Back in the slave barracks, Asher collapsed onto his cot, every muscle screaming in protest. The other men around him were already snoring, bodies desperate for whatever rest they could get before tomorrow's inevitable horrors. In the dim light, he cautiously reached into his pocket and extracted the small glass vial.
The liquid inside seemed to respond to his touch, swirling with faint luminescence that cast eerie patterns across his calloused hands. The glow reminded him of moonlight reflecting off still water—beautiful, yet somehow unsettling.
'What are you?' Asher turned the vial carefully, examining it from every angle. No markings, no label. Just clear glass containing that strange, shimmering substance.
He traced his thumb across the cork stopper, temptation gnawing at him. The dead soldier had clutched this vial like it was worth more than his life. Perhaps it was a healing potion? Or maybe something to grant strength in battle?
'Or poison', his mind countered. 'A desperate man's last resort to escape capture.'
The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Asher from his thoughts. He quickly tucked the vial back into his pocket just as Rin appeared, looking as exhausted as Asher felt.
"Still alive, I see," Rin muttered, dropping onto the neighboring cot. His face was caked with dirt and dried blood—none of it his own. "They had us digging trenches all evening."
"Dead man's pit for me," Asher replied quietly, the memory of stiff corpses and vacant eyes still fresh in his mind.
Rin grimaced. "Rather dig a hundred trenches than touch those poor bastards." He glanced around before leaning closer. "Heard anything more about that Moon Priest?"
Asher shook his head. "Just the usual rumors. Why?"
"Something's not right," Rin whispered. "The guards are jumpy. And I overheard two officers arguing about 'preparations' for tomorrow. Said the priest requested access to the battlefield before the charge."
"What for?"
"No idea. But one thing's clear—they're scared of him."
Asher considered this information, unease settling in his stomach like a cold stone. The Church of the Moon wasn't known for their battlefield presence. If a high priest was here personally, something significant was happening.
'What could he possibly want with a field of dying men?'
Sleep evaded Asher that night. He tossed and turned, his mind racing between thoughts of the mysterious vial and the priest's arrival.
***
The potion weighed heavy in Asher's pocket throughout the night. As he lay on his bunk, listening to the labored breathing and occasional whimpers of the other slaves, his thoughts circled endlessly around the mysterious vial. The luminescent liquid inside seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, calling to him through the fabric of his ragged clothes.
Sleep refused to come. The moon had risen high, casting silver light through the cracks in the barracks' walls. Asher's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, his mind racing.
'What is in this vial? Poison? Medicine? Something else entirely?'
'Only one way to find out.' He thought, letting his impulsive thoughts take over him.
With practiced silence, he slipped from his bunk. Years of slavery had taught him how to move without making a sound. He paused, glancing at Rin's sleeping form on the bunk above. The red-haired boy was still, his face peaceful in sleep—a stark contrast to the terror that consumed him during waking hours.
Asher crept through the barracks, navigating between the rows of sleeping slaves. None stirred as he slipped through the doorway and into the night.
The war camp was different after dark. Guards patrolled with torches, their shadows stretching long across the muddy ground. Asher kept to the edges, using darkness as his shield. He knew where he needed to go—the one place no one willingly ventured, especially at night.
The Dead Man's Pit.
Even before he saw it, he could smell it—the sickening stench of decay that no amount of burning could fully eliminate. The pit lay on the outskirts of the camp, far from the officers' quarters and main tents. Only a single guard stood watch, and even he kept his distance, more concerned with ensuring no one stole from the dead than preventing entry.
Asher circled around, approaching from the side where shadows were deepest. The guard was half-asleep, leaning heavily on his spear. It was almost too easy to slip past him, ducking behind the piles of bodies awaiting disposal.
Once inside the pit, Asher found a secluded spot between two corpse heaps. The smell was overwhelming, but it ensured his privacy. No one would venture this deep into the pit unless ordered to.
He pulled out the vial, holding it up to the moonlight. The liquid inside swirled unnaturally, neither fully solid nor liquid, glowing with an inner light that seemed to respond to his touch.
'What am I doing?' he thought, briefly hesitating. 'This could kill me.'
But then, what difference would it make? Death in the pit or death on the battlefield—one was simply sooner than the other. At least this way, the choice was his.
With trembling fingers, he uncorked the vial. The scent that wafted from it was unexpected—not the bitter tang of medicine or the sweetness of poison, but something deeper, older. It smelled like rain on a hot stone, like the air after lightning strikes.
Asher took a deep breath and raised the vial to his lips.
'Freedom or death,' he thought grimly. 'Either way, I choose my fate.'
The liquid slid down his throat like liquid fire. Pain exploded through his chest, radiating outward through every vein, every nerve. He fell to his knees, a silent scream locked in his throat as the world around him blurred.
Colors swirled, sounds intensified. He could hear the rhythmic beating of his own heart, could feel each cell in his body burning as if being reforged. The slave mark on his hand pulsed with searing pain, fighting against whatever was coursing through his system.
Then everything went black.
Asher's eyes snapped open.
He was still in the pit, sprawled between corpses. But everything was... different.
The first thing he noticed was a sensation in his chest—a warm, pulsing ball of energy about the size of a peanut, nestled near his heart. It radiated through his body, filling him with a vitality he'd never known. His muscles, which had been aching constantly since the shield charge, now felt fresh and responsive. The cuts and bruises that had covered his skin had vanished completely.
He sat up, marveling at how effortless the movement felt. No pain. No fatigue. Just pure, raw energy waiting to be directed.
Then he saw them.
Floating all around him were translucent orbs of light. Some hovered over the corpses—dark, grimy spheres that seemed to writhe with negative energy. Others, brighter and more vibrant, danced above the distant torches. The orange ones almost resembled tiny human children, playfully darting through the flames.
'What... what am I seeing?'
Asher raised his hand, reaching toward one of the floating lights. It reacted to his movement, drifting closer as if curious. When it touched his fingertips, he felt a spark of connection—not physical, but something deeper. As if a part of his consciousness could reach out and... grasp it.
Understanding dawned on him with startling clarity. The potion hadn't just healed him—it had awakened something within him. Something powerful.
He concentrated his mind on his chest and the ball of energy next to it, feeling it respond to his will.
'There seemed to be a distinct type of power there.'
It felt structured and solid, like ancient writing carved in stone
'runic in nature.'
'A Conceptual Weaver,' he thought, the term coming to him from nowhere and everywhere at once. 'A Runic Weaver.'
Asher stood, his mind racing with possibilities. With this power, he could potentially escape. Fight back. Be free. But as excitement built within him, his hand began to burn. The slave mark glowed faintly, sending waves of pain up his arm.
He focused on it, trying to understand. Now that he was awakened, he could sense the energy within the mark—a binding force designed to punish any attempt at freedom. The stories weren't just tales to frighten slaves into submission, the mark really would burn him alive if he tried to escape.
Asher's jaw clenched. 'I need time. Time to understand these powers. Time to find a way to remove this mark.'
A plan began to form in his mind. He would continue as before—running the shield, training, surviving. But in secret, he would explore these new abilities, growing stronger, learning control. And when the time was right, when he fully understood what he was capable of...
He glanced at the slave mark once more, determination hardening in his eyes.
'I won't just escape. I'll be truly free.'
With that thought, Asher turned toward the exit and was about to leave, but just then, above a pile of bodies next to him, a dark crimson ball of translucent light started to form.
Asher was surprised seeing this. It was different from the other balls of light he had seen around him. Not sensing any hostility from it, he looked up at the moon and thought.
'I still have some time before dawn'
And walked over to it.