The days following his discovery were entirely devoted to understanding and mastering magical runes. Mordred, now aware of the paramount importance of these symbols, had retreated to a remote cell in the underground prison that he had methodically transformed into an improvised laboratory. The cold stone walls, once silent witnesses to prisoners’ suffering, were now covered with complex diagrams, tangled calculations, and hastily drawn runic schemes.
The confined air of the cell now carried a persistent odor of burnt mana and stone dust. In one corner, charred fragments bore witness to the numerous explosions that had punctuated his experiments. Every available surface was covered with scribbled parchments, rough measurements, and half-formulated theories.
Each rune he attempted to materialize with his mana demanded precision that bordered on absolute perfection. Mordred had learned this the hard way: rune magic was not simply a matter of geometric form, but above all a delicate alchemy between quantity, density, and mana flow. Too little magical energy and the rune would remain inactive, a simple soulless drawing etched in the air. Too much mana, and it risked exploding with devastating violence, releasing destructive energy as unpredictable as it was deadly.
Sitting in a meditation position facing a carefully cleared section of wall, Mordred inhaled slowly, drawing upon the concentration techniques he had perfected over the years. The silence of the prison was broken only by the regular drip-drop of moisture flowing from the stone vaults. He closed his eyes, visualizing with surgical precision the exact form of a concealment rune he had studied at length in ancient manuscripts.
The rune appeared in his mind with crystalline clarity: three intertwined curves forming a complex pattern, each stroke bearing precise symbolic meaning. Mentally, he calculated the amount of mana he estimated necessary, basing his calculation on his meticulous notes from previous attempts. Slowly, methodically, he concentrated his magical energy in his right hand, feeling the familiar warmth of power accumulating in his palm.
With a fluid and controlled gesture, he began tracing the rune in the air, releasing a thin stream of mana that crystallized into luminous lines. The first arc formed perfectly, pulsing with a stable silver glow. The second followed, harmoniously intertwining with the first. But at the moment of completing the third stroke, Mordred felt the familiar resistance, that critical point where balance tipped toward chaos.
He imperceptibly increased the mana flow, but as soon as he had finished the rune, an icy sensation ran down his spine. The magical form suddenly seemed unstable, pulsing erratically, as if overcharged with energy it could not contain. The luminous lines flickered, shifting from silver to blood red, harbinger of an imminent explosion.
Mordred instinctively stepped back, his reflexes sharpened by weeks of similar accidents, but the accumulated energy was already seeking its release. A brutal blast tore through the confined air of the cell, hurling stone fragments torn from the wall and raising a cloud of acrid dust that burned his lungs.
The shock of the blast wave violently threw him against the opposite wall. Mordred hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breathless, sharp pain radiating along his back. He instinctively brought his hand to his face, feeling the warm liquid slowly flowing down his left cheek. His fingers stained with dark red that contrasted cruelly with the pallor of his skin.
Livia’s voice tore through the dusty silence, charged with panic he had never heard from her before. The sound of her hurried steps echoed in the stone corridor, approaching dangerously. A few seconds later, she burst into the cell, her hair disheveled and her face marked with concern so intense it was almost painful to observe.
Her eyes quickly swept the scene of devastation: the scattered debris, the suspended dust, and especially Mordred leaning against the wall, blood staining his face. Her expression shifted from worry to pure terror, then to protective anger that surprised the young man.
- "I’m fine," he tried to reassure her in a voice weaker than he would have liked, painfully raising himself on his elbows.
But Livia was no longer listening, her protective instincts having taken precedence over all logic. She rushed toward him with urgency that betrayed the intensity of her feelings, quickly kneeling at his side. Without the slightest hesitation, she gently cupped his face between her trembling hands, examining him with meticulous attention that deeply troubled him.
- "You are absolutely in no condition to tell me you’re okay!" she exclaimed, her voice oscillating between anger and devouring concern. "Look at yourself! You’re bleeding, you’re trembling, and that explosion could have killed you!"
Mordred, destabilized by this demonstration of such direct affection, clumsily tried to push away Livia’s hands, embarrassed by this unusual attention that awakened emotions he preferred to keep buried.
- "Livia, it’s really nothing, just a small superficial wound..." he insisted weakly, but his words lacked conviction.
