The spirit hovered in silence, observing the mortal realm with a presence both ancient and inscrutable. It had watched countless humans crush stones with their fists—some driven by desperation, others by defiance—yet never had it seen four destinies ignite simultaneously. These four were different. Their stones had cracked, but something far deeper had fractured within them.
The Squire (Kingdom)
The courtyard was eerily quiet, save for the steady whistle of a wooden sword slicing through the air. Elric stood at the center, sweat streaming down his brow, soaking his tunic. Behind him, a ghostly wolf flickered like fog in candlelight, mirroring every movement with a restless energy.
"Focus," Elric muttered through clenched teeth. "Match me."
The spirit wolf twisted oddly, lunging ahead of him and knocking over a training dummy with a spectral paw. Elric lunged forward, trying to correct his stance, but the phantom dog was unpredictable—an unruly shadow that refused discipline.
"Again," he snapped, frustration flickering in his eyes.
From the steps above, a few knights chuckled softly, their voices carrying a teasing tone.
"Squire's talking to himself again," one murmured.
"Should've crushed a real sword, not a dog bone," another added with a snicker.
Elric clenched his jaw, lowering his stance, trying to steady himself. The wolf flickered out completely, vanishing into nothingness. He stood alone amid the training ground, just another squire with a phantom that wouldn't obey—his own doubts echoing louder than the spirit's guidance.
The Gangblade (Raiders)
The sun had long set over the smog-choked bay, casting a pall over Kaela's camp nestled within the ruins of an abandoned forge. Rusted anvils and shattered tools littered the floor, scars of bygone work and darker deeds. Rune-burn marks still etched their silent testimony into the cold stone walls.
She sat alone beside a dying embers, her gaze fixed on her trembling hand. Sparks of faint red lightning danced across her fingertips—hot and volatile when she lost focus, vanishing when she took a breath.
"Breathe," she whispered to herself, voice steady but strained.
Suddenly, a bottle shattered behind her, the sound sharp and unwelcome.
"You hiding that rune again, Kaela?" a gruff voice called out. Hyrd, the gang's third blade, emerged from the shadows, arms crossed. His tone was equal parts warning and challenge.
Kaela turned slowly, shoulders squared. Her eyes flickered with defiance. "Boss says you show us, or you leave. He ain't risking his crew on some half-baked rune flinch."
She rose, steadying herself, determination hardening her features. "Tell him I'll show him. When I'm ready."
The Bloodmarked (Barbarians)
Steam billowed off Gorun's broad shoulders as he stepped from the hot spring nestled deep within the icy crags of the north. His tribal scars, carved into flesh and bone, told stories of battles past. But the newest mark—a glowing crimson rune seared into his chest—was the most vivid of all, pulsating with a life of its own.
Two elders sat across a crackling firepit, their faces painted in soot and ash, eyes fixed on Gorun.
"The beast you fought left a scar," one elder said, voice gravelly.
Gorun's gaze was distant, memories flooding back—claws tearing through flesh, blood staining the snow, and a surge of raw strength that had erupted the moment the rune shattered in his hand.
"It was not your kill," the second elder added, voice stern. "You lost control."
Gorun grunted, a low sound of acknowledgment. It died. That is enough."
The elder leaned forward, voice heavy with warning. "No. You must learn control… or the beast will one day be you."
Gorun's jaw tightened. He said nothing, but the weight of their words pressed down on him.
The Rune Student (Undercroft)
Lysa knelt in a shallow pool of ink-black water, the flickering glow of rune candles casting shifting shadows on the cavern walls of the Undercroft. Ancient script pulsed with dormant power, whispering secrets only she dared to hear. Her mentor, Maeroth, watched silently from a stone archway, his expression unreadable.
Behind her, a rune burned inside her—the first time it had done so, not on her hand or skin, but within her mind. A searing sensation that left her dizzy and cold.
She muttered a word—Veshtalar—and a floating symbol appeared above her palm, shimmering with promise. But then, the rune flickered, bleeding red like a wound, then shattered into fragments of light.
A gasp escaped her lips as blood trickled from her nose, pain stabbing through her skull.
Maeroth stepped forward, placing a black cloth over her shoulders. His voice was calm but cautious. "You reached too far. Unstable stones do not like being touched."
"I wasn't reaching," she whispered hoarsely. "It reached first."
He studied her silently, then looked upward, concern flickering in his eyes. The spirit stirred—an ancient force awakening, carving pathways through flesh and mind. They were not ready. Not yet.
But war, relentless and unforgiving, would not wait for their readiness.
In that moment, beneath the silent watch of the spirit, four souls teetered on the brink of catastrophe, their powers tethered to cracks deep within. The weight of power pressed upon them—an unseen force that could just as easily shatter as forge. The spirit's silent judgment echoed: the world was about to change, and these four would bear the burden of its weight.