《Blood Marks: The Pursuit of Redemption [DARK FANTASY STORY]》 Chapter 1 It was still possible to smell the blood. Two years had passed, and it was still possible to smell the blood in that damned city¡ªor what was left of it. Kynnyav was an ancient city. Philosophers claimed it was the cradle of civilization. The city had a strong personality and often challenged the Empire¡¯s policies. And if Gwynngala Empire had historically avoided confrontations with Kynnyav, now, with the Empire deeply fragmented, the Emperor was forced to choose his battles even more carefully. Two years ago, that story changed. Brennik had been a troop captain during the Massacre of Kynnyav. Whenever he saw a standing column, he remembered the building that had once stood there. Artisans and merchants ran in desperation, not knowing where to go, peasants made the vainest attempts to escape the city... But what lingered strongest in his memories were the children. Brennik could forgive himself for what he had done to the adults¡ªthough he wasn¡¯t sure he should¡ªbut the clash of his blade against those small beings was an image he couldn¡¯t shake, nor could he forgive himself for it. Burm died for refusing to carry out the fateful order to eliminate the elderly, children, and babies. He was a good man¡ªhe truly was. He didn¡¯t deserve to die. I shouldn¡¯t have killed him. It would¡¯ve been better for everyone if Burm had been better with a sword than I was. Back then, Brennik had thought he had no choice. He was the captain; he had to obey the general¡¯s orders. Simple as that. Sadorn had issued the command to let no human escape the city¡ªthe blood weavers could transform themselves into the elderly, children, even babies¡ªand so Brennik had obeyed it. And, to his regret, he had done it perfectly¡ªas always. Brennik, the former captain, stared absentmindedly, his gaze unfocused on any particular part of the ruins. Noticing the dangerous distraction of the mercenary hired to ensure the caravan¡¯s safety, Elowen called for his attention. ¡°Hey, have you actually been here before?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Brennik replied. ¡°You look lost, mercenary.¡± ¡°It¡¯s ghosts I see,¡± he said. Noticing Elowen¡¯s confused and terrified expression, he added, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, they¡¯re ghosts of the past¡± Brennik had abandoned Sadorn¡¯s army two years ago. The images of the children he had executed¡ªor ordered to be executed¡ªhaunted him through the nights following the Massacre of Kynnyav. Almond-shaped eyes shining with fear, desperate screams, vain cries for their parents¡­ Burm was a good man. Wherever he is, he¡¯s surely not suffering for what he did. He can rest in peace. It didn¡¯t take long for Brennik to abandon the army. Every day with Sadorn felt like a day of torture. How could he give those orders? Brennik could no longer bear his presence. No¡­ I gave those orders to my subordinates too, he thought. Brennik didn¡¯t feel any different from Sadorn. He didn¡¯t feel entitled to condemn him. He had no right to stand against him. All he could do was leave. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. And so he did. The punishment for deserters was death. So when Brennik met with Sadorn to inform him of his intention to leave, he fully expected to die. But death did not come. Sadorn told him that, due to his services, he had earned the right to walk away. But that wasn¡¯t the truth. The truth had another face. Brennik was the most respected man in Sadorn¡¯s army¡ªto the point of idolization by some soldiers. If Sadorn had carried out the sentence, the army morale would have been shattered¡ªand for a warlord (such as Sadorn), morale was vital. It wasn¡¯t uncommon for a warlord to be killed once the soldiers lost respect for him. In fact, Sadorn saw Brennik¡¯s departure in a favorable light. Those who rose too high often seized the position of warlord when things became unstable. Getting rid of him was convenient. Besides having the army¡¯s respect, Brennik was one of the most fearsome blood weavers Sadorn had ever known. When he integrated into society, he realized something terrible. The only thing he knew how to do was kill, and that shocked him. He tried to live in the countryside, but, at his age, no longer far from forty, he could only live as a poor, miserable assistant to peasants. He couldn¡¯t stand such a life of poverty and tried his hand at craftsmanship, but his life on the battlefield had made him a brute, his fine motor skills were poor, and his life as a craftsman was a failure. Nor did life as a merchant suit him. If his grumpiness wasn¡¯t enough to scare away customers, his inability to hide his thoughts through his facial expressions, coupled with his unwillingness to lie, made that path unlikely. No. But he had to eat, and preferably eat well. And there was one thing he knew very well, and that paid very well: killing. Although he had tried to avoid entering this line of work, he ended up accepting one job, then another, and so on, until he found himself, definitively, as a mercenary. Looking back, he thought it had been an inevitable path. Burm would certainly have left the army and settled for the miserable life of a helper in the fields. I chose to return to the path of blood. I really can¡¯t judge Sadorn. Now he was in the ruins that had changed his life. At least it wasn¡¯t a mission to kill. It was a mission to protect. And maybe that would make some difference... Elowen had hired Brennik back in Nihonek. He was in charge of escorting the caravan. They had left Nihonek, the capital of the Empire, and were now in the ruins of what had once been Kynnyav. They would scour the ruins in search of an artifact of interest to the contractor and then head to the next city, where Brennik would complete his task and receive his payment. A very generous payment, in fact. The wind whistled through the narrow, destroyed