Feedback on a Prologue

[Argenti he/him]

So, I've been toying with a magic system and world for a while now, and I think I've reached the point where any further worldbuilding will only make the world worse. SO! I've started writing again. I'm open to feedback. Tenuously, it's named "Mishra of the Black Arcana" (name kinda sucks)

Spoiler

Get ready for a WALL of Proper nouns and Terms you don't understand.

Seven Years Ago, 553 Years After The Fall

          The air is cold against Taren’s face, as it often is along the Queen’s Path. Chaos rages beyond the path, wild Essences- magic gone mad, consumed by the Turning of the Wheel.
          The rune-stones flare bright as a molten river of Sankta, the Essence of Motion, pours against the wards. Crimson light seethes in a violent spray, screaming into the air, before sizzling into nothing against the brilliant wards. Touching even a drop would flense the flesh from a man’s bones in seconds.
    Taren doesn’t flinch.
          He’d been along the Path for a month now, following the caravan through Daemon Gate after Daemon Gate as it traveled to some foreign land. The mercenary’s contract never mentioned where the caravan was going. No matter. It’s not important to the mission.
The Turning is getting worse, murmurs Korvax, Taren’s bound Daemon, sitting astride his shoulder in the form of a crow so dark he’s like a hole in the air. 
          “It will get worse still,” he signs in return, his mouth unmoving. He mustn’t speak. Not when he’s so close to the Caravan.
This particular Daemon Gate was ancient- decrepit, frankly. It led to an Echo of Violence, the fading remnants of an ancient battle harnessed by the Empire before its fall. The corpses are still there, thousands of years later, and the Arcanas invoked still crackle through those blasted grounds.
          As Taren walks, a series of shapes begins to emerge on the horizon. The caravan.   
          He pulls out a rowan knife scorched black by a forge flame. Heat pours from the blade, crackling against the air.
I’ve always hated that knife, hisses his crow.
          As he approaches the caravan, he begins to draw in a flood of Essence: Rent, Zelva, Kanda, and Sankta. His disguise sloughs off, base enchantments of Dera annihilated by the forces flowing through him. His feet become a blur, each step covering far more ground than it should.
          On the caravan, an alarm goes off, as the forces being unleashed draw the attention of its own wards. Steel is freed, and Essences are drawn and held. Taren holds the knife over a rune stone, stretching high into the sky, opens his mouth, and speaks. Energy rips from him, into his knife, and into the rune stone it lies lodged within.
One moment of stillness.
Then all the noise at once.
          Glittering shards of power fall from the sky as the ward flickers and fails. The violent magic from beyond the path comes roaring in, shredding the Magi who drew in the energies of this place first.   The Essences avoid Taren and his knife, rivers of lightning arching around him, repulsed by him like oil and water. 
          Taren’s voice booms like thunder, echoing through the broken sky, his daemon growing into a vast darkness. He surges forward, forming a blade of grey stone before clashing against steel. 
          The blade shrinks, slipping under the guard of the soldier, before digging into his throat. Blood splatters, before boiling into nothing.
Taren continues, always moving, his blade cutting through air, flesh, and magic. Korvax’s darkness consumes all it touches, leaving holes in the blasted ground. The guards of the caravan do not scream when they die. There’s not enough left to do so. 
          Taren arrives at a point of stillness- one cart seemingly untouched, surrounded as it is by an oppressive aura of Rent, the raging Essences that ravage the rest of the Caravan dare not approach. This is what he came here for.
          Taren opens the door to the padded interior of the cart, where a young boy, of an age no more than eight, sits huddled in the corner. Upon that pitiful sight, his expression softens; he’s always had a weak spot for kids. That boy is the source of the aura of Rent, but he is not Taren came for. Besides him lay a bottle full of colored mist, churning violet and cyan. That, however, is. 
          Picking up the bottle and holding it to the light, Taren sees a thousand shifting forms. It’s an Essence, yes, but not of any variety he’s ever seen. And he’s seen a lot. He slips it into a pouch on his back. His  Now, for the boy.
           “KORAX,” He demands, his voice chiming like struck iron. The cart shudders as a rush of pressure and a far-off peal of thunder fill the air; the Daemon is plucked from his game of delight back into a form that better serves his master’s designs. The crow appears, rebuked, before sighing into the Mercenary’s mind.
I wish you didn’t do that.
          “Purge his mind,” Taren signs. “Enough blood is shed, but we may not allow this to escape.” His posture reads as a quiet menace, cold and unyielding. The crow flies over to the boy, transforming back into its vast darkness. It envelopes the boy, a gentle sort of nothing, and grants him oblivion. 
          The crow flows off his sleeping form, standing aside. It appears interesting, as Taren releases the Essences he’s been holding- save one, Kanda, the Essence of Distance.
          Taren carries the boy out of the cart and looks up at the stars. He draws from them, weaving a net over the boy’s soul, not Kanda, but something of its kind. The boy’s aura subsides, the maelstrom inside him growing calm, cut off from its source.
“That will have to do.”
And it will, until he releases it himself. An Arcana formed of an Outer Essence is not so easily undone.
          Taren rises to his feet, tired from the display. The storm around them seems to sense this and begins to creep inwards, scarlet lighting flashing against the clouds. He lifts a solemn hand and cuts the air, burrowing through the layers of unreality, back to Ard. He throws the boy over his shoulder and steps through. 
          On the other side of that gate, he meets a friend and leaves the boy in the hands of one far more suited to child rearing than he.

