Chapter 5: Carving the Ward

The corruption is spreading too fast. Every heartbeat sends dark veins writhing further up my arm, pulsing in time with some unseen force. I can't ignore it any longer. If I don’t find a way to contain this, it will consume me.

I press my fingers against the Silver Eye Pendant, willing Lyra’s voice to return. Nothing but the fading chill of her presence lingers. But then—something shifts.

A flicker of silver light dances at the edge of my vision. The air turns still, and for the briefest moment, Lyra appears before me, standing amidst the ruin. Her robes billow as if caught in a wind I cannot feel, and her silver eyes seem distant, unfocused.

She lifts her hand.

A symbol glows in the air before her, drawn in lines of pale, shifting light. It pulses once, then again, burning itself into my memory. A ward. The shape is intricate—interwoven spirals, sharp edges, something that feels both ancient and deliberate. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. She only stands there, letting me see it.

Then she is gone.

The wasteland crashes back into focus, the wind howling in my ears. The pendant at my chest is cold, its faint glow fading into nothing.

A ward.

I don’t know how I know, but the answer is there, carved into my mind as clearly as the vision itself. I have to act now.

I lower myself onto a jagged slab of rubble, gripping my corrupted arm as I grit my teeth. The ash stings my eyes, the wind carrying the distant groan of rusted gates. My heart thunders, but I can’t let this infection spread any farther.

The Void Glass Dagger hums in my grip, its edge shimmering with a hungry gleam. Shadows coil under my skin, flickering like trapped eels desperate to break free. I take a shaky breath, then press the blade against my own flesh.

The first incision burns like fire. My entire body screams at me to stop, but I force myself to keep going, dragging the tip of the dagger across my skin, mirroring the sigil Lyra showed me.

Pain erupts in molten waves. My vision blurs, spots dancing at the edges of my gaze, threatening to swallow me whole. But I push through, carving each line with precise, agonizing strokes.

Finally, I lift the blade, panting. Blood—dark and tinged with swirling shadows—sears into the sigil like acid. For a terrifying moment, nothing happens.

Then, the corruption shrinks back, retreating like a wounded beast. The black veins recoil, withdrawing to my wrist. My arm still throbs, but the creeping darkness no longer climbs toward my heart. At least for now.

A faint whisper curls in my ear—Lyra’s voice, soft as a dying breath.

“It will hold… but not forever. And the dagger’s hunger will grow louder.”

I exhale sharply, slumping against the rubble. The ward is in place, but at what cost? My body trembles, drained from both the pain and the magic now woven into my flesh.

I can’t afford to stay here. If the ward weakens, if the corruption fights back, I’ll need to find another way to stop it before it’s too late.

Clutching my staff, I push myself up and step forward. Despite the pain, relief washes over me. I flex my fingers—each movement aches, but I can still move them. Good.

I take a moment to breathe and think. My veins still burn, but the ward gives me a temporary reprieve. Lyra’s warnings about Kael echo in my thoughts—his crusade to reach the Blind Citadel, the lives he might trample along the way. Yet I sense an odd pull toward the east, where smoke drifts on the horizon. Something in my gut insists I need to visit that scavenger camp before braving the Glass Wastes.

Curious, I search the tattered pockets of my robe, finding a handful of coins I barely recall stashing away. The silver marks glint dully in the ash-choked daylight. They’ll have to do if I need to barter. Bolstered by my meager funds—and the faint call tugging at my senses—I set off.

After nearly an hour of weaving through desolate paths and stepping around rotting carcasses, I reach the outskirts of the scavenger camp. It’s more a cluster of makeshift wagons and patched tents than any real settlement, bound together by a mix of sinew and sheer desperation. A tattered banner, flapping in the stinging wind, bears the emblem of a red hand clutching a broken chain. It’s an unsettling symbol, though I can’t place its meaning.

