Dreven crouched by the faintly flickering remnants of a campfire, the soft light casting long shadows across the dewy forest floor. The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp leaves and freshly disturbed soil. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy above, dappling the ground in a golden hue. The chirping of birds and the distant rustle of small creatures provided a serene contrast to the grim task at hand.
From the salvaged supplies of Lisan's fallen comrades, Dreven retrieved a small knife and a crude bowl. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, setting the tools down on a flat stone. The mana in his veins had settled, though its potency remained palpable. Caius had been formidable; his mana was thick, almost tangible, and Dreven could still feel its lingering weight in his own blood.
He’d been fortunate. Catching them off guard with brutal resolve had ensured his survival, but the price was high—pain gnawed at his limbs, a reminder of how close he’d come to failure.
Dreven glanced over his shoulder at Lisan. She sat stiffly against a tree, her hands bound in front of her, her wary eyes following his every move. He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before returning to his preparations. Doubt whispered in his mind, unbidden. How much has truly changed since I left my world?
Magic had always been his anchor, but this new realm—Ultima—remained an enigma. He’d witnessed its wonders and horrors in equal measure, yet the uncertainty gnawed at him. What if the magic here defied the rules I knew? He shook the thought away. Hesitation was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Grasping the knife, Dreven made a swift, deep cut across his palm. He watched intently as his blood flowed freely, pooling in the bowl until it was half full. The sunlight caught the crimson liquid, revealing a faint shimmer—a testament to the mana-infused essence coursing through him. Setting the knife aside, he dipped two fingers into the bowl, his blood warm and sticky.
With deliberate care, he began to draw a rune on his forehead, each line sharp and angular, the ancient elvish script from his world etched with precision. The rune was a relic of his past, a rough and archaic form of magic. Even in his own world, few dared to use it. But here, in this unfamiliar land, Dreven trusted in the fundamental principles of magic, believing they would hold true. Magic is magic, no matter where you are, he reassured himself. The rules might bend, but they don’t break.
Once the symbol was complete, he turned to Lisan. Her hands tensed against the rope as he approached.
“This will hurt,” he said flatly, untying her bindings. She didn’t flinch but remained rigid, her eyes narrowing.
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When the rope fell away, he handed her the knife. “Fill the rest,” he instructed, his voice steady but unyielding.
Lisan hesitated, her gaze flickering between the blade and Dreven. “And if I don’t?” Her voice was soft but sharp.
His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then I’ll find another way, and you won’t like it as much.”
She stared at him, her jaw tightening. With a small, resigned breath, she took the blade, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. Slowly, she slashed across her palm, her lips tightening as blood welled up and dripped into the bowl. The mixture of their blood swirled together, shimmering faintly in the morning light.
Dreven swiftly wrapped her hand with a strip of cloth, his touch firm but not unkind. He guided her fingers, the warmth of her skin startling against his own. Each stroke of the rune seemed to pulse with a faint heat, as though the magic was alive and impatient. Lisan flinched as the last line seared into place, a fleeting grimace flashing across her face.
“This isn’t permanent, is it?” she asked, her voice tight.
“That depends on you,” Dreven replied, his tone smooth but distant. “Keep to your word, and you’ll have little to fear.”
Little to fear. The phrase lingered in the air, heavier than the promise of protection he’d just uttered.
Dreven stood, looking down at Lisan. The morning sun highlighted her delicate features, her forehead marked with the faint sheen of the rune. The glow faded, settling into her skin as if it had always been there.
Clearing his throat, he spoke with solemnity. “I, Dreven Sorrowmoon, swear by the rite of blood bond to protect Lisan Emberton. I will bring no harm to her, nor allow harm to befall her by my hand. By bond of blood, I swear to this.”
The mingled scent of their blood filled his senses as he lifted the bowl. The taste was metallic, with a faint sweetness from the mana. He drank deeply, feeling the warmth spread through him, the rune on his forehead flaring with a brief, sharp heat. This bond… it binds us in more ways than one. A necessary evil.
Handing the bowl to Lisan, he nodded. “Make the oath and end it with the same words. State both our names clearly.”
Her hands trembled as she took the bowl, and for a moment, she hesitated, her nose wrinkling at the sight of the blood. “What happens if I don’t drink?” she asked.
“You’ll die,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Slowly.”
She shot him a glare but brought the bowl to her lips. Her voice was steady despite the disgust in her eyes. “I, Lisan Emberton, swear by the rite of blood bond to assist Dreven Sorrowmoon in understanding the world of Ultima. Ensure he safely enters into someplace he can keep himself safe. I will bring no intentional harm to him. By bond of blood, I swear to this.”
She drank, the blood thick and warm, sliding down her throat with an unsettling weight. The rune on her forehead flared, burning brightly before fading. She coughed slightly, her face scrunching in revulsion.
Dreven’s eyes gleamed as he watched her reaction. “This bond should serve us both—if you hold to your end.”
He tucked the bowl and knife back into his pack, the ritual complete. The sun continued its ascent, bathing the forest in golden light as the bond between them solidified. No turning back now. We’re bound by blood, and blood never lies.