The days that followed settled into a rhythm.
Morning mist off the lake.
Midday wind rolling down from the mountains.
Evenings gathered around fire and dirt and patient repetition.
The tribe learned.
Not evenly—but steadily.
Some of them grasped the symbols almost immediately. A young woman with sharp eyes and steady hands learned to carve clean lines into stone, her symbols crisp and confident. An older man struggled at first, tongue heavy around unfamiliar sounds, but his memory was strong—once something settled, it stayed.
Others lagged behind.
A boy who confused symbols constantly.
A hunter whose hands were skilled with spear and sling but clumsy with lines and curves.
A woman whose speech faltered whenever she was watched.
Aetherion noticed all of it.
And he adjusted.
He never scolded. Never rushed. When someone struggled, he changed how he taught rather than demanding they change themselves.
For the boy, he tied symbols to movement—drawing OROS while climbing a rock, HYDOR while wading into the lake.
For the hunter, he carved symbols into spear shafts and stone blades, letting repetition come through use rather than study.
For the woman, he sat beside her in silence, tracing symbols slowly until she copied them without realizing she was no longer afraid.
Learning stopped being a trial.
It became routine.
And routine became comfort.
Aetherion helped them build more than shelters.
He showed them how to place stones so wind wouldn't steal heat at night. How to angle entrances toward the morning sun. How to stack firewood so it stayed dry even after rain. He reinforced their structures subtly—barely a touch of magic here and there—so walls didn't collapse and roofs didn't sag.
Nothing divine.
Just… better.
He showed them how to mark paths with symbols carved into standing stones. How to mark ownership without conflict. How to record seasons—scratches on wood at first, then symbols that meant cold, rain, hunt, birth.
The camp changed.
Laughter came more easily. Children chased each other between shelters, drawing crude symbols in the dirt and proudly shouting half-correct words. Fires burned in steadier places. Tools were returned to the same spots each night.
It felt… lived in.
Homely.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the lake in copper and gold, the woman leader approached him. She held out a flat stone, its surface scratched with symbols—uneven, imperfect, but deliberate.
HYDOR.
PYR.
OROS.
HERE.
She pointed to the camp. Then to him.
Aetherion took the stone, running his thumb over the marks.
"They're learning," he said quietly—not to her, but to himself.
He handed the stone back and nodded once.
"Yes," he said aloud. "This is good."
The wind moved gently through the basin, carrying warmth rather than chill. The Firmament above remained calm, stars slow and patient, as if approving.
This place was no longer just a valley.
It was becoming a home.
And for the first time in a very long while, Aetherion allowed himself to think—
Maybe this will last.
----------------------------------------------------------
The roof went on at dawn.
Not with thunder or spectacle—just steady, deliberate work.
Aetherion stood atop the stone walls as the first light crested the mountains, laying the final slabs into place. Timber beams—cut, shaped, and treated over days—locked together with stone joints precise enough that they needed no mortar. Each piece settled as if relieved to finally belong somewhere.
When the last beam slid into its groove, the structure held.
No creak.
No shift.
No argument from gravity.
Aetherion rested his hands on his hips and exhaled.
"Finally."
He dropped down inside through the open skylight, landing lightly on the stone floor. The interior felt different immediately—contained, quiet, insulated from the wind without being cut off from it. Light spilled down through carefully placed apertures in the roof, angled to catch the sun at different times of day.
He walked the space slowly.
To the east wall: a long stone workbench, its surface etched with shallow channels for mana circulation.
To the north: shelving carved directly into the stone, already stocked with tools—stone knives, measuring cords, carved rods marked with symbols of weight and distance.
To the west: a recessed hearth, not for warmth but for controlled reactions, its smoke venting cleanly through a narrow chimney that doubled as a pressure release.
At the center: a circular inlay in the floor, subtle and precise, where the Firmament's influence bled through just enough to stabilize higher-order workings.
No wasted space.
No unnecessary ornament.
Functional. Honest.
He traced a finger along one of the floor sigils and felt the response—mana flowing smoothly, evenly, exactly as intended. The pocket-domain within the workshop synchronized perfectly with the greater Reality Marble overhead.
Safe. Stable.
Outside, voices drifted in.
The tribe had noticed.
Aetherion stepped to the doorway as a few of them approached, keeping their distance but staring openly now. The children pointed at the roof, excited murmurs spilling out in half-formed words and gestures.
He gestured them closer.
"This," he said, tapping the stone wall, "is ERGON. Work."
He pointed to the roof.
"Finished."
The woman leader smiled—a real smile this time—and placed her hand against the stone, feeling its solidity.
They understood.
This wasn't just a shelter.
It was his place.
That night, as the camp fires burned and the lake reflected the stars, Aetherion sat inside his completed workshop for the first time. The wind moved gently through the vents. The fire burned steady. The symbols held.
For the first time since arriving in this world, everything he needed was in one place.
Tools.
Space.
Time.
Aetherion leaned back against the stone wall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the quiet hum of a structure built to endure.
"Good," he murmured.
Outside, the camp settled into sleep.
Above, the Firmament remained calm.
And within stone walls shaped by patience rather than power, a magician finally had a place to work.
With his workshop completed he could now direct all his attention to the teaching his tribe of hunter gatherers.
With the workshop complete, Aetherion finally allowed himself to stop dividing his attention.
Stone, tools, shelter, stability—those problems were solved.
Now came the work that mattered.
Each morning, he gathered them just beyond the workshop, where flat stones had been dragged into a rough semicircle facing a single upright slab he'd set into the ground. Its surface was smooth, pale, and broad enough to be seen by everyone at once.
A board before there were boards.
Aetherion stood beside it, a stone chisel in one hand, a rounded hammerstone in the other.
"Today," he said slowly, tapping the slab once to draw their eyes, "we add."
He carved deliberately.
Not fast.
Each strike was measured, each groove clean and deep enough to last decades—centuries, if left undisturbed.
Α
Ε
Ι
Ο
Υ
Vowels first.
He spoke each sound as he carved it, pausing long enough for them to repeat. The tribe echoed him unevenly at first, voices overlapping, some sounds swallowed, others exaggerated. He didn't correct immediately. He let them hear themselves fail.
Then he repeated the sounds again—slower.
"Α."
They echoed. Better.
"Ε."
Again.
"Ι."
He nodded once.
Good enough.
Next came the consonants—simple shapes, easy strokes.
Μ
Ν
Τ
Κ
Π
He paired each symbol with motion.
Μ—hand to chest. Me.
Ν—hand outward. You.
Τ—finger downward. Here.
Κ—pointing to stone. Cut.
Π—gesture toward shelter. Place.
The tribe followed instinctively. Words anchored to action stuck faster than abstraction ever could. They began anticipating sounds before he finished carving them, murmuring syllables under their breath as if testing whether they were allowed to exist yet.
When he felt the moment was right, Aetherion stepped aside and handed the chisel to the woman leader.
Her eyes widened—not in fear, but weight.
He nodded once.
"Try."
She approached the stone slab and hesitated, then placed the chisel carefully. Her first strike was too light. The second slipped. The third bit cleanly.
Α
Rough. Uneven.
Permanent.
Aetherion smiled.
Others followed.
Hands passed the chisel. Symbols accumulated—crooked, shallow, overcut, sometimes backwards. He let it happen. Writing wasn't about beauty yet. It was about commitment.
Once a mark was carved into stone, it demanded to be remembered.
Later, he brought them smaller stones—flat river rocks smoothed by water. He showed them how to scratch symbols with bone tools, how to line them up.
This time, he combined them.
ΜΕ
ΥΔΟΡ
ΠΥΡ
Me.
Water.
Fire.
The tribe murmured as understanding clicked—not fully, but enough to feel the shape of it. Symbols could join. Sounds could build.
That night, they made their first record.
Not a story.
Not a law.
A list.
Water source.
Fire place.
Shelters.
Crude symbols carved into a standing stone near the lake, imperfect but intentional. A marker that said: We were here. We knew this.
Aetherion stood back as they worked, arms folded, watching torchlight flicker across freshly cut lines.
This—this mattered more than miracles.
No lightning.
No thunder.
No divine spectacle.
Just thought made permanent.
As the final symbol was carved, one of the children ran a finger across the grooves and whispered the sounds under their breath, carefully, reverently.
Aetherion exhaled slowly.
"Good," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Very good."
Above them, the Firmament remained still, stars turning patiently.
And on a stone beside a prehistoric lake, the first true words of Greek took root cut into the world by mortal hands, guided by a god who had once been only a magician