streets, playing the tragic melody of the ruins of Kynnyav. The buildings¡ªor what was left of them¡ªwere twisted skeletons of stone and charred wood. The rubble of the walls revealed interiors consumed by destruction. Low-value belongings could still be found, small fragments of the life that once was. The city had been completely destroyed, and it was said that the entire population had been annihilated. A genocide. It was possible to find abandoned tents among the rubble, surely set up after the tragedy. In the years following the destruction, the ruins had become home to those who wanted to hide from society. Fugitives, thieves... It wasn¡¯t a particularly welcoming place. Hence the need for an escort. The city exudes death, Brennik thought as he watched it. However, when he shifted his attention to the cracked cobblestones, he noticed that vegetation was taking over the place. And when he saw a bush filled with the beauty of blue flowers, a sudden flash of hope crossed his mind: Maybe there¡¯s a new beginning for everyone. He walked at the front of the caravan, ensuring the safety of their next steps. The sight of the bushes brought a pleasant feeling to the mercenary, but it quickly dissipated with what he saw: there was the charred wood from what had been a campfire. And worse: loose ashes, remnants of water, and a faint, almost imperceptible smoke. It had just been extinguished. The mercenary had enough experience to know: trouble was ahead. Brennik cut the tips of his index fingers with his own thumbnail, closed his eyes, and rubbed the blood on his eyelids and tragi. Blood weaving. When he opened his eyes, he could see what he hadn¡¯t seen before and hear what he hadn¡¯t heard. His senses were amplified by the weaving, revealing dozens of watchers in the surroundings, closing in as the caravan moved forward. Definitely trouble ahead. Chapter 2 When Brennik stopped, the caravan went on alert. What could have caused him to halt so suddenly? Elowen thought it was another of his divagations, but the other three mercenaries escorting the caravan realized it wasn¡¯t something so trivial. They placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them. Brennik took a deep breath, removed his cloak, cut his thumbs with his index fingers, and marked his arms with a line of blood. It was the combat mark of a weaver. The opponents were far off. By now, they had already surrounded the group, watching their movements. They were startled by the weaving marks. Blood weavers were feared by the populace¡ªif there were demons in this world, people believed weavers were their descendants. The mercenary concluded that they were waiting for the caravan to reach a spot more favorable for an ambush. The conclusion was clear: if this wasn¡¯t the ideal place for them to attack, then this should be where the confrontation happens. ¡°Stay alert, we''re surrounded,¡± Brennik said to everyone in the caravan. A murmur spread among them as the mercenary moved closer to the cook, where the watchers wouldn¡¯t be able to see him. ¡°There are about twenty-two of them, seem to be raiders, moving in pairs,¡± he continued, then addressed the cook, ¡°Excuse me, mind if I borrow these utensils?¡± Before the cook could respond, the mercenary grabbed two high-quality knives from the poor man¡¯s collection and, with a swift spin, threw one with his right hand and the other with his left. None of the caravan members could see, but one of the knives struck the middle of a raider¡¯s forehead, the blade embedded in his skull, killing him instantly. The other wasn¡¯t as fortunate¡ªit found the ear of his partner. They couldn¡¯t see it, but the scream of pain that erupted after the severed ear was enough to confirm to everyone that they were indeed surrounded. The raiders exchanged glances, unable to believe what had just happened. It was expected that a weaver would be a tougher victim, but a throw from a hundred meters away at a partially hidden target? That wasn¡¯t something they had anticipated. A trumpet sounded, breaking the tension in the air. It was the raiders¡¯ signal for a full attack. A pair of archers were hiding in the high ruins of a tower. As they reached for their quivers to string their bows, they saw the silhouette of a tall, brute man leaping in front of them. The blood marks on his arms and face left no room for doubt: it was the weaver. Brennik had supernatural strength since weaving his arms with his blood. After throwing the knives, the extraordinary power of his muscles allowed him to move to where another pair was even before they could register his movement. He climbed the tower swiftly and appeared before the archers who were positioned at the highest point among all. He judged them to be the most dangerous. The mercenary didn¡¯t hesitate. As soon as he appeared before the archers, he swung his blade to decapitate the first. While the blood spurted and Brennik readied his next strike in quick succession, the other archer pulled the bowstring back to its maximum and, as he turned to face the mercenary, his bow was struck with a kick that disarmed him. The archer trembled, his eyes wide. Panic took hold. ¡°Please! Spare me!¡± the archer begged, as Brennik prepared his strike with the dagger. In vain. Brennik wasted no time; he drove the dagger into the archer¡¯s throat, piercing his skull and lifting him as he died. He discarded the suspended body from his blade and assessed his next target. Brennik had led many battles, his tactical mind was sharp, though he feared it had grown rusty after so much time away from the army. