The forge he built floated in the void, anchored by thought and memory. Tools forged from starlight and stone hovered around him, each glowing with the remnants of trials past. The Heartroot loomed nearby, vast and silent, a titan of bark and space watching without judgment.
Argolaith had begun.
And he would not stop.
The first hundred years of the second trial were filled with brilliance.
He created new runes—sigils that harmonized with music, that activated through breath, that responded to a person's intent rather than speech. He carved them into enchanted plates, wove them into illusions, embedded them into ancient alloys he smelted himself from elements collected during his long walk between worlds.
They lit up the void with patterns and pulses that would have made any other realm fall silent in awe.
But when he held up his creations, the Heartroot did not stir.
Not in rejection.
Not in approval.
Because others had already walked this road before.
