The next bell didn't toll so much as howl. A shrill warble of chimes laced with binding sigils swept across the academy, signaling class transitions. Kael swore he could feel it in his molars. He'd barely sheathed his new rune blade when the professor from the next lesson stalked in, robed in layered grey linen, with a mask made of bone and a hundred whispering charms clinking from his sleeves.
"Welcome to Glyphic Anatomy and Etching Theory," he rasped, voice somehow both silky and full of static. "Take your seats. Not those. The ones that don't hum."
The classroom itself resembled a small lecture theater, but instead of desks, there were stone chairs arranged in a spiral. Each chair had a small slab in front of it covered in etched lines. When Kael sat, the runes beneath him thrummed and glowed blue, then dimmed, scanning his aura, no doubt.
Seret sat beside him and immediately muttered, "I swear to all the old gods, if this guy starts whispering cryptic crap I'm biting my own tongue off."
Kael smirked.
The professor tapped a glass wand against the air, and a three-dimensional projection of a human body exploded into view. Not literal flesh, a body made entirely of luminous threads. Nerves like golden lightning, veins like flowing rivers of light, and a lattice of points dotting the surface in precise patterns.
"This," he said, "is The Threadform. Every living being has one. It is the web upon which all runes are carved, whether with ink, blade, or will."
He waved again. The diagram rotated. Tiny runes began appearing on the form: along the spine, on the wrists, the sternum, forearms, temples, even the soles of the feet.
"These are Etch Points, nodes where runic energy can be fused into the body. Engraving a rune onto the body creates a symbiotic link between the mind, the mana, and the flesh."
"Sounds useful," Seret muttered.
"Sounds lethal," Kael corrected.
The professor continued, drawing the class into absolute silence as he explained.
"Etched runes function like tattoos, but they are living circuits. They pulse with energy and will feed off your mana pool passively. The more you add, the heavier the burden. The stronger the rune, the deeper it carves into the Threadform."
Then, without warning, he waved his hand again and replaced the Threadform with a far less flattering image: a misshapen corpse, covered in fractured runes, spasming violently before it exploded into a spray of spectral gore.
"Too many runes… and you collapse your own lattice. Your mana coils twist. Your soul ruptures from the inside out. This condition is called Arcane Overload, also known as the Mage's Scream."
At the back of the room, someone let out a faint whimper.
Kael squinted. "So... you're saying magic tattoos can literally turn your bones to soup if you overdo it."
The professor nodded. "Yes. Exactly that. And they make a horrid sound."
Another diagram now. This time it showed runes in slow progression, basic ones that enhanced strength, reflexes, perception. But then it spiraled: more intricate glyphs began to branch out, weaving into nerves, anchoring to vital organs.
"Moderation is survival. Never bind more than seven permanent runes unless you've had professional reweaving done by a Threadsmith. Only nobles or prodigies afford that kind of luxury."
Kael looked down at his hands. He still had faint scarring from the bindings the cult used. Those weren't permanent runes, but they'd come close. Too close.
"Seret," he whispered, "how many runes did they try on us back then?"
She furrowed her brow. "...Twelve. Then they purged seven of them before the sleep trials."
Kael exhaled slowly. He could still feel the gaps where those spells used to hum against his skin like ghost chains.
Halfway through the lecture, the professor started listing the technical names of the major runic types:
Fractals: Multi-purpose structures used for sensory amplification.
Spirals: Memory-linked glyphs that enhance reflex recall.
Forks: Risky constructs that store spells to trigger subconsciously.
Brands: Rare, burn-in runes tied directly to emotion or trauma. Illegal without consent.
"Think of them as a language," the professor said. "But if you speak too many words at once, the body forgets which syllables are real, and you melt."
Kael's eyes glazed. Seret's forehead was literally pressed against the rune-slab in front of her. She groaned.
"I'm learning so much I want to die," she hissed. "Why is everything in this place trying to murder me with knowledge?"
"Maybe the tests are just passive-aggressively educational," Kael muttered back.
The student behind them snorted a laugh. Virella, seated near the front for observation, gave them a long, slow turn of the head and mouthed: I will end you.
By the end of class, everyone had a headache. Most left cradling their temples. One kid stumbled out mumbling rune patterns under his breath like they were cursed verses.
As they walked out into the evening air, Kael dragged his feet beside Seret, shoulders sagging.
"Was that three life-threatening warnings in one lesson?" he asked.
"Four," she corrected. "You forgot the part about mana recoil frying your eyes if the rune is placed too close to your optic nerve."
"Right. Of course. Can't wait to find out what kills us in alchemy."
Seret cracked a rare grin. "If it's poison, I'm drinking yours too."