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Fourteen raiders advanced toward the caravan, three archers had been eliminated, and one fled after having his ear cut off. There were still four archers firing at the caravan. Brennik judged that the three mercenaries guarding the caravan wouldn''t be able to handle fourteen men alone, and the approaching raiders were far more threatening than the arrows coming from a distance. The weaver, determined, grabbed an iron rod exposed in the ruins of the tower and broke it in half with a single movement. He threw it like a javelin. The rod struck the chest of one of the raiders charging toward the caravan, the dry sound of impact, followed by the terrible snap of breaking bones, terrified his companion. Searching for another target, he aimed to do the same. This time, the piece of rod hit a raider¡¯s leg, pinning him to the ground while a scream of pain was heard. Another hail of arrows struck, and more members of the caravan were hit. ¡°Tsk,¡± a dissatisfied grunt from Brennik. He wasn¡¯t good with a bow, and it was limited to the strength of the bow¡¯s string and arms, not to his own. Brennik quickly thought of a solution: with a punch, he broke the remains of the tower wall, smashing them into several stones. He began firing a hail of stones, halting the raiders¡¯ advance and forcing the archers into a defensive position. The stones shattered upon hitting the ground, turning into dust. Some hit their targets, and when he stopped throwing them, people could hardly see through the dust formed by the stones fragmented upon the impact. Perfect. Brennik jumped from the tower straight into the caravan, and before the dust settled, his blade had already claimed half of the raiders who had charged toward the caravan. Those who survived swore they had seen a demon. No, not a demon. Death itself. More than half of the men were dead. Obviously, the raid had failed. It wasn¡¯t worth running toward death anymore¡ªand, with fear now instilled, they probably wouldn¡¯t have been able to even if they wanted to. They fled. Brennik was tired, very tired. He needed rest. But there was still a mission to complete. The mercenary had seen many situations like this; he knew the raiders wouldn¡¯t attack again. Fear was a great shield. Now, he needed to check on his troops¡ªor, in this case, his employers. The cook was dead¡ªwell, I won¡¯t need to go after his utensils, he thought¡ªand an elderly woman was gravely wounded. One of the three mercenaries had a deep wound, but it didn¡¯t seem lethal. Aside from them, there were only minor injuries. Should I conserve my energy or weave the mercenary¡¯s wound? I didn¡¯t have the chance to assess him in combat. Maybe it¡¯s more useful for me to recover first¡­ ¡°No!¡± Elowen cried out in desperation. ¡°Grandma, you can¡¯t go now¡­ No!¡± She repeated no after no, between sobs and tears. Brennik stopped his thoughts as he observed the scene. Something was wrong with his reasoning. ¡°Weaver! You can heal her, can¡¯t you? Please!¡± Elowen turned to Brennik. Though she was a young adult, for some reason, her gaze reminded him of the children from the Massacre of Kynnyav. Brennik noticed his eyes begin to tremble. That suffocating sentiment he used to feel when he was under the command of Sadorn. Of course! Again! I¡¯m thinking in military terms. The priority of life isn¡¯t what will bring the best martial result. Maybe the priority of life is life itself¡­ ¡°Of course, lady,¡± Brennik replied. The wound was deep. The damage was severe. It wouldn¡¯t be long before the lady passed away. Brennik cut the palm of his left hand with his dagger, then cut the palm of his right hand with the other, staining the dagger¡¯s sheath red. He placed his bleeding hands above where the arrows had pierced her. His blood began to flow in an abnormal volume, twisting its way through the air, entering where the arrows were lodged. The entire caravan gathered to witness the scene. The weaver¡¯s blood was poured into the wounds, and, as if the blood had a life of its own, it began a healing process for the woman. When the old lady opened her eyes, the people of the caravan were certain of one thing: they had witnessed a miracle. Maybe he wasn¡¯t a demon, nor death. Maybe he was a savior, maybe life. It was an intense healing process, and Brennik was beginning to lose his strength. He saw the joy with which Elowen embraced her grandmother. There were tears in her eyes, but it seemed like this time they were tears of joy. Brennik smiled, he couldn¡¯t remember the last time he smiled, it had been a long time. His vision started to darken gradually, and his body began to soften. He saw the young lady turn to him, her almond-shaped eyes shining, but this time they were filled with gratitude. What a strange feeling, have I ever felt this before?¡ªwondered the mercenary, just before his vision darkened completely and his body gave in, cradled in Elowen¡¯s arms. Burm has definitely felt this... It would be nice if he were still here... Chapter 3 Elowen found herself in a dark, cold, and musty room. The gray trapdoor walls did not match the sophisticated artifact resting on a simple altar at the center of the chamber. The feeling of accomplishment from completing part of her task blended with admiration for such a beautiful object. A golden bracelet¡ªor rather, bracer¡ªcrafted in crossed weaving patterns, albeit asymmetrical. The majestic brace was large enough to cover her entire forearm. Yet what truly hypnotized her was the beauty of the black gem embedded within the intricate weave of golden bands. When she held the artifact in her hands, her gaze fixed on that gem; its symmetrical lens shape resembled an eye, drawing her in, almost beckoning her to wear it. Elowen shook her head. I¡¯m not here for that, come on. She hurried to stash the refined object into a travel bag. The contrast did not go unnoticed to her eyes. She left the trapdoor and entered the hall, searching for the mercenary who had accompanied her. She doubted the raiders would have the audacity to attack after the terror they had witnessed. She wished she could have chosen the blood weaver himself as her escort, but he was still recovering¡ªhe had fainted in her arms earlier. Blood weaving drained its user, and Brennik, the weaver, had used it to tend to his grandmother¡¯s wound, which would have otherwise claimed her life. Elowen waited for his recovery so she could thank him once more. Her family meant everything to her. The mercenary who had accompanied her to retrieve the artifact was patrolling the perimeter. Spotting him, she called out. A smile spread across her face¡ªlarger than usual¡ªeverything was going her way. ¡°Beautiful day, isn¡¯t it, Gryffyn?