The trip back home was quite easy, as they avoided the main roads. Ludger rode in the center, reins loose, sand gourd thumping against his hip. Every few miles he’d lag half a length and let his mana seep forward. The ground remembered feet; he told it to forget.

Hoofprints softened, edges sloughed, the soil shrugging back to how wind and rain would have left it. Where the sun had hardened earth into plates, he lifted a whisper of grit from his pouch and tickled the surface, just enough to scuff the telltale crescent a horse leaves.

“Tracking gods will cry,” Mira muttered once, glancing back at the blank trail.

“They can lodge a complaint in spring,” Ludger said.

The recruits conserved jokes for the flat stretches. Rhea pointed out how the sun made people squint and talked about footwork. Taron used the quiet to etch a cold-resistance rune on a bracer and immediately smudged it with glove wool. Mira and Derrin traded places without speaking—who had the better angle on an imaginary ambush; who took low ground vs. high. Callen, as always, watched weather.

They didn’t push speed. They pushed consistency. In a chase, the one who stops to breathe loses.

At dusk they found a dip in the land with a screen of alders. Ludger rolled off his saddle, touched knuckles to ground, and raised a building of stone, just enough to break wind and catch heat. They made dinner and looked after the horses.

Ludger kicked a patch of ground smooth and stood the recruits on it. “Overdrive. Limb-first ignition. One at a time. We’ll start easy, we’ll end shaky. If you puke, do it downwind.”

Rhea grinned like that was a dare. Taron looked green before they started.

He tapped his chest. “Remember the order: anchor, draw, ignite, release. Anchor is posture.”

“Which limb?” Bram asked.

“The one doing the job,” Ludger said. “Otherwise you burst your eyebrow and impress no one.”

He demonstrated: left forearm only. Mana thickened under his skin, a dull swelling pressure he pinched into a line from elbow to wrist. He flexed. The air snapped like wet kindling. No glow, no flare. Just density. He rapped his knuckles against stone—sharp crack, no pain.

“Feel where it bulges,” he told them. “Hold that shape with your breath. Three-count in, hold one, five-count out. If you get the taste of iron, you’re doing too much.”

They worked. The ring filled with careful violence—the muffled thuds of controlled strikes, the hiss of exhale on the hold. Rhea, who had body awareness for days, found the line quick and overdid it quicker; he thumped her wrist twice, light corrections, until she was pushing instead of detonating. Bram treated the exercise like lifting a gate—steady, steady, okay, too steady—so Ludger startled him with “release” callouts and made him spend it faster. Mira discovered a whisper of ignition in the shoulder rather than forearm and, to her surprise, her next draw smoothed out; archers cheat by accident.

Taron lit up his whole arm on the second try out of pure nerves. The skin along his radius went splotchy, and he hissed between teeth.

“Again,” Ludger said. “Half. Then half of half.”

Callen watched first, hands in his sleeves. When he finally tried, his mana responded like surface tension on a pond—no sound, no fuss. It held. He smiled at nothing. “Okay,” he said, as if he’d just cracked how to tie a new knot.

At some point, Freyra joined the training too.

Ludger didn’t stop her. He also didn’t want to imagine the consequences. Teaching her Overdrive felt a lot like strapping a grenade launcher to a shark—spectacular idea right up until it turned around.

Still, her presence helped. The recruits straightened their forms, focused harder, and maybe stopped trying to impress each other for five whole minutes. Fear was an underrated motivator.

As usual, Rhea pulled ahead. The girl treated every exercise like a personal duel with physics and was winning more often than not. Her strikes came cleaner, her mana burns shorter, her recovery faster.

Still, everyone made progress. Even the slowest of them had started channeling mana through their limbs without turning purple or falling over. Their movements carried more weight now—each punch, each step, sharper and heavier than before.

From here, it was only a matter of time. Repetition would carve the instinct into their bones. Sooner or later, all of them would master Overdrive completely.

By the time the fire was losing some power, they were done. Everyone could hold Overdrive for at least a breath without shaking apart. That was enough.

Ludger stood, brushing dust off his scarf. “That’s it for tonight.”

Rhea looked like she wanted another round. Mira had that quiet, steady burn that meant she’d do another three if ordered. The rest were hovering somewhere between pride and collapse.

“From here on,” Ludger said, “you can improve on your own. The pattern’s in your muscles now. Don’t force it.”

