As I walk into the cave where I have spent so many hours preparing, I contemplate 
the act of genocide. 

The word sprouts from roots meaning "relation" and "murder". Its derived meaning 
can perhaps best be described as "killing a family"; its present meaning as 
"killing a race". When applied to humans, it is considered the highest crime of 
which a human is capable; when applied to other species, it is merely considered 
a catastrophe of unforgivable proportions. 

Almost idly, I wonder which I will be guilty of. 

I kneel down before the fire in the center of the cave. I won't need to carve 
anything more now; all my preparations are in place. The runes form a cascade 
array of which my Gladstein associates would be proud, could they understand 
them. The central circle will be powered by the fire itself, and will channel 
power to the next ring, and so forth. Eventually, the cascade will reach the 
walls, on which my most careful work has been completed. And from there.. 

Of course, I have known from the beginning of this plan that a powerful material 
will be needed. I raise my hand over the fire and inspect the scar on my wrist, 
then draw forth my penknife. 

There is an artistic concept known as "negative space". The fundament of it is 
that when one draws an image in ink on paper, one simultaneously draws another 
image in paper under ink. This is really nothing new; engraving, inscription, and 
bas-relief all rely on the principle of using emptiness as an ink. I cannot 
imagine that it is regularly executed on this sort of scale, however. 

As the first drop enters the flames, I feel the runes beneath my knees begin to 
live. Within moments, they pulse with energy. This will be the hardest part of 
the ritual: before the full effects of the arrangement have begun, I must wait 
calmly and remain focused while my life's blood pours into the fire before me. 

In moments, I hear the dull grinding of the tunnel through which I entered as it 
shifts into the form prescribed for it on the wall. This is good. It means that, 
at least in part, my runes are functioning correctly. After a few seconds, it is 
no longer connected to this room, and I am left to my thoughts. 

I suppose I'll never know who painted the diagrams on this cave. They seemed to 
be ancient, with a mild flaking typical of a mixed herbal-mineral dye. It doesn't 
really matter, as long as they work. Nobody will read them again, anyway; they've 
been erased at their own direction. 

By now, the change should be past the nodes and well on its way to the terminus. 
Hopefully my design will have the desired effect; creating it was the most 
difficult part of this process. Runes of this size have been built, but never in 
three dimensions. 

I suddenly feel it when the rune finishes shaping itself; the power it channels 
is more than I had imagined possible. I am dimly aware that my eyes hurt from the 
light, that my bloodflow shows no sign of stopping, that the fire is consuming 
the room's oxygen, but I have more important things to worry about. My mind 
reaches out.. back.. touching the world which is, for better or worse, my home. 
Methodically, I set to work. 

There are more of them than I had hoped and fewer than I had feared. They stand 
out like flares or like voids, depending on how I look at them. One by one, I 
reach out and touch them, stilling their immortal hearts, until none shall walk 
my home again. 

..but one is missing. And as I become aware of this, I become aware of something 
else; a drain on the power of the Rune, which suddenly seems smaller and more 
fragile than anything carved from a living mountain should be. And down there, 
the stupid fools are rejoicing at whatever is drinking from my power.. idiots! 
What do they think they're doing? 

And then it's too late even to warn them, as I see the fire go out and realize 
its significance.