Runes of War

Magic isn’t born. It’s Carved. You take a knife. You cut a rune into your palm and speak it aloud. The world obeys. Fire comes. Walls rise. The dead stand. Then the world takes back. Every rune costs years. Not effort. Not mana. “LIGHT” a candle costs a day. “SHIELD” for one arrow costs a month. “HEAL” a fever costs a year. “BREAK” a fortress costs ten. You feel it go. Not pain. Empty. Like a tooth pulled from your future. You turn 20 and wake up 25. Your daughter turns 5 and you forget teaching her to walk. The Carve takes the years you haven’t lived yet. So Scribes die young. No one retires. You either stop Carving, or you Carve until there’s nothing left to take. Most are ash by thirty. That’s the first price. The second price is Valhalla. The Choir tells you Valhalla is paradise. A hall for brave Scribes who spent themselves for others. Mead. Songs. Your ancestors waiting. The Choir lies. Valhalla is real. It sits on Mount Vael, above the altitude where air thins and mercy stops. A hall a mile long. No doors. No fire. The walls are slate. The floor is ash. And the Scribes are still Carving. Death doesn’t forgive your Carvings. It refinances them. Every rune you didn’t pay off in life, you pay in Valhalla. With interest. You don’t sit. You don’t feast. You stand waist-deep in the wall, arms out, fingers bleeding. You Carve your last rune over and over. The same word. Forever. Because the world kept the debt. You don’t scream. Screaming takes breath. Carving takes everything. The only sound in Valhalla is skritch. Ten thousand fingernails on slate. Like a chalkboard the size of a cathedral. You age there, but you don’t die. A boy who Carved “FIRE” at 15 has been there 300 years. He looks like leather stretched over sticks. His hands still move. Fingernails grow back in seconds, just to be worn down again. The young ones are worst. Linchpins. Children born able to Carve the rune Ø. They don’t get the walls. They get the floor. Other Scribes use them as slate. Because Ø isn’t a normal rune. Ø doesn’t Carve things. Ø Carves reality. Ø ends magic. Ø closes Valhalla. Ø lets the dead rest. That’s why the Choir kills Linchpins at seven. That’s why magic is horror. Because there are three endings for every Scribe: Stop Carving. Watch the people you love die while you live, useless. Carve until you die. Wake up in Valhalla, and Carve again. Forever. Carve Ø. Murder the one person you lived for, and pray it was worth it. There is no fourth option. The slate is on the table. The knife is in your hand. What word are you going to Carve? What to expect: >No litRPG. No levels. No stats. Just blood, debt and consequence  >No romance. No Harems > Dark Fantasy Tragedy > Graphic Violence >Traumatising content >Slow burn, character-driven.  What not to expect: >Happy endings >Heroes Author note: I wrote this for my cousin, posting it for fun. Weakly updates when I have time.  Update: The second half of the book will resume in August (Date TBD). I won’t have time to upload weekly due to schoolwork and life. In the meantime, I will be editing the current chapters to make them a better reading experience and lore efficient to the upcoming chapters. See you all in August!