The Runesmith Novels & Stories

When I awoke, the sun lit the forest in bands, and the world seemed both softer for the morning and sharper for the task ahead. We left the archive with the disk now recorded as contained, and a route on the map toward places where these artifacts might have been crafted and where the manipulator had once stood. The trail pointed toward the Old Beacon again, but also toward a smaller network of workshops and forges where runes were carved into tool and ornament alike. We had a purpose, a small victory, and a larger war to wage — not just against men who would hoard artifacts, but against old temptations that told them such hoarding was necessary. The journey felt longer than any battlefield

Whatever watchers moved there ceased as our wolves advanced, silent in the dark. I stood and straightened. In the quiet the wind whispered across my cloak. The scent of ash, water, and old magic combined. I glanced down at the vial in my satchel, the ash mixed with rune‑shards. The enemy’s message. Boundaries drawn in our land. Lines they counted on. But we redrew them. I retrieved a small chisel and hammer and set to work on the river‑stone at the edge of the bank. With each strike I carved our seal twin‑crescents joined and fixed. The stone chipped away, the rune appearing in midnight silver. The wolves watched, heads low.

"I thought it had been destroyed." "It cannot be destroyed," Mercy answered. "It only waits." As everyone approached, the runes slowly awakened, one by one. Each represented a virtue: *Courage, Compassion, Wisdom, Hope, Mercy, Sacrifice, Love.* Finally... an eighth rune blazed brighter than all the others: *Harmony.* Aiden instinctively stepped backward as the rune pulsed, almost as though recognizing him. "No..." he whispered. "I'm just... a kid." The Moon Goddess smiled. "I know."

Rosaline had some too, but we didn’t get around to her showing me them before my premature return to Pine Lake and my family. ‘A rune is a symbol, like the ones on the cave wall. Witches carve them on stones or into natural objects to imbue them with power. Dragons have the ancient power inside, and when we use it for the first time a rune appears on our skin. Thereafter we can access the magic more easily, like turning a tap on and off. Once it’s plumbed in, it’s readily available.’ I laugh out loud at how surreal it is, having ancient magic explained to me using twentieth century plumbing metaphors.

His chest heaved slowly as he stared at the massive black wolf bound helplessly against the earth. Then his hand opened. Resting in his palm was the ring. Its dark crystal pulsed faintly. Riven’s fingers brushed over the stone three times. The moment his finger completed the third rub… The air around him rippled. A low vibration spread through the space. Then!... A spear materialized in his hand. It appeared as if pulled from another world. Dark metal formed along the shaft, ancient runes faintly carved along its length. The weapon seemed to drink the light around it.

Inside, the broken shards of my ring clinked together with a tragic sound. ​"Take the fastest mare in the stables," Nikolai ordered, his gaze burning into Silas's soul. "Ride past the weeping ridges, deep into the molten caverns of the jagged peaks. Look for the blind hermit, the ancient blacksmith who served the old court before the great purge. He is the only living soul who knows the geometry of the soul-bond runes." ​Silas gripped the pouch tightly, his expression turning grim. "The jagged peaks are crawling with Richard's scouts. If they catch me—"

I chose to ignore her and continue moving on but my mind kept changing whenever I hear her talking sweetly to that honey ass. I already stole her before and I can steal her again. She's still my wife. She's mine. And no one can ruin my mark on her-- my surname. Forever, 'till I die. She's my Mrs. Castanio. -END-

His weathered face was streaked with soot, and a makeshift bandage wrapped around his forearm. "What happened?" I demanded, scanning the destruction. "Professional hit," he replied grimly. "Four wolves, masked, carrying specialised explosives. They knew where to plant them for maximum damage." "The foundational runes?" He nodded. "All destroyed. We'll have to start over." The significance wasn't lost on me. Those runes were ancient Silvercrest protections, designed to shield the pack house from both physical and magical attacks. Without them, we would have been building just another structure. "Any idea who?" I asked, though I already suspected.

One of the bandits' lackeys was amazed by the appearance of Engram’s rune sword. “What an expansive looking sword that you got there, laddie, do you mind if I take a look?” Engram’s long sword was indeed looking expansive. It was crafted from a black rune crystal with a sublime silver handle. “Why don't you come closer, so you can see it clearer.” Engram provoked while was sneering. Jeremiah felt the bloodlust atmosphere around Engram. He was now confused about how the difference the prince demeanor had changed from the first time they've met.

Even here, surrounded by three hundred soul-bound warriors and the steady, grounding thrum of timber drums, my skin remembered the crucible. Beneath my dark velvet tunic, the faint white ridges where my ribs had been cracked and reset under the weight of the forge felt tight against the chill creeping down through the high stone vaults. Across my palms, the ancient lodestone runes had faded from raw white heat into smooth, burnished gold lines that sat beneath the epidermis like embedded wire. My riding boots, freshly oiled leather replacing the stiffened rags torn away on the mountain, pressed firmly against the solid oak floorboards. The simple, heavy friction of the leather against my cal