The rune inscription. The lost language of magic. The power of symbols that did not need mana for activation. The strength of what a ninth-circle mage could pull off. Without a magic core. Without mana. Without anything but the symbol itself. The power, the sheer overwhelming power of that ability, was staggering. With it, he could inscribe ninth-circle magic on a common soldier. Grant them the power to destroy cities. Create an army of ninth-circle mages without a single one of them having a magic core.
The realization made him breathe. Deep. Shaking. He needed a moment.
He hugged her. Not sexually. Gratefully. His arms wrapped around her body. Her skin, warm and smooth, pressed against his. Her heart was beating. He could hear it. She was alive and she was his, and she had just given him the answer he needed.
