The forge flickered.
The void remained still.
The Heartroot, unmoving.
And Argolaith… worked.
He no longer asked how many years had passed. What had once felt like eternity now moved like breath—slow, quiet, necessary.
He could not wield magic.
Not yet.
Not until his five trees completed his transformation.
But he could shape runes.
And over time, those runes became his language—his hammer and chisel, his fire and clay.
He etched them into stone, into thread, into concepts not meant for symbols.
He combined emotion with form, creating runic sequences that others would never dare.
He made a language of intent—runes that only activated when a user truly needed them.
And even though none of it passed the trial…
It was no longer failure.
It was refinement.
One day—if days could still be counted—he created a scroll of shimmering voidleaf bark. Upon it, he etched a set of runes that had never existed before.
The runes could not be read.
They weren't meant to be.