Edited March 21 by Argenti

[Ink and Embers Any pronouns]

6 hours ago, Argenti said:

So, I've been toying with a magic system and world for a while now, and I think I've reached the point where any further worldbuilding will only make the world worse. SO! I've started writing again. I'm open to feedback. Tenuously, it's named "Mishra of the Black Arcana" (name kinda sucks)

  Hide contents

Get ready for a WALL of Proper nouns and Terms you don't understand.

Seven Years Ago, 553 Years After The Fall

          The air is cold against Taren’s face, as it often is along the Queen’s Path. Chaos rages beyond the path, wild Essences- magic gone mad, consumed by the Turning of the Wheel.
          The rune-stones flare bright as a molten river of Sankta, the Essence of Motion, pours against the wards. Crimson light seethes in a violent spray, screaming into the air, before sizzling into nothing against the brilliant wards. Touching even a drop would flense the flesh from a man’s bones in seconds.
    Taren doesn’t flinch.
          He’d been along the Path for a month now, following the caravan through Daemon Gate after Daemon Gate as it traveled to some foreign land. The mercenary’s contract never mentioned where the caravan was going. No matter. It’s not important to the mission.
The Turning is getting worse, murmurs Korvax, Taren’s bound Daemon, sitting astride his shoulder in the form of a crow so dark he’s like a hole in the air. 
          “It will get worse still,” he signs in return, his mouth unmoving. He mustn’t speak. Not when he’s so close to the Caravan.
This particular Daemon Gate was ancient- decrepit, frankly. It led to an Echo of Violence, the fading remnants of an ancient battle harnessed by the Empire before its fall. The corpses are still there, thousands of years later, and the Arcanas invoked still crackle through those blasted grounds.
          As Taren walks, a series of shapes begins to emerge on the horizon. The caravan.   
          He pulls out a rowan knife scorched black by a forge flame. Heat pours from the blade, crackling against the air.
I’ve always hated that knife, hisses his crow.
          As he approaches the caravan, he begins to draw in a flood of Essence: Rent, Zelva, Kanda, and Sankta. His disguise sloughs off, base enchantments of Dera annihilated by the forces flowing through him. His feet become a blur, each step covering far more ground than it should.
          On the caravan, an alarm goes off, as the forces being unleashed draw the attention of its own wards. Steel is freed, and Essences are drawn and held. Taren holds the knife over a rune stone, stretching high into the sky, opens his mouth, and speaks. Energy rips from him, into his knife, and into the rune stone it lies lodged within.
One moment of stillness.
Then all the noise at once.
          Glittering shards of power fall from the sky as the ward flickers and fails. The violent magic from beyond the path comes roaring in, shredding the Magi who drew in the energies of this place first.   The Essences avoid Taren and his knife, rivers of lightning arching around him, repulsed by him like oil and water. 
          Taren’s voice booms like thunder, echoing through the broken sky, his daemon growing into a vast darkness. He surges forward, forming a blade of grey stone before clashing against steel. 
          The blade shrinks, slipping under the guard of the soldier, before digging into his throat. Blood splatters, before boiling into nothing.
Taren continues, always moving, his blade cutting through air, flesh, and magic. Korvax’s darkness consumes all it touches, leaving holes in the blasted ground. The guards of the caravan do not scream when they die. There’s not enough left to do so. 
