My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 685 - 685: Rune Masters, Spiritual Bond

Eira tilted her head, considering how much of a lesson he actually wanted. Decided, since he had asked, to give him the entire bowl — and perhaps the spoon as well.

“The Original Tongue is what existence itself was speaking before anything else had been invented,” she said. “Before the current cosmic beings chopped reality up into their little regional dialects. Before gods had names or even stumble upon the concepts of writing, names and reading and decided to monopolise it for their own amusement.

“At the beginning — which, to be clear, Master, is a very long time ago, I mean beginning-beginning — there was only the one language, and that language was real in a way your modern tongues are not. To speak it was to shape. To name a thing in the Original Tongue was to define the thing. To write a word of it onto the surface of an object was to tell the object what it now was.”

“So — creation by speech.”

“Creation by accurate speech. Emphasis on the word accurate. A careless use of it wrote careless things into the world, which is partly why most of the original speakers are no longer with us. The universe has a feedback loop. Misuse the Tongue, and the Tongue misuses you.”

“Dark.”

“Old things are dark, Master.”

She continued, warming to the topic the way she warmed to most topics — all the way, instantly, with no gradient whatsoever.

“At some point in the long distant past, it became clear that speaking the Tongue was dangerous and that written applications were considerably safer — more contained.

“A single spoken word reshapes the air for miles. A single word inscribed only reshapes the object it is inscribed upon. So, the Rune Masters were born. Scribes who specialised in etching single words or short phrases of the Original Tongue onto physical objects or even harness the runes as their sources of power.

“The runes fix the inscription in place. The object takes on the property the word describes. A sword with the rune for Piercing written correctly into the blade becomes three or four times the sword it was before. Inscribe the rune for Flame and the sword now also burns. Stack them, layer them properly, and you can produce a weapon that sings through armour and sets the wearer on fire with a single swing. That is the simple way to explain what the Rune Masters do. That’s why every realm protect Rune Masters like ancient treasures.”

“Every realm has them?”

“Every realm that survived contact with anything stronger than goats, yes. Rune Masters are cosmic-tier craftsmen. Guarded. Courted. Fought over. Gods, Immortals, Primordial, Realms, Empires and kingdoms have gone to war for the custody of a single good Rune Master.

“And now —”

“And now,” Eira said, tapping the little ring in his palm with one tiny finger, “the Original Tongue is basically only used for runes. Nobody speaks it anymore. Or rather — almost nobody. The last I was aware of put the speakers at roughly point-oh-oh-four percent of existence.

“That includes some old immortals, old gods, demons, ancient primordials, progenitors, and a few odd hermits who went very deep into very quiet mountains and haven’t come out for reasons that are between them and the mountains.

“Even the current generation of Rune Masters, Master, are largely technicians. They know how to copy a rune correctly. They know how to charge it properly. They cannot, as a rule, speak the language they are inscribing.”

“So, the writers don’t speak what they write.”

“Correct. They’re like monks copying a holy book they can’t read. Which is why — ” her eyes flicked back to the ring ” — I perked up when I recognised those runes. Someone who speaks it actually wrote this. Not someone who copied it. And someone who speaks it does not waste their time inscribing small rings.”

Phei turned the ring once more in his fingers… by her last sentence, it meant it was really strong or it had levels he’d have to discover slowly.

‘Fascinating.’

He had known about runes, of course. Every webnovel reader worthy their salt knew about runes at the level one knew about medieval heraldry or the names of the constellations — yes, those are things, yes they exist in fantasy, writers take them seriously, moving on.

But hearing about their actual origin story, and the buried geology of power underneath the aesthetic, landed differently.

Like discovering that the pretty patterns on ancient pottery had once been capable of ending the world.

“Appreciate the lecture, professor,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving with lazy amusement.

“Anytime, Master.”

He turned his attention back to the System and asked, politely, for the rest.

The System obliged with the smooth efficiency of a servant who had been waiting for precisely this cue.

[ITEM — SPIRITUAL BOND]

[An artefact capable of linking its wearer to a bonded individual. The wearer, once attuned, will at all times know:

•The precise location of the bonded individual, at any distance and across any standard obstruction.]

•The bonded individual’s general state of wellbeing.]

•An immediate, alert the moment the bonded individual enters a state of genuine danger — physical, magical, or otherwise threatening their life or integrity.]

[Note: The Spiritual Bond confers awareness, not action. Should the bonded individual be in danger, the wearer will know — but the wearer must personally travel to their aid. The bond does not teleport, translocate, or otherwise close distance. It illuminates. It does not intervene.]

[Attunement is permanent and singular. Once attuned, the bond cannot be removed from the bonded individual without destruction of the artefact.]

Phei read it twice.

‘Oh.’

That was, in fact, extraordinary. That was not a trinket. That was a leash in the most literal, most ancient, most beautifully warm-blooded sense of the word — not a leash to control someone, but a leash to find them, anywhere in existence, the second they were ever in danger or missing.

To protect them, not to leash them.

He knew, already, several women he could picture wearing this.

He filed the full decision for later. Now was not the hour for bestowals.

Now was the hour for work.

He slipped the ring into the inner pocket of his jacket, which was still draped across the couch where he had thrown it, and leaned back into the cushions.

‘What’s next.’

He had not quite finished the thought when the bathroom door opened.

Steam came first.

Then Cassiopeia.

She stepped into the living room barefoot, her dark hair wet and piled loosely atop her head in a knot held in place by what looked like a single, determined chopstick.

The hotel’s white silk robe hung on her shoulders like it had long since given up trying to do its job and was now simply decorating her — belt were loose and the lapels pulled wide enough that the dramatic shadow of her cleavage was plainly visible, hem falling exactly high enough on her thick thighs to suggest that if she turned too quickly, the robe would stop pretending to cover what it was pretending to cover.

She had, underneath — he could see very clearly — not a single thing.

Droplets of water still sat along her collarbones, catching the warm lamplight. A slow trickle was making its way down from the hollow of her throat toward the deeper dark between her heavy breasts, and she was not moving fast enough to outrun it.

She was glowing. Fresh skin, fresh heat, faint pink high on her cheekbones — she had stood a little too long under hot water while thinking about the man in the next room, and the flush said it plainly.

She was holding her phone in one hand.

Her eyes met his the moment she crossed the threshold.

And then — instead of coming to him the way he could feel her body wanting to — she simply turned the phone around and held the screen toward him.

(Incoming call.

The name on the screen:

(Harold.)

Phei’s head tilted slightly.

Cassiopeia arched one dark eyebrow.

Told you they’d check in.

He pictured the scene on the other end of that call with speed and accuracy — he had a very good general understanding of things now. Harold Maxton, sitting in his study somewhere in Paradise, was not calling her alone. Harold never placed a call of this particular nature without an audience. Which meant, almost certainly:

Danton would be there.

Cassiopeia’s father — Harold’s own father — would be there.

Possibly one or two other core conspirators, depending on how nervous the family had gotten in the last twelve hours.

This was going to be a performance.

And on the other end of the line, three men were about to be very carefully, very politely, very thoroughly talked to.

Phei’s slow grin spread across his face like warm honey over a blade.