¡± she said. The day was as gray as a wolf. ¡°I found what I was looking for. Ready to toss the millstone away?¡± Fond of conversation, Elowen often took an interest in others¡¯ lives. Over time, she realized people loved talking about themselves; they just needed the right nudge. Gryffyn, the mercenary with her, owned a modest plot of land near Nihonek, purchased through years of saving his pay as a soldier for the Emperor. His grain farm demanded hard labor, and he was looking for ways to improve it. He had told Elowen that with the escort reward, he planned to build a mill on the river running through his land, freeing himself from the burden of grinding grains by hand and improving his family¡¯s quality of life. A good man, she thought. On the way back, they talked about various topics. They spoke about the ruins: the artifact had been hidden in a trapdoor beneath the hall of an old mansion. Even with it being mostly debris now, just a shadow of what it once was, the grandeur of the place was still evident. It had undoubtedly been an extremely luxurious home. Elowen pondered this. She had grown up in a nomadic tribe, and even the most lavish tents there couldn¡¯t compare to such a mansion. She wasn¡¯t ignorant¡ªon the contrary, she was an exceptionally successful merchant and often represented her tribe in city matters. Yet, such opulence always intrigued her. The topic that persisted between them, however, was the blood weaver. Gryffyn was thoroughly impressed by what Brennik had done in combat. It wasn¡¯t just his power¡ªit was his reasoning, the way he controlled the battlefield. With over twenty years of experience as a soldier, Gryffyn could easily distinguish good strategists from bad ones, and still, Brennik had left him astonished. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Elowen, on the other hand, didn¡¯t share the same fascination. It would take more than that to impress her¡ªand for good reason¡­ What neither of them noticed on their way back to the caravan, however, was that they weren¡¯t returning alone. A young man, armed with a sword and shield, was stealthily following them, his steps as quiet as a cat¡¯s. Brennik was eating a piece of beef liver with beans, beets, and spinach while sipping orange juice¡ªit was said this was a weaver¡¯s diet. Another mercenary sat injured; the arrow that had pierced his shoulder wasn¡¯t fatal but would certainly hinder him in a fight. Only one mercenary was in full condition to ensure the caravan¡¯s security¡ªa precarious situation, but the threats¡¯ ignorance of that fact provided them with a fragile but enjoyed safety. Gryffyn and Elowen returned from retrieving the artifact. They would soon depart for the next city, where Brennik would receive his payment for the job and head back to his tavern in Nihonek, ready for the next one. When she saw Brennik, Elowen beamed, ready to thank him once again for what he had done for her grandmother¡ªshe felt immensely grateful for the blood weaver¡¯s deed. However, as she approached, Brennik cast aside his food and assumed a defensive stance, pointing his weapons at her¡ªa gesture mirrored by the mercenary guarding the caravan. Elowen and Gryffyn froze. Why would they do such a thing? What had happened during their absence? They were about to ask for clarification, but a voice behind them quickly cleared up their confusion: ¡°Please, sir, take me as your apprentice,¡± said the young man who had followed them back to the caravan, dropping to one knee with his head bowed in submission. ¡°Huh?¡± What a strange request. Brennik had been expecting a messenger¡ªor perhaps a lone assassin of exceptional skill. This declaration caught him off guard in a way he hadn¡¯t experienced in a long time. The young man¡ªhis hair gray as was common in the region despite appearing to be between eighteen and twenty years old¡ªlifted his head, his eyes ablaze with determination. ¡°I saw how you fight, sir. I want to be like you. I want to be able to make a difference.¡± Brennik let out a faint, surprised chuckle, then scowled, answering in a disapproving tone. ¡°Difference, grayling? You don¡¯t know what that is.¡± Brennik didn¡¯t feel that. Quite the opposite, what difference had he made in this very city? If he had made any impact in Kynnyav, it had been a negative one. He had helped massacre an entire city. Why would he help someone become like him¡ªa genocidal man? No, Brennik didn¡¯t wish that upon anyone. If there was one thing the blood weaver wanted, it was to prevent someone from becoming like him. The mercenary flatly refused the young man¡¯s pleas. The other members of the caravan had already resumed their tasks, preparing for the end of the journey. The caravan was split between members of Elowen¡¯s tribe and hired workers, like the cook. When the cook died, Brennik had initially thought that at least he wouldn¡¯t need to retrieve his utensils anymore. Later, he regretted that thought, considering retrieving the cook¡¯s knives anyway to bury them with the deceased. It¡¯s what Burm would¡¯ve done, he thought. But he shouldn¡¯t stray from the group, and the group couldn¡¯t afford to return to the site. Besides, the raiders themselves had likely already collected their dead to give them a proper burial. ¡°Two years ago,¡± the young man began, thinking that telling his story might persuade the blood weaver to train him, ¡°I was here, in this city, sir. I¡¯m a survivor of Kynnyav. If I had your power, sir... I could¡¯ve stopped what happened¡­¡± The tone of indifference in Brennik¡¯s refusal shattered with that declaration. ¡°You¡¯re from Kynnyav?