She pushed his hands away with authority he didn’t know she possessed, categorically refusing to let him minimize the situation. Her fingers delicately explored the contours of the wound, checking that no stone fragments remained embedded in the flesh.
- "Stop moving, you stubborn idiot!" she ordered in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "You could have been disfigured, or worse! Don’t you realize the risks you’re taking?"
Livia’s unusual vehemence nailed Mordred in place. Never had he seen her in such a state, so passionately concerned, so fiercely protective. The contact of her soft, warm fingers against his bruised skin awakened a deep and unexpected turmoil within him.
- "Livia..." he said.
Livia suddenly froze, as if struck by lightning. She brutally realized the intimate nature of her gesture and the emotional intensity she had just revealed. Her face flushed violently, a redness that spread from her cheeks to the base of her neck. Her hands began to tremble imperceptibly as she hurriedly moved away, mortified by her own audacity.
- "I... Forgive me," she stammered quickly, averting her eyes as if looking at Mordred had become physically painful. "I didn’t mean to... I got carried away. It wasn’t proper of me."
A heavy silence charged with electricity settled between them, each struggling against the magnetic attraction that seemed to push them toward each other while simultaneously terrifying them. The air in the cell suddenly seemed denser, heavier with unexpressed possibilities.
Mordred discreetly observed Livia’s profile, noting the way her hands twisted nervously and how she carefully avoided meeting his gaze.
Finally, a light and authentic smile slowly formed on Mordred’s lips, despite the throbbing pain of his wound that cruelly reminded him of his condition.
- "You know," he said in a soft, almost contemplative voice, "I think I rather appreciate this protective facet of your personality. It’s... refreshing to see someone care so much about my well-being."
Livia slowly turned toward him, her cheeks still flushed but her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement, relief, and affection she no longer really tried to hide.
- "In that case," she replied with a mischievous smile that gradually chased away her embarrassment, "carefully avoid making other runes explode, and you won’t have to endure my worried sermons!"
They exchanged a knowing look, imbued with a new and fragile complicity.
But Mordred, true to his analytical nature, quickly regained composure, turning his attention back to the runes carved on the walls of his cell-laboratory. His determination to master this capricious magic remained unshakeable, despite the obvious risks.
- "I absolutely must understand the exact nature of my errors," he murmured, more to organize his thoughts than to inform Livia. "Each rune requires dosing with surgical precision. The slightest deviation, even infinitesimal, causes catastrophic imbalance that can prove deadly."
Livia nodded gently, gracefully settling beside him on the cold stone floor, tacitly accepting to share his obsession.
- "Explain your methodology to me exactly," she suggested in an encouraging voice. "Sometimes verbalizing a process reveals flaws that aren’t perceived mentally."
Mordred sighed slightly, grateful for this offer of intellectual collaboration.
- "My method is rigorous though," he explained with frustration. "I visualize each rune in the smallest details, memorizing every curve, every intersection, every proportion. Then I progressively inject mana to bring the symbol to life. But that’s where everything becomes chaotic: I can’t determine the exact amount of energy needed. It’s like trying to dose poison without a precision scale."
Livia frowned slightly, her analytical mind fully engaging with the problem.
- "Have you considered proceeding by methodical stages?" she suggested. "Systematically starting with a minimal quantity, then increasing by regular increments until reaching the activation threshold?"
Mordred nodded wearily.
- "That’s exactly what I’ve attempted," he admitted. "But there exists an extremely narrow critical threshold, almost cruel in its precision. Below it, nothing happens – the rune remains dead. Above it, explosion is guaranteed. And between the two, there’s a margin so fine it seems to defy any systematic approach."
He stood with determination, intensely staring at the wall covered with his calculations and observations, his rational mind refusing to accept defeat.
- "There must exist a reproducible method," he affirmed with conviction, "a sort of scientific protocol that would allow standardizing the process. Perhaps I should document each attempt with mathematical precision, measuring not only the quantity of mana but also its density, injection speed, ambient temperature, humidity..."
Livia’s eyes lit up with approval.
- "Now that’s a truly methodical approach!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "If you meticulously document each variable, each result, each anomaly, you’ll inevitably end up identifying the constants that govern this magical phenomenon."
Galvanized by this perspective, Mordred headed toward his improvised writing material stock. He seized several pieces of charcoal and a pile of recovered parchments, beginning to draw with application a complex table with multiple columns and variables.