          Taren arrives at a point of stillness- one cart seemingly untouched, surrounded as it is by an oppressive aura of Rent, the raging Essences that ravage the rest of the Caravan dare not approach. This is what he came here for.
          Taren opens the door to the padded interior of the cart, where a young boy, of an age no more than eight, sits huddled in the corner. Upon that pitiful sight, his expression softens; he’s always had a weak spot for kids. That boy is the source of the aura of Rent, but he is not Taren came for. Besides him lay a bottle full of colored mist, churning violet and cyan. That, however, is. 
          Picking up the bottle and holding it to the light, Taren sees a thousand shifting forms. It’s an Essence, yes, but not of any variety he’s ever seen. And he’s seen a lot. He slips it into a pouch on his back. His  Now, for the boy.
           “KORAX,” He demands, his voice chiming like struck iron. The cart shudders as a rush of pressure and a far-off peal of thunder fill the air; the Daemon is plucked from his game of delight back into a form that better serves his master’s designs. The crow appears, rebuked, before sighing into the Mercenary’s mind.
I wish you didn’t do that.
          “Purge his mind,” Taren signs. “Enough blood is shed, but we may not allow this to escape.” His posture reads as a quiet menace, cold and unyielding. The crow flies over to the boy, transforming back into its vast darkness. It envelopes the boy, a gentle sort of nothing, and grants him oblivion. 
          The crow flows off his sleeping form, standing aside. It appears interesting, as Taren releases the Essences he’s been holding- save one, Kanda, the Essence of Distance.
          Taren carries the boy out of the cart and looks up at the stars. He draws from them, weaving a net over the boy’s soul, not Kanda, but something of its kind. The boy’s aura subsides, the maelstrom inside him growing calm, cut off from its source.
“That will have to do.”
And it will, until he releases it himself. An Arcana formed of an Outer Essence is not so easily undone.
          Taren rises to his feet, tired from the display. The storm around them seems to sense this and begins to creep inwards, scarlet lighting flashing against the clouds. He lifts a solemn hand and cuts the air, burrowing through the layers of unreality, back to Ard. He throws the boy over his shoulder and steps through. 
          On the other side of that gate, he meets a friend and leaves the boy in the hands of one far more suited to child rearing than he.

Awesome!! The magic system seems interesting so far, and I'm interested how Korax ties into it. Was the runestone preventing the wild Essences destroying everything? That was vaguely the impression I got. The Turning of the Wheel sounds a little like the Wheel of Time. Taren appears to have an interesting moral compass! It's cool!!!!!

[Argenti he/him]

3 hours ago, Through the Living Ink said:

Awesome!! The magic system seems interesting so far, and I'm interested how Korax ties into it. Was the runestone preventing the wild Essences destroying everything? That was vaguely the impression I got. The Turning of the Wheel sounds a little like the Wheel of Time. Taren appears to have an interesting moral compass! It's cool!!!!!

Korax is.... it will be revealed. Yes, it was!

Spoiler

Wheel of Time and Malazahan are big influences

 

[Argenti he/him]

I've added a couple of details upon re- reading. The real one now says the runestones line the path, The chill in the air vanishes when the runestone is broken, but re appears when they approach the cart.