“Miss Sifa! You can save him, can’t you?” Momma Maria wrings her hands, looking between myself and her son lying unconscious at my feet in the middle of the road.

I look down at the young man's twitching form. He very clearly needs help, veins of red puffing up underneath his skin and flowing down his veins. His whole body looks like it’ll be claimed soon.

“I can. You’re very lucky I was in the area.” I’m not supposed to do any such thing, Master Emett has forbidden me numerous times, but if he thinks he can do a better job, I’d like to see him come out here and try.

Half the fringetown of Lenartzin Bend has gathered around to watch. Their sole claim to fame collapsing to the ground, potentially dying, wasn’t something they could just ignore. Plus, what Master Emett doesn’t know won’t hurt me. What would he even do, anyway?

Demote me?

Hah.

“It’s going to weaken his flame until summer, but it won’t be permanent if he continues to practice.” I carefully pull off my left glove, a simple thing of bluish gray, exposing the triple helix of glowing marks across the back of my hand.

Energy pulses through me in waves, the setting flamesun and rising frostsun each contributing to the inner chaos. My magic is in constant motion, always shifting and surging from one temperature to the other and back. I can envy the ease with which elementalists—like this hedge mage—use their power, even while grateful for the flexibility my duality provides.

I press a hand firmly to his rashy forearm over the existing mess of lines, a misaligned flame augment. The symbol burns dark and malefic as it slowly consumes him. The poor kid didn’t even test it before making it permanent. It’s not enough to fully cripple him, but it’s sure going to make the next few years of his life incredibly difficult.

The rune flares into place, crimson frost layering the Transference symbol over the existing pattern. Even unconscious, the man trembles at the chill.

My Heartrune shifts slightly to accommodate the abrupt absence as the Transference rune disconnects from the rest. It’ll regenerate on its own over the next few days, even if I do nothing to expedite the process.

Now for the harder part, the reason I’m forbidden to do this kind of thing. With the rune acting as a conversion filter between us, it’s a simple matter to compensate for the overdraw he’s experiencing—and just as easy to overcompensate and push in too much energy. I don’t want to blow him up or burn him out. That’s always hard to brush away.

Carefully, ever so carefully, I release a few droplets of energy from my inner ocean to fill the Transference rune. Control. The essence of my life and soul.

The mage gasps and sits bolt upright, staring around wildly.

Momma Maria wastes no time. “Julius, you drowfangled donger! You scared me half to death and back again, how dare you almost die before the rush?! What were you thinking?”

All the gathered villagers kick up a huff, hooting about “responsibility as a mage” this and “disregard of their lives” that. The noise comes so fast, it catches him off guard, and he stares wide-eyed in horror as the seriousness of the situation settles.

Others try to assuage the evident panic creeping onto his face, his limbs shaking like a leaf in a storm. Because of his confusion, they all jump at the chance to gain favor with the upper echelons of the world—meaning me.

“Thank you so much!” one of them shouts, a man getting on in his years, as he falls to his knees. “We can’t repay you enough! Without you, how could we survive the rush going onward? We will not forget what you’ve done this day.”

Others follow along. I promptly ignore them.

I don’t allow my relief to show, I was half convinced I’d kill the kid, but only raise my rune-marked hand for silence. The cacophony hushes immediately. Even a Servant outranks any hedge mage in the world, let alone all the ordinary people gathered around us.

Assuming they even know the difference between myself and a full Runemaker.

“Young man,” I demand, though he’s probably a year or two older than me, “do you understand what you did wrong here?”

He looks from me to the gathered crowd and swallows. “If-if you’d come with me to my home, I can—”

A shift of two fingers in his direction shuts him up mid-sentence. He doesn’t want me to lecture him in front of everyone? Should have thought of the consequences before he goes and imprints untested augments into himself.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” The glow of runes across my exposed hand ensures everyone knows I’m the one with the authority here. A refreshing change from my day-to-day at Master Emett’s tower.

“My… I-I…” His attempts at grasping for excuses stutters off and he shakes his head.

I stare him down, allowing the silence to stretch.

The crowd remains dead quiet.

The hedge mage fidgets uncomfortably, twitching like he wants to stand up but can’t quite muster the nerve. Then he bows his head. “I don’t know, Mistress Runemaker.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

If I were being proper, my response here would be, “I’m no Runemaker, only a Servant”, followed by a recitation of procedure and instructions to contact Master Emett, but I’ve no interest in downplaying my abilities.

Besides, ‘proper’ went out the door the moment I placed a rune on a living creature. Not that Master Emett could have done it better.

So what if I can’t pass the Order’s stiflingly rigid tests? I use what runes I have at my disposal better than anyone I know.

I’ve let the poor fool squirm long enough. Time to be merciful. At least, as much as is possible in such a dire situation.

I lower myself to my knees, leaning in to speak softly rather than broadcast the full depth of his failure to the entire village. “This augment that you’ve set up, it’s completely wrong. It’s going to be a permanent drain on your energy and, judging by what I just witnessed, one that you can’t compensate for. You’ll have to work twice as hard to regain the ground you’ve just thrown away if you ever want to practice magic again.”