¡± Even with his surprise and sudden interest, Brennik remained succinct in his words. ¡°Yes, sir¡ªborn and raised. I only survived by a miracle. One of the invaders¡­ he was a blood weaver. He realized I was one too, sir, but I¡¯d never practiced before¡ªI kept it hidden from everyone so I wouldn¡¯t face a blood weaver¡¯s fate.¡± The boy¡¯s a weaver¡ªthat¡¯s why he¡¯s looking for me as a mentor. Of course! ¡°Sir,¡± the boy continued, ¡°he taught me how to calm myself, control my thoughts¡­ and he hid me where no one could find me.¡± ¡°You know his name, grayling?¡± Brennik interrupted. ¡°Burm, sir.¡± Chapter 4. Memories of a tragedy Two years ago, in Kynnyav The sky was overcast. The sun should have been shining at its highest point by now, but the clouds wouldn¡¯t allow it to be seen. Strong, cutting winds, a light drizzle, and deafening thunder filled the air. Brennik thought the weather suited the battle perfectly. They had surrounded the city almost two months ago¡ªSadorn had been waiting for their surrender, but it never came. Kynnyav was far too proud to kneel before someone like him. And the price for that would soon be paid. In the early hours before dawn, Kynnyav had attempted a surprise attack on the siege set by Wordhen¡¯s army. Pathetic, thought Brennik. Kynnyav had been waiting for an outside help that never showed up. Their plan for a two-front attack had failed. Desperation had gripped the city, and the surprise attack was nothing more than a final gasp of hope in the face of starvation. They had gambled on a miracle while they still had strength. They failed. Hav Wordhen¡ªa former general of the Gwynngala Empire¡ªhad been the first leader of House Wordhen. Dissatisfied with the Empire¡¯s neglect of the Eastern Domains, he raised an army and conquered much of the region over the years. Although Kynnyav stood at the heart of his conquered territories, Hav respected the city¡¯s organization and left its sovereignty untouched, focusing instead on the bandit-infested areas. Decades ago, Hav was assassinated by a bandit during a raid. Since then, his army had passed through the hands of multiple short-lived leaders, many of whom embraced the very practices Hav once fought against. Today, House Wordhen bore little resemblance to what it had been under Hav, but they kept the name for its prestige. Sadorn was the current leader of House Wordhen. Sadorn justified the attack on Kynnyav with elaborated plans he had personally discovered. Kynnyav had always been known to resist the authority of the emperors¡ªthat was no secret. What Sadorn revealed, however, was something far more sinister: the city had come into possession of the Goos, an ancient artifact capable of performing ashenings without corrupting the body. Worse still, the Kynnyavians planned to use the artifact to launch an attack on the capital, Nihonek, and forge a second ash-artifact. Ashbringers were despised everywhere, but since they were victims of their own powers, they rarely posed a lasting threat. An ashbringer who wasn¡¯t restrained by bodily corruption, however, wasn¡¯t simply despised but feared. Brennik led a detachment through the streets of Kynnyav. He had split his troops into smaller units, scattering them across the city¡¯s narrow streets. Most of the city¡¯s soldiers had already been defeated during their failed stealth attack on the siege. What remained were the civilians¡ªand every single one of them was to be eliminated. That was the commander¡¯s order. The fate of those who tamper with ashening is always death. If you¡¯re willing to carry out a plan to attack another city, you shouldn¡¯t be surprised when your own city is attacked, thought Captain Brennik. There was no need for elaborate tactics anymore. The soldiers under his command would enter a house, turn everything upside down looking for civilians¡ªand if they found anyone, they were to drive a sword into their chest. They could be a disguised ashbringer, after all. Burm couldn¡¯t bring himself to follow these orders. He knew his past was far from honorable¡ªbeing part of House Wordhen meant extorting peasants here and there, raiding shipments now and then. It wasn¡¯t right, and he knew it, but he could live with that stain. Even the siege itself didn¡¯t feel like too great a crime. Burm could convince himself that the tax imposed on the people was a fair price for protection against external threats. He could even force himself to believe that punishing those who refused to pay was necessary to keep the system running. But no matter how hard he tried, there was no way to convince himself that what he was witnessing now had any justice in it. The city had already surrendered. It was no longer a threat. No matter how much Sadorn insisted that ashbringers were hiding in the city, waiting to unleash their morbid power against them, Burm couldn¡¯t see that possibility. All he could see was the massacre of a defenseless, conquered population. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Brennik noticed Burm¡¯s hesitation. It was easy for Brennik to notice the shifts in Burm¡¯s mood and emotions. In fact, the captain thought they shifted too much¡ªbut that was what made Burm who he was, and Brennik liked that about him. The two had grown close ever since Brennik joined House Wordhen. Back then, the captain was a twelve-year-old boy, while Burm was around two years older. Both of them were skilled bloodweavers¡ªa talent that led the former leader of the Wordhen, Thuliom, to adopt them. Burm had known the love of his family until their lives were taken during a bandit raid. His parents were acquaintances of Thuliom, and when the leader learned of their deaths, he took the boy in. Brennik, on the other hand, grew up never knowing his parents. He faced life as it was and didn¡¯t waste time thinking about how it should be. The orphanage where he was raised sent its boys out to ¡°work¡± in the streets¡ªand never asked how they got their money, as long as they came back with some. By either bad luck or fate, Brennik used his bloodweaving to try to pickpocket Thuliom. The failed attempt left the old leader stunned. So young, and yet able to control blood like that¡ªand probably without any formal training. Instead of punishing him, Thuliom brought the boy into his House. Seeing Burm¡¯s hesitation, Brennik gave him a special assignment. He was to lead a small detachment to an area that had already been ¡°cleared.