The midday sun cast warm light over the courtyard of the Academy, where the scent of baked root bread and roasted nuts drifted through the air. Tables beneath ivy-wrapped awnings were filled with students—some chatting, others studying even through their meals. In the corner, a bard played a quiet instrumental on a wind harp that responded to his breath rather than his fingers.
Elowynn and I had chosen a smaller table beneath a sycamore tree that overlooked the lower gardens. A breeze carried the scent of tea blossoms. I picked apart a crisp fruit tart while she read over her notes, her silver-blond hair catching the light like polished moonstone.
"The rune we were decoding," she said as she poured us each a cup of figflower tea, "it's more of a seal than an activation glyph. But it makes me wonder... if they had such precise control back then, why did the world stop using runes altogether?"
I took a sip of tea, the taste slightly bitter, slightly floral. "Because awakeners found a way to speak to the world without needing the old language."
Elowynn blinked, thoughtful. "Mana."
I nodded. "More specifically, mana cores."
We both leaned in, our voices lowered beneath the soft hum of nearby conversations.
"I read a scroll once," I began, "from the Temple Archives. It said that sometime during the Age of Reclamation, a breakthrough happened. A scholar—or maybe a spirit-guided mage—discovered that if one focused their intent while circulating mana through their core, the world would respond."
"So instead of using the external, structured language of runes, they began using the language of will."
Elowynn tapped her spoon against her teacup. "It's easier. Faster. Doesn't need years of training to master a single glyph."
"Mana," I recited quietly, "then Intent or Purpose, followed by Form, and then finally... Cast."
She nodded in agreement. "The four-fold principle. Most spellcasters today don't even realize how much more unstable their spells are compared to runic casters from the Mourning era. But with enough raw mana, precision becomes optional."
We paused, letting the breeze and chatter fill the silence for a moment.
"But maybe," I said, tracing a pattern on the table with my finger, "that's why the old ways were buried. Runes required comprehension. Discipline. Time. The modern world favors convenience."
"And chaos," Elowynn added softly.
I looked at her.
"Magic now is... reactive. Not thoughtful. It bends too easily to emotion, to fear, to desperation."
I thought back to the sparring sessions under Perephone's tutelage. How her runes carved into her lance would glow with terrifying beauty. How her control made every movement look like a ritual, not a fight.
"Runes were like prayers," I whispered. "Each one a covenant with the world."
Elowynn set down her cup. "And now, most just yell and let mana do the rest."
We shared a quiet moment, the weight of history pressing between us.
Then, without changing her expression, Elowynn asked, "Do you want to meet at the archives later tonight? There are some references to the First King's personal syntax forms I've been meaning to look into."
"I'd like that," I said.
Just then, I caught a glimpse across the courtyard—a foreign figure pushing a cart of scrolls, barely keeping balance.Him. The same servant I saw in the garden yesterday. The one with the unusual garb—hooded, modern, different.
White rubber shoes… again. Strange.
He passed swiftly, avoiding every gaze with a practiced rhythm.
"He's not from this continent," I murmured.
"Who?" Elowynn asked, looking up.
"No one important," I said, though I wasn't so sure.
The halls of Aetherfall Academy were quieter in the afternoon.Soft sunlight fell through the stained glass windows, painting golden shapes along the marble tiles as I ascended the stairs back to the noble wing.
There was a comfort in silence here…But it was a different kind of silence than the one I had grown used to in the Temple or during my walks beneath the wisteria trees.This silence carried expectation—eyes behind closed doors, titles stitched into uniforms, and names whispered like spells with weight behind them.
I entered my room and closed the door gently.
The heavy wood muted the world instantly.
My steps moved slowly as I crossed the room, loosening the ribbon in my hair.The dress still hung from its stand. My notes rested on the corner table, and the window remained cracked open just slightly, allowing the distant voices of students in the courtyard to echo softly into the space.
I sat down and exhaled.
The rune page flashed through my mind again—twisting lines, sharp intersections, and the spiraling core that neither Elowynn nor I had fully deciphered.
That's when I heard her voice, gentle and ever-watching.
"Still thinking about that rune?"
I nodded once. "It lingers. It didn't feel like a spell—it felt like a warning."