His eyes widen, mouth going slack, one hand gripping the other forearm as though covering the augment would undo the damage. “N-no, that’s not—it’ll make me stronger! That’s what it does! Augments… I just need to—”

A warning twitch of my fingers and his mouth snaps closed. “I told them you’d be out of commission until the summer, but that’s only if you work hard. Just returning to neutral will take you most of the spring.”

“Summer? But… my family, my practice, my career—I can’t!”

“These are the consequences of your actions and only options. So you can wait for my rune to fade, do nothing, and allow your ‘augment’ to consume you entirely.”

“B-but—”

I interrupt him before he gets too far along in his blubbering. “Or you can work on your intake to the best of your ability for the next three months and, when my rune fades, you’ll be at least able to sustain your existence. I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to you.”

I rise to my feet, leaving him to his protests. I work hard to stay open-minded, not to grow disdainful of those less fortunate than myself, but people like this make it hard. Anyone else in his hometown would have killed for the power and potential he’d possessed, and he threw it all away on a gamble for more.

He could have been a Candidate himself, could have pursued something greater than performing for his friends and family.

There’s little sadder than wasted potential.

With this little diversion handled, time to get back to the business at hand. The majority of the crowd parts for me, the chatter resuming in my wake. Unfortunately, this is also seen as the signal for all the other people with questions, problems, or gossip to come forward and bother me, now that the immediate crisis is dealt with.

“Can you come enchant my teakettle to stay hot longer? I have potatoes I can—”

“Miss Runemaker! Do you remember me?”

“Ey, you can see the future, right? D’ya think Ole Bessie’ll be moving this year?”

“Can you do something about the drought?”

I ignore everyone and wave to the village head, Abuza. If I were to answer every question, I’d be here all month.

He shoos away the pestering crowd, giving me an apologetic nod. As the crowd reluctantly disperses and leaves the site of my miracle behind, he turns and gestures across the gravelly street, over to a hut a bit yonder.

“Care to join me?” his leaderly voice, calm yet full of gravity, queries.

I look him up and down, taking in the earth and steel insignia patched over his heart. I point at it. “Depends. You become one of the extremists?”

“Of course not, never, but us less blessed by your craft need something to lean on for safety and livelihood.” He grins and gestures to me to walk.

Reluctant, knowing he’d have more toys lying about, I nod. He leads the way, and I do my best to remain friendly to the villagers who continue cawing like a flock of gullies. Tenacious birdies, them.

Once we make it to the door, he offers me entry in a show of deference with his head bowed, but I scoff. “Just go. How many times do I have to tell you not to insult me with that pomp and dramatic flair?”

He grins—again!—and steps inside. I can’t help but stare daggers at his back as I follow through. Inside, he weaves his way around the furniture.

“A bit more crowded in here than last month—” I step on something spiky and sharp, the edge painful even through my boot. “Ow!”

“Ah, apologies.” He hastily kicks the pile of building toys out of sight under the table. “My youngest has begun his theoretical rune construction.”

Despite its grandiose-sounding name, theoretical rune construction is nothing more than a basic game used to test for latent potential in children by those hoping for an elementalist. Even a very weak one would be a great boon to a small village like this, though the chances of them having a second within the same generation is low.

I smile and follow Abuza into his ‘office’, the cramped back room where he stores each month's request reeds—and just about everything else.

The place is as decorative as always, lit by bobbles containing greenflame I never feel magic from. Abuza’s eclectic collection of Technocratic pew-pews and slashy-slashes are all meticulously shined, shimmering, and way too gaudy for my tastes.

If they were any less effective at harvesting and hunting, I’d throw a fit. But the Unruned needed all the help they could get.

"Hunters have been having a harder and harder time finding anything with sufficient strength to hunt," Abuza tells me. "We're a little below quota as a result, but I can offer you an extra crate of copper wire to make up for the lack. I know it's not the same, but…"

I nod, accepting the exchange.

He's giving me a better deal than he should, copper wire for runemaking is nothing like its mundane counterpart. It requires a master craftsman working with enhanced flame to purify it to the required clarity and exacting alloys.

Even if we do mainly use it as practice material on short-lived items, basically runic enchantment scrap paper, that doesn't minimize the effort that goes into creating in the first place. Compared to that, a couple monster corpses, even advanced ones, are relatively cheap.

"Please try to fill the order by next month," I tell him. "Your replacement is generous, but we do need the materials."

He nods vigorously, eagerly. "Of course. Of course, we will, we were already working on increasing our range and I've been recruiting for a second hunting team. I'm certain we’ll have it ready for you next month as promised."

I scan through the reeds he's handed me, running a finger down the notches to verify the quantities depicted. One number gives me pause. I raise an eyebrow. "Silvermane? I wasn't expecting that until the dead of summer."

"Yes! We found an untouched grove of it. It's a little past season, but you said any quality would suffice."

"Indeed, I did." Smiling, I hand him back the reeds. "I'm satisfied. Is there anything else your people need from me today?"

He hesitates, as though not wanting to impose, but I can tell he does want to ask something.

I don't prompt him though. If he can't summon the courage to ask, I'm not going to make it easy for him. The silence grows.

"There have been,” he looks around, leans forward, and whispers, “raids."