¡± If Brennik could say he had a friend among his comrades, that friend would be Burm. Sending him off was his way of sparing Burm from the mission. It was clear he wasn¡¯t handling the situation well. Burm left with two soldiers. Brennik did not hope he would come back. He hoped his ¡°maybe-friend¡± would just waste time out there and avoid taking part in the incursion. Brennik stood at the predetermined meeting point, waiting for the detachments to return so they could advance further into the city. Some of them were already back, and the soldiers were standing more casually¡ªa level of relaxation the captain allowed, given the lack of any identified threats nearby. What a surprise to the captain was it when Burm returned alone. ¡°We don¡¯t have to do this¡­ we can stop and start over somewhere else. None of this makes any sense, brother,¡± said Burm, breathless and desperate. He appeared with his sword in hand and a restless look in his eyes. Brennik noticed the fresh blood coating his blade and the blood marks on his body. What could that be? Brennik wondered, but there were too many possibilities¡ªno reason to jump to conclusions. ¡°Give the order to withdraw the troops. There¡¯s still time!¡± Burm went on. ¡°Burm, what happened?¡± By now, the soldiers were starting to pay attention to the two of them. ¡°None of this makes sense, Brennik,¡± he repeated. ¡°Burm! What happened?!¡± Brennik demanded, raising his voice. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here¡­¡± The sentence was cut short by a resounding slap across his face. By then, the two were already surrounded by soldiers. ¡°Burm, I¡¯ll only ask one more time. What happened?¡± Burm tremulou os olhos, como se sofresse por reviver os momentos que acabara de passar. Agora respondeu com menos pressa. Burm¡¯s eyes flickered, as if he was suffering from reliving the moments he had just experienced. This time, he did not answer in a hurry. ¡°They were killing children and babies, Brennik. Babies!¡± ¡°Who?¡± Brennik was sharp; he understood the context, but he needed Burm to say it out loud. ¡°The soldiers, damn it! When I got to them, those bastards had a dagger stuck in a baby! A baby, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡± Brennik understood the horror of what they were doing. Sadorn¡¯s orders had been brutal. But orders were orders, and Brennik didn¡¯t feel like he was in any position to disobey them for now. ¡°And what did you do, Burm?¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? What¡¯s a person supposed to do in that situation? I stopped them, damn it!¡± If that had been said in private, Brennik would have pretended he never heard it. But said in front of so many soldiers, he couldn¡¯t just ignore it. ¡°The blood on your blade, is it Derow¡¯s and Alsen¡¯s?¡± Burm nodded. That¡¯s when he realized things wouldn¡¯t go the way he¡¯d hoped. Brennik had always agreed with his doubts about their leaders, Brenn always seemed like someone he could trust. Burm thought he could make Brennik stop this senseless massacre. But now, he understood the situation he was in. Brennik was a captain¡ªhe wasn¡¯t going to listen. Burm had killed two fellow soldiers. The punishment for that was death. At that moment, he felt alone in the world. What was wrong with everyone? Was he the only one capable of seeing the absurdity of all of it? ¡°Listen, Burm. I¡¯ll personally take you to Sadorn, and then he¡¯ll judge you himself,¡± Brennik declared loudly, so everyone could hear. Burm¡¯s eyes no longer wavered. He narrowed his gaze in focus, then slashed his arms to awaken his blood marks. ¡°I¡¯m leaving, Brennik.¡± ¡°No, Burm. You¡¯re coming with me to Sadorn,¡± Brennik tried to reason with him, his tone calm but firm. ¡°No, I¡¯m leaving,¡± Burm replied with determination, pointing his sword at his companion. Brennik glanced around. Everyone was watching. There was no way out¡ªhe¡¯d have to fight the one person he had ever considered as a friend. That wasn¡¯t what he wanted. Burm was skilled; no one would¡¯ve found it suspicious if he had broken free during the escort to Sadorn, while the rest of the soldiers carried on with the mission. But Burm¡¯s stubbornness had shut that door. When he raised his sword, his fate was sealed. If only he listened to me¡­ Chapter 5. Discoveries More than a week had passed since the caravan left the ruins. During the journey, the caravan, composed mostly of members of nomadic tribes, gave Brennik little to worry about. These tribes were traditional in this region and knew how to avoid trouble on the roads better than anyone. Keynvor, the young boy who had asked Brennik to take him as an apprentice, was beginning to learn what it truly meant to be a bloodweaver. Bloodweavers were feared in the cities. They were rare, but when one was born, they were often recruited into military forces and assigned to combat roles. The fate of a bloodweaver was to become a murderer. Keynvor hadn¡¯t wanted that when he was younger. He had dreamed of a peaceful life. He loved books and negotiations and had once imagined himself as a merchant, like his father. Like most citizens of Kynnyav, Keynvor had some superficial knowledge of bloodweaving. He knew that bloodweavers used their own blood as a source for their abilities, that they were far more powerful than ordinary people, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªthat they should be avoided at all costs. Usually, a bloodweaver discovers their abilities in childhood or adolescence, when their powers awaken. In most cases, this happens when a young bloodweaver is injured and notices a connection to their own blood¡ªwhether by being able to manipulate it or by how quickly their wounds heal. Keynvor was no exception. The boy was smart. He understood what it meant. But he refused to accept it. He had seen a bloodweaver before: an Imperial Executioner. These executioners were an elite force commanded personally by the Emperor himself. He couldn¡¯t exert his power with armies in every corner of Gwynngala, but by using his Imperial Executioners for special missions, he ensured that his rule was always felt to some extent throughout his domain. The man was terrifying, radiating a sinister aura. He had killed a merchant in the middle of the marketplace¡ªrumors said the man was a conspirator. Keynvor had rejected everything about it. The young boy held firm to this belief until the fateful day of his city¡¯s massacre. His parents had hidden Keynvor and his baby brother from the soldiers at the cost of their own lives. But the baby¡¯s cries eventually gave them away. Soldiers found their hiding place. One struck Keynvor, grazing him and cutting his brow, while the other plunged a dagger into the infant. It was a moment of sheer terror for the boy. Rage surged through him, giving him the strength to lash out at his brother¡¯s murderer with a piece of wood¡ªanything he could reach. But when he struck the killer, the man was hurled into the ceiling. Not just him, but his companion as well. That was when Keynvor realized: it hadn¡¯t been him. A jagged stake of blood had pierced each soldier¡¯s heart. As they were lifted, two more branches sprouted from the stakes like blades, severing their heads. The tendrils extended from a pair of arms, twisting into irregular patterns as they moved. A bloodweaver had saved him. It was Burm. ¡°No, no, NO! This can¡¯t be, it can¡¯t be¡­¡± Burm stood frozen, staring at the dagger embedded in the infant. What kind of person could do something like this? His trembling gaze steadied when he noticed the other child beside the baby was still alive. The boy was paralyzed, likely in shock. Burm then noticed the blood from the cut on the boy¡¯s forehead moving¡ªbubbling¡ªas the wound slowly sealed itself. ¡°You¡¯re a bloodweaver, aren¡¯t you?¡± Burm said with sudden calm. ¡°My name is Burm. Come on, do what I do. I¡¯ll teach you to think more clearly.¡± The boy was still in shock. The wound on Burm¡¯s arm had already healed¡ªbloodweavers could heal themselves quickly¡ªthen he made a fresh cut and smeared the blood across his own forehead, drawing a simple band. ¡°This will help you think more clearly.¡± Even as Burm spoke to him, the boy remained motionless. So Burm took the child¡¯s hand, made a small cut on the tips of his middle fingers, and smeared the blood on his forehead. The boy began to feel something in his head¡ªa presence he could reach out to. And he did. While Keynvor slowly started piecing himself back together, regaining his senses, Burm spoke to him, brought him to a safe place, and told him to stay there until he returned. ¡°I¡¯m going to put an end to this,¡± Burm said before turning away and leaving. But he didn¡¯t put an end to it. Nor did he come back. ? ¡°Bloodweaving is costly. It uses your own blood not only to create the marks but also to activate and sustain them. What marks have you already woven, Grayling?¡± Brennik had spent the journey explaining the basics to Keynvor¡ªor rather, to Grayling, as he was now called. A bloodweaver could produce more blood than an ordinary person, but it was crucial to eat what philosophers called hematopoietic foods¡ªred meat, legumes, and others. They didn¡¯t fully understand why, but such foods helped generate more blood. One should never weave another person¡¯s blood, nor should they use their own blood to weave another body. That was known as ashening and carried severe consequences for the body. Now, Brennik felt it was time to teach him how to weave. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Master, my body heals itself automatically whenever I get hurt. And¡­ there was also that time I used it on my head because of Burm. That¡¯s it.¡± ¡°First of all, you¡¯re not my apprentice.¡± Brennik was uncomfortable thinking of the boy as such, even though he was teaching him. He preferred to see it as just giving a few tips, ¡°Second, what you used was the mark of perception. It¡¯s the one with blood spread on the forehead. Very useful in battle.¡± ¡°I want to be strong like you, Master. How did you do that? I saw you break a metal bar with your bare hand. If I can do that, I¡¯ll be able to honor my city¡ªI¡¯m sure of it.¡± Ah, of course. He really wants revenge for the massacre. Should I tell him that I was one of the captains responsible for it? If I do, he¡¯ll probably try to get back at me or at least leave us. That way, I won¡¯t be able to teach him how to weave properly, and he¡¯ll be an easy prey out there. If I don¡¯t tell him, I can make him strong. Brennik had spent the past week wondering if he should reveal that he was the one who had brought ruin to his savior, Burm. A decent person would tell him, he thought. And he had decided that, of course, he would. A decent person wouldn¡¯t live tormented by the guilt of their actions, and the pain of the days that followed the massacre of Grayling¡¯s city was something Brennik never wanted to experience again. The question was: should he tell him now or after teaching him how to control his abilities? He couldn¡¯t determine which was the right path. Just as he was about to answer the young man¡¯s question, Elowen stepped between them. ¡°That, Little Grayling, was a mark of strength. Bloodweavers use it to enhance their muscle power. A little blood on the arms, and boom¡ªyou¡¯re faster, stronger, more agile. Pretty handy, right?