How to weave a rune... ruin

Checking the picking slip, Samantha darted through the warehouse with the confidence of someone who knew every aisle by heart, plucking the fine weaves from the shelves with practiced ease. The plastic wrapping tended to stick, so if you weren’t careful, you’d end up grabbing doubles.

These enchanted weaves offered a dazzling array of transformations—from shifting hair colour to glittering nails, lifelike Halloween masks to temporary tattoos. There was likely a weave for anything you wanted to enhance, body-wise.

Just four inches long and two inches wide, each sheet of parchment held intricate threads of magic, capable of astonishing change.

Application was effortless: press the parchment to your skin, and body heat would activate the spell—voilà. Every weave was temporary, designed to fade within a day in strict compliance with national law.

The law was strict, suffocatingly so, and every weaver had to comply, or risk being magically restrained.

Naturally, the underground market flourished with illicit weaves—ones that promised unnatural permanence, meddled with a person’s essence, or caused unforeseen side effects.

In Chrysalis, though, the rules bent differently. Walled in and surrounded by mountains, the mini-city sat apart—technically under national law, but shaped by its own rhythms.

Its production of high-grade category A-weaves, all government-approved and marked with the official Weavers Inc. stamp of authenticity, represented the wealth of Chrysalis.

Samantha slapped a label on a box when Marion appeared in the doorway, peering down her nose as though she were royalty.

“Sam? Hurry to the Post Office—there’s a return I must assess today,” she said, tilting her head in that arrogant way that always made Sam want to scream—or drink.

“It’s four o’clock,” Sam huffed. “Can’t Carter collect it tomorrow?”

Carter, their driver, picked up all the parcels Sam packed daily and drove them to the Wexler’s Post Office. Sam, whose car was in for panel beating, would have to walk.

“No, it’s a malfunction, and I have to give Master Zafar a report today.”

Sam doubted that. This warehouse only sold category A-weaves to the public, and true malfunctions were rare—more often, the user ignored the instructions and peeled the parchment off too quickly, then had the nerve to demand a refund.

Marion worked for Quality Assurance and never missed a chance to throw her weight around—especially with Sam. She and Zelda hated Sam. You would think that these adolescent grudges would disappear over time, but they needled Sam every chance they got.

With a resigned sigh, she grabbed her cardigan and hurried out of the factory, heading up the hill toward the main gates.

Chrysalis lay nestled in a valley, and as Sam reached the gates, the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a golden glow that bathed the valley in a surreal, fairytale light—like the whole town had been lifted from an enchanted storybook.

She picked up her pace, half-running down the gravel path, ignoring the stones that sneaked into her trainers and reached the Post Office just before it closed.

Julia looked up as the bell tinkled. “Sam? What are you doing here?”

Since Sam had started working in the warehouse, they had gotten to know each other and often chatted.

“Apparently, there’s a return that’s super urgent?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Julia’s brows lifted. “Really? Nothing came in today.”

Sam shook her head in frustration, silently cursing herself for not calling Julia first.

“Meh, it’s Wednesday—and Karaoke night,” Julia said in a sing-song voice. “And Brad brought a case of whiskey sours, so you may as well enjoy the evening.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sam grinned, her mood lifting.

Wexler was more of a village than a town, having grown over the years from a sleepy hamlet. All deliveries for Chrysalis passed through here. Most of the locals were somehow connected to the valley city, but there were always a few who wanted nothing to do with Weavers. Or Weevils, as they liked to call them.

Julia locked up, and the two made their way to the bar. Between them, they drank far too much and shamelessly hogged the karaoke machine.

Leaning against the counter, drink in hand for what they dubbed an ABF—absolute bloody final—Sam’s ornate belt buckle caught on the bar’s lip. Her jeans sagged halfway down her hips.

“Classy,” she muttered, yanking them back up and fixing the belt.

Drink finished, she hugged Julia goodbye and stepped out into the crisp night. Just after eleven, the mountain air hit her like a bucket of ice.

“Good. I need to sober up,” she said aloud, pulling her cardigan tighter.

She’d walked this path plenty of times, though rarely this tipsy. Footsteps crunched over the gravel, the only sound aside from her breathing. Again, little stones managed to find their way into her slip-on sneakers, jabbing her soles with every step.

Cursing under her breath, she stopped to pull up her jeans and adjust her belt, only to discover the prong had snapped clean off.

“Oh, come on.”

Kicking off her shoes to shake out the pebbles, she jammed them back on. Gripping the waistband of her jeans with one hand, she trudged uphill, mumbling a string of creative curses all the way.

Reaching the gates, she skidded to a stop as the barrier activated.

Fuck.

Midnight. The thing reset with exacting precision, like Chrysalis was bracing for a siege. And without magic, or the appropriate weave, there was no getting through.

A surge of fury rose in her chest, instinctively fingering the Thaumite Stone in her navel—the claw-like shackle that kept her unstable magic locked away.

She’d have to call someone.

With one hand fumbling for her phone, the other hitching up her jeans, Sam stumbled tipsily—and her elbow grazed the swirling mist.

A shimmer pulsed across the barrier and yanked her in with terrifying force, thick and unnatural. She was swallowed whole, engulfed in a viscous substance that clung to her like wet tar. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Panic exploded through her.

She thrashed, frantic, but it held fast. Each breath drew in not air, but liquid—heavy, suffocating. Her lungs convulsed. Her mind screamed.

She cried out, but the sound vanished into the silence.

Memories flashed before her eyes—her father’s laughter, Bryce’s steady presence, even her mother’s bitter smile—flaring like sparks before the dark swallowed them whole.

Her chest clenched. Her vision dimmed.

This is it, she thought. This is how I die.

Then—a hand. Warm, strong, closed around her wrist and yanked hard.

She tumbled free, crashing to her knees. Air stabbed into her lungs as she gasped and coughed, clutching the earth like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Above her, a voice—velvety and dry as ash. “Hello, hellcat.”

Sam looked up—and her stomach dropped.

The obsidian cloak, flowing and edged in silver runes, hit her first. Then the sharp jawline, the too-long fringe shadowing dark eyes, and the ever-present smirk twisting his lips.

Merric.

She’d glimpsed him here and there, his black hair and height making him easy to spot. Now that he had completed his studies, he replaced Arcansage Felix at the hospital. Sam had avoided him like the plague.

Staggering to her feet, she jerked up her jeans.

“Don’t tell me the mighty Sage is doing gate duty now,” she snapped, breathless. The memory of that miserable day was as clear now as it was then.

“Occasionally,” he nodded, eyes trailing over her. “You do know how to make an entrance.”

Sam pursed her lips and stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Why didn’t you just deactivate the barrier?”

Arms folded, his gaze swept over her—loose jeans, wild hair, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, shirt clinging to her damp skin.

“It’s after midnight. Easier to yank you out.”

“What, you want a thank-you?” she asked, wobbling slightly.

His smirk deepened. “Who were you hoping to seduce on the way in?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward her waist. “Flashing that red lingerie.”

Her eyes dropped. Her jeans had sagged again.

Face burning, she yanked them up. “My belt buckle broke.”

“Sure,” he said. “And they forced whiskey down your throat, I assume?”

She didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Storming past him, she tripped on a loose stone and fell neatly into his arms, her nose picking up the cologne he always wore, and her mind instantly recalled the feel of his lips, although it had happened years ago.

Steadying herself, she shoved away without a word and stalked toward her apartment, refusing to look back or to analyze the feelings she had pushed so deep they would never see the light of day again.