Cautious eyes track me from every angle as I pass piles of salvaged armor, twisted scrap, and ragged goods spread over tattered blankets. Some scavengers wear mismatched pieces of rusted plate fused to their skin, others limp from old wounds that never healed properly. My staff draws wary looks, and I keep my corrupted arm hidden beneath the fold of my robes to avoid stoking any more suspicion.

A toothless trader in a hooded cloak thrusts forward a grimy tray of trinkets the moment I come close.

“Veilweed Extract, three silver,” he wheezes, lifting a tiny vial. “Dulls the pain, if you need it.”

Next, he rattles a rusted key in front of me, claiming it opens some “Vault of Tears.” The metal is so corroded it might snap in a lock. A scam, most likely, but I can’t deny a flicker of curiosity.

Lastly, in a grim twist, he nods to a chain looped around a child’s neck. The child’s eyes glow a sickly green. “Cursed,” the trader says, voice low, “but good luck if you’re brave enough.”

My stomach clenches at the sight of the child’s shackles. The boy—or girl, it’s hard to tell beneath the grime—looks at me with hollow desperation. For a moment, my conscience flares. My hand tightens on my staff, and I almost consider intervening. But the camp’s tense atmosphere weighs heavy. Any attempt to free the child might incite the scavengers’ wrath, not to mention Kael’s attention if word spreads of a mage causing trouble.

I swallow my rage. Not now, I remind myself bitterly, guilt twisting in my chest. I have to pick my battles.

As I move away from the trader, the Silver Eye Pendant at my throat goes cold—a sudden, icy twinge. I follow the sensation to a shabby butcher’s stall. The stench of rotting carcasses, scrawny rats, and who knows what else churns my stomach. A tarp stained dark red obscures the wares. Beneath a heap of reeking rat hides, I glimpse a faint carving… something that looks eerily similar to the sigils on my bone map.

My pulse quickens. I brush a few hides aside, uncovering a slender bone flute etched with runes—runes that look almost identical to those on the bone chart pointing to the Blind Citadel. But before I can pluck it free, the butcher’s hand clamps down on my wrist.

“That’s not for sale, mage,” he snarls, leaning in close enough that I can smell rotten meat on his breath. His gaze drifts to my hidden arm, as though sensing something amiss.

I pull back, forcing my expression to remain blank, even as my heart thrums. The flute’s significance is clear: it’s connected to my mission. But prying it away from this hulking butcher in the middle of a tense camp seems unwise, especially when I’m alone and already compromised by corruption.

A sharp throb travels through my marked arm, jolting me out of my thoughts. The sigil flickers beneath the ragged sleeve. In the back of my mind, I hear the corruption’s voice—raspy, seductive—like a distant echo in an empty canyon:

“Unmake the ward. Let us feast.”

My stomach knots, and I clench my teeth against the dizzying rush of cold. If I let the ward fail, the dagger’s power would flood my veins, offering terrible strength… at the cost of my humanity. The memory of how easily the abomination fell to Void Glass still lingers, but so does the guilt of feeling the blade’s hunger gnaw at my soul.

I close my eyes, inhaling the stale air of the camp. The child’s glowing gaze, the bone flute’s runes, the hush of fear that blankets the scavengers—everything about this place warns me that I’m dancing on a razor’s edge. Even if I manage to acquire the flute or free the child, can I risk drawing more attention? Kael’s reach is long, and news of a corrupted mage stirring trouble would travel fast.

Stepping away from the butcher’s stall, I cast one more glance at the child in chains. My insides burn with shame, but I force myself to turn. I can’t save everyone right now. My own path is precarious enough, and if I’m to find the Weeping Sage—or even make it to the Blind Citadel—I need to preserve what little strength remains.

I tug my hood lower and move deeper into the camp. The stifling air closes in around me, and each face that turns my way feels like a silent challenge. I rub the pendant for reassurance, wondering if Lyra can hear my doubts. If you’re still with me… I could use your guidance now.

No answer comes—only the faint chill of the silver pressed to my skin. I press on, searching for supplies, knowledge… or maybe just a moment’s respite from the creeping shadows snaking under my ward.