¡± ¡°Elo! Finished your meditation?¡± The young Keynvor asked, a smile on his face. Every day, Elowen set aside time to meditate. A strange luxury, in Brennik¡¯s opinion¡ªhe couldn¡¯t understand how she could waste time on something like that during such a dangerous journey. When she wasn¡¯t meditating, she seemed to be watching him, occasionally approaching to talk with the two of them. Does she suspect me? Strange woman¡­ ¡°Done! Now I¡¯m going to explain some things about bloodweaving that the big guy here struggles to put into words, okay?¡± She said, winking at Brennik. ¡°Hm¡­ Are you a weaver by any chance?¡± The mercenary asked with disdain. ¡°No, I¡¯m not! But I¡¯m good with people, darling.¡± She turned her attention back to Grayling and continued. ¡°Did you know that bloodweaving is basically divided into three categories?¡± Keynvor shook his head. Elowen went on. ¡°They are: blood control, blood marks, and ashening. That last one is done using the blood or remains of another person. You might think, ¡®Oh, then this one won¡¯t take a toll on me like blood marks do.¡¯ On the contrary! Your body and mind are corrupted¡ªthat¡¯s why this practice is taboo everywhere. Stay far away from it! ¡°As for the other two categories, you¡¯ve already seen them from what you¡¯ve told us. Blood marks enhance some aspects of your body through markings made with your own blood. The one applied to the forehead, like you mentioned, increases your perception¡ªyour reasoning becomes much quicker, and your emotions much more stable. It¡¯s truly amazing! ¡ª Tem outras marcas tamb¨¦m, mas isso deixo para o emburradinho ali te explicar ¡ª Elowen apontou para Brennik, que estava sentado de bra?os cruzados e olhos fechados por enquanto ela falava. ¡ª O que voc¨º viu aquele urdidor fazer com o sangue para te salvar se chama controle de sangue. Voc¨º controla seu pr¨®prio sangue como extens?o do seu corpo. ¨¦ uma forma de combate assustadora! Os urdidores quando controlam o sangue ficam parecem uma aranha ou sei l¨¢ o qu¨º, com um monte de ¡°membros¡± de sangue saindo deles. Assustador mesmo! ¡°There are other marks too, but I¡¯ll let our grumpy friend over there explain those to you.¡± Elowen pointed at Brennik, who was sitting with his arms crossed and eyes closed while she spoke. ¡°What you saw that weaver do with blood to save you is called blood control. You manipulate your own blood as an extension of your body. It¡¯s a terrifying combat technique! When weavers control blood, they look like spiders or something, with a bunch of ¡®limbs¡¯ made of blood sprouting from them. Really freaky! ¡°So, Bren, how did I do as a teacher?¡± The use of the hypocorism made Brennik frown. Bren... Where did she get that from? Still, he decided to ignore it and reply. ¡°You¡¯re mistaken.¡± He spoke without showing emotion, though Elowen could swear she caught a hint of satisfaction in his tone as he corrected her. ¡°Blood marks aren¡¯t only used to enhance aspects of your body. Some can inscribe them onto objects to create distinct effects. They are known as transcribers.¡± ¡°Never heard of that,¡± Elowen replied, expressing disbelief. ¡°It¡¯s rare. Only a few are born with the ability. I can¡¯t do it myself. But they¡¯re dangerous.¡± Elowen pursed her lips, trying to decide whether Brennik was just contradicting her for the sake of it or if he was actually telling the truth. She was usually good at reading people, but Brennik¡­ he was a fortress. Enigmatic, laconic, difficult to decipher. That only made him all the more intriguing. ¡°Wow, could I be one of them?¡± Grayling asked. ¡°It¡¯s very rare, but why not try? You seem talented, Grayling,¡± Brennik replied. Elowen let out a chuckle at the situation. She had seen Brennik be curt, even outright rude, in almost all his interactions, but when it came to Keynvor, he seemed¡­ gentler. The contrast between his rough personality and his attempts at socializing was actually kind of¡­ cute. Having grown up in nomadic tribes, she was used to people being close, warm, and open. Having someone as cold and socially inept as Brennik around was quite an exotic sight for her. ¡°How do I do it, Master?¡± ¡°Since I don¡¯t have that ability, I don¡¯t know much about it. But when I was tested for it, they told me to draw a circle with two crossed lines. Normally, we can feel our blood through touch, but when we awaken it, nothing happens. A transcriber, however, destroys the object.¡± The mercenary grabbed a piece of wood to use as a test, though he had little expectation. This was a basic test for all bloodweavers, and the usual result was failure. In fact, he had never seen anyone succeed at it. With excitement, Keynvor took his sword and cut the tips of his fingers. Brennik was used to do this effortlessly with his own nail, but since Grayling was still a novice, he squinted slightly, trembled in the cut, and let out a small grunt of pain. Still, he didn¡¯t hesitate. With a grimace of pain, he drew the circle on the wood, and then he traced the two intersecting lines. He could feel the blood on the surface, just as he had when he awakened the mark of perception in Kynnyav. ¡°Like this?¡± Brennik anuiu. Cinzento prendeu a respira??o e encostou a m?o na marca. O sil¨ºncio se estendeu por um instante ¡ª e ent?o, com um estalo seco, a madeira obliterou-se em uma chuva de farpas. Fragmentos voaram para todos os lados, arrancando um assobio surpreso de Elowen. Brennik apenas ergueu uma sobrancelha, mas, no fundo, at¨¦ ele parecia impressionado. N?o havia d¨²vida: Keynvor era um transcritor. Brennik nodded. Grayling held his breath and placed his hand on the mark. Silence stretched for a moment¡ªthen, with a sharp crack, the wood shattered into a rain of splinters. Fragments flew in all directions, drawing a surprised whistle from Elowen. Brennik merely raised an eyebrow, but deep down, even he seemed impressed. There was no doubt¡ªKeynvor was a transcriber.