“When we get back, split your days. A few hours exploring the frost labyrinth, a few hours tightening control over Overdrive. No more, no less.”

Callen frowned. “Won’t that slow progress?”

“It’ll stop you from breaking,” Ludger said. “Working too hard just means you carry exhaustion into tomorrow. Momentum beats muscle pain.”

He scanned their faces—Rhea still defiant, Taron trying to hide a wince, Freyra with the faint grin of someone already plotting to push harder anyway.

“You’ll get stronger if you pace it,” Ludger finished. “Anyone who doesn’t believe that—try proving me wrong. I’ll enjoy being right. It took me three months to learn overdrive as well, so you guys don’t have to rush it.”

Freyra chuckled from the edge of the camp. “Orders from the Vice Guildmaster, kids. Sleep before he decides to demonstrate.”

The fire died low, the night quiet again. Another lesson done. Another handful of kids one step closer to not dying stupidly.

Next morning, the group rode quiet—just the creak of leather and the steady crunch of hooves. Ludger was half-lost in thought, eyes fixed somewhere past the horizon.

Taron eased his horse closer. “Vice Guildmaster?”

Ludger blinked, dragged himself back. “Hm?”

“You’re not going to ask about runes anymore?” Taron’s tone was careful, like he didn’t want to sound disappointed but failed anyway.

Ludger exhaled through his nose. Right. Rune training. He had forgotten. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ve still got daylight. Teach me.”

Taron frowned. “While riding?”

Ludger nodded once. “You talk, I listen. I don’t need to stop to focus. I’ll try it later.”

Taron studied him a second, probably weighing the sanity of teaching someone rune theory mid-saddle. “All right,” he said finally, pulling a small slate from his satchel. “Just… don’t fall off when I start using terms.”

“Falling would imply I wasn’t paying attention,” Ludger said dryly. “Go on.”

So Taron started explaining—mana flow patterns, the difference between binding and direction runes, how a good etching needed intention more than perfect lines. The horses plodded on. The grass cracked underhoof. Ludger listened, filing the knowledge away with the same quiet focus he used for everything else.

“All right,” he said, flipping the small slate balanced on his knee. “First thing: a rune isn’t just a symbol. It’s a circuit. You’re not drawing language—you’re building a path for mana to flow through.”

Ludger glanced sideways but said nothing, letting the boy talk.

Taron sketched a simple circle. “Start with the base loop. It holds pressure, like a skin around water. Without it, mana just bleeds into the air. Then, you carve channels—lines that tell the flow what to do. Direction. Speed. Spread.” He marked three thin spokes radiating from the center. “The shape isn’t arbitrary; each angle shifts behavior. Straight lines compress, curves soften. A curve here”—he tapped—“makes the flow expand gently. A sharp line—” he scored the slate—“forces it like a jet through a pipe.”

“Next are anchors. Tiny runes nested inside the main one. They define the element—earth, fire, water, air, light, shadow. Each has its own resonance. You can’t just write the word; you need to think it while carving. The intention sets polarity. A careless scribe can make a fire rune that burns inward.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “So it’s mana geometry. Dangerous geometry.”

“Exactly,” Taron said, grinning despite the cold. “Think of it like sculpting pressure. You build a pipe network for mana. The design decides whether it bursts, glows, shields, or explodes.”

He thought for a second and then drew in the air again, this time a series of connected rings. “Runes chain into arrays. Each ring adds a function. One to gather mana, one to shape, one to release. More rings, more power—but also more instability. Every loop amplifies the last.”

Ludger watched the careful strokes. “And the material?”

“Whatever holds mana evenly. Metal for permanence, wood for temporary charms, parchment if you’re desperate. Stone’s best if you want it to last. The rune burns its pattern into the medium over time—if the pattern breaks, it dies. That’s why old ruins hum. They’re still leaking from ancient arrays that forgot their orders centuries ago.”

The boy looked up, face half-hidden by his scarf. “Rune magic isn’t about drawing perfect symbols. It’s about shaping flow while feeling the resistance. The best runecrafters can tell when a line’s wrong by how the mana tastes in their mouth.”

Ludger nodded, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “Good. You explain better than most teachers I’ve had.”

Taron blinked. “You’ve had teachers?”

“Of course,” Ludger said.

