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—most importantly—that 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—whether 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—rumors 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—anything 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—bubbling—as 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—bloodweavers could heal themselves quickly—then 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—a 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—or 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

  foods—red 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.

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  “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—I’m sure of it.”

  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—you’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—he 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.

  “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—that’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—your reasoning becomes much quicker, and your emotions much more stable. It’s truly amazing!

  — Tem outras marcas também, mas isso deixo para o emburradinho ali te explicar — Elowen apontou para Brennik, que estava sentado de bra?os cruzados e olhos fechados por enquanto ela falava. — O que você viu aquele urdidor fazer com o sangue para te salvar se chama controle de sangue. Você controla seu próprio sangue como extens?o do seu corpo. é uma forma de combate assustadora! Os urdidores quando controlam o sangue ficam parecem uma aranha ou sei lá o quê, 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.

  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 .”

  “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 silêncio se estendeu por um instante — 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, até ele parecia impressionado. N?o havia dúvida: Keynvor era um transcritor.

  Brennik nodded. Grayling held his breath and placed his hand on the mark. Silence stretched for a moment—then, 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—Keynvor was a .