, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Are you going to let me in or not?” I huffed. She was still standing in the doorway.

  “I suppose your…abandonment doesn’t erase your blood,” she stepped aside. I didn’t even know this person, and she already had such awful preconceptions about me. ‘Nemonik lover…’ she had no idea the danger she was in, or the steps I was taking to spare her. To spare everyone.

  I walked inside, scanning the walls for a weapon that I fancied. Swords, spears, and suits of armor lined the walls, but none of them seemed appropriate for the rune I carried.

  “What are you looking for?” the maid asked me. I ignored her and kept perusing my catalog.

  Eventually, hanging over a glass display case, I found the perfect weapon: a nadziak. I’d read about it: it was originally meant for dismounting cavalry and bursting through armor. It’d been relatively middling at both, but it looked intimidating enough. There was a silvery-white sheen on the weapon. Runeiron. It would do nicely.

  “I’ll take this off your hands,” I volunteered.

  “You can’t!” she protested, tugging at my shirt, “You can’t just—”

  “Just have my parents take it out of their will or something,” I waved her off and started back for the exit, “if you’ve heard as much about me as you think, you would know that I don’t give a damn.”

  ***

  As I walked, I noticed bear tracks in the path, heading back towards Mnemosyne. It was definitely Maya’s pet beast—and it was a marvel that she could even control that thing. It had to be at least four times her size, but Maya treated her like a raucous puppy more than anything else.

  Speaking of which, it might’ve been too late to worry about Maya compromising the mountain. Its secrecy was protected in large part by the Reminiscents; they were utterly convinced that the mountain was inaccessible, that the surrounding Forest was prowling with predators and demons.

  But if they saw a young girl exit the Forest in one piece…

  Well, actually, Cupcake was close enough to a mythological creature by herself. So maybe it was alright after all.

  I continued my journey for hours, reaching the edge of the Forest just as evening turned to night. I had no light and no provisions. Not to mention I was already half-starved and physically disabled. I regretted not getting something to eat at the Puny Axe.

  But I knew this Forest down to the square centimeter.

  There was a massive, gaping hole in the thicket. A deer trail. Probably Cupcake, I reasoned. I could pass through with relative ease, but the moisture was a different problem. The Forest had been dusted with snow, and I worried my prosthetic would begin rotting. It snagged on all the thorns and weeds. At one point, I almost thought it would be better to hop on one leg.

  It took a frustrating few hours, but I finally reached the outermost Syndicate outpost. A horrid smell like burnt rot caught my nose, almost making me gag. It was so pervasive, I couldn’t even pinpoint where it came from.

  But then I saw it.

  Barely illuminated in the moonlight, barely even human, was a body. If one could even call it such. Melted flesh, charred all over, bones piled in a decaying heap. There was only a single breastplate and sword near the mess.

  “What the hell…?”

  “Arthen!?” The outpost commander panicked. I turned to greet him. He was a short man with a short temper. I couldn’t blame him though. The ‘fright’ of the Forest was engineered; there were no demons, only bloodthirsty Syndicate bandits, most of whom were dispatched from this outpost.

  “I expect more respect from you, commander,” I scolded simply, pacing to the gated entrance.

  “M-my apologies,” he bowed, “It’s just…you’re the second high-profile member to pass through my outpost today.”

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. Not that he could see them in the dark, “Who was the first?” He hesitated, looking around as if being watched.

  “Deo,” he whispered, finally.

  “Deo?” I tilted my head. “I don’t know any Syndicate members that go by that name, not even any of the low ranks.”

  “How could you not know?” he became desperate. “It’s Tiger Fang’s sister! And she proved it!”

  Tiger Fang’s sister? So, Maya called herself ‘Deo’ now. Or perhaps that was a ruse to get past the bumbling Syndicate bandits. They were under orders to kill any escaping Snowcrestians as well.

  But aside from that, the commander said she ‘proved’ she was related to the Tiger’s Fang, as though they weren’t the only two Cosmarans on this side of the Forest.

  “Proved it?”

  “You came from the south end, didn’t you?” his voice was wavering and urgent, “You saw Vek’s corpse! You had to have at least smelled it!”

  Vek? I did remember that name, though not very fondly.

  “Deo did that?” I asked. Maya probably had her reasons for keeping her name concealed, so I respected it. Perhaps I was wrong to worry so much over her, when she could clearly handle herself.

  “There’s nothing left of him! What the hell is going on with Tiger Fang’s bloodline? Why are they so…ruthless?”

  “Calm yourself,” I eased, “But the Syndicate honors its own… why would she kill another Syndicate member?”

  Maya was certainly not part of the Syndicate. Her Snowcrestian upbringing would’ve made her averse to violence, and to us by extension. Even if she were so inclined, Marcel would never allow it.

  “I don’t know! But what kind of power does she have that turns men into…into that!?”

  He raised a good point. No rune could’ve done that to Vek. That would imply that Maya had once been reduced to an ashen puddle… and survived. I didn’t think even the Crush rune could do that.

  “Well,” I tried to reassure him, “I’m only here for supplies.”

  The commander desperately grabbed my shirt—a bold move, considering I could have had him executed at a moment’s notice.

  “She was only ‘here for supplies,’” he urged, “Now, look.”

  “Tell you what, you’re very clearly wired on vimtree or some other stimulant. You relax. When I head back to the Syndicate, I’ll find you a replacement soldier. In the meantime, is there a place where I can sleep?”

  “Sure, sure,” he let go of my shirt, took a deep breath, and scratched his head. “I’ll find you some food from our stores as well.”

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