Taron chuckled. “You’re fine learning theory like this?”

“I’ll test it later. Easier to focus when the ground’s not moving.”

The boy nodded and went back to his demonstration , scratching out examples for when they stopped. Ludger’s gaze drifted back to the horizon again, mind already turning over applications—anchors, channels, compression. Geometry and pressure. He could work with that.

There’s one more thing most beginners don’t think about—degradation.”

Ludger glanced at him. “Runes wear out? I guess it makes sense.”

“Everything does,” Taron said. He drew the same circle as before, then crosshatched parts of it. “Mana runs like water through the lines. Each time the rune activates, it pushes a little pressure into the material holding it. Metal bends, stone fractures microscopically, ink bleeds. That’s material degradation.

The container weakens first.”

He tapped the center of the rune. “When the medium changes shape—heat, impact, corrosion, even humidity—the mana flow inside gets distorted. Think of it like a cracked pipe. Pressure builds in the wrong places. The rune starts pulling against itself. That’s rune degradation.”

Ludger leaned a little closer, eyes following the lines. “And when it breaks?”

“Depends,” Taron said. “If the flow collapses quietly, the rune just dies—fizzles out like a snuffed candle. If it collapses violently, it inverts.” He scratched out half the circle with a thumb. “Inversion means the mana tries to return to equilibrium instantly. That’s when you get backfires—explosions, burns, freezing bursts, whatever the rune was designed to do, turned inward.”

He drew another example: concentric circles with tiny marks between them. “On enchanted items, smiths solve that by layering materials. A metal core for durability, an inlay for mana conduction, and an outer sealant to absorb strain. Over time, though, heat cycles, impacts, or just too many activations grind the pattern down. The flow loses definition. You get residual drift—mana starts leaking out at the edges instead of staying in the lines. That’s why old enchanted weapons hum or glow faintly. They’re bleeding their own charge.”

He looked up, wind tugging at his hood. “If you want an enchantment to last, you either etch it deeper—harder to break but harder to fix—or you build it to rest between uses. Like lungs. A rune that cools off is safer than one that burns constantly.”

Ludger nodded slowly. “So even the best work rots if used enough.”

“Exactly. Nothing’s eternal. Not magic, not metal. You just slow the decay and pray it breaks clean when it does.”

Ludger smirked. “Comforting thought.”

“Better than surprise explosions,” Taron said, grinning.

“Depends on who’s standing nearby,” Ludger replied, the faintest edge of humor under his tone.

Taron chuckled, flipped his slate closed, and tucked it away. “We’ll make a runecrafter out of you yet, Vice Guildmaster.”

Ludger shook his head, gaze on the horizon again. “Let’s try not to blow up the first lesson.”

Taron’s tone shifted—less lecture, more honesty.

“My own runes lean toward support work,” he said. “Reinforcement, stabilization, resistance layers, field anchors. Stuff that helps other people survive rather than blow things up.”

He rubbed a thumb over the edge of his hood, thinking. “My mana just… flows better with them. Some mages are built for direct offense—tight bursts, fast ignition. Mine prefers holding patterns. It smooths energy instead of forcing it. Support runes eat less mana and stack cleaner, so it fits me.”

Ludger nodded, reins steady. “You’re a buffer, then. Makes sense.”

Taron gave a small shrug. “Still trying to improve, but that’s about all I can teach for now. Anything past the basics—array optimization, active channel weaving—it’s all guesswork. There aren’t many books left that even mention the old systems.”

He hesitated, then added, “Different rune languages existed, centuries ago. Each came from a family or guild that guarded its own script. They didn’t share, and most of their records burned or got locked behind noble archives. A lot of what we use today is just the remnants—patched together symbols that barely talk to each other.”

“So improving them’s hard,” Ludger said.

“Hard and slow,” Taron replied. “You need compatible sources, surviving samples, and mana attuned the same way the original makers used. Half the time, we’re working from ruins and guesswork. Even scholars can’t agree which lines belong to which lineage anymore.”

He looked up, squinting into the sun. “But that’s the fun part, right? Trying to rebuild a language that no one speaks anymore.”

Ludger gave him a sidelong glance, mouth twitching. “Fun is one word for it.”

Taron smiled faintly. “Well, someone has to do it.”

Ludger nodded. “Good. Keep doing it. We’ll need that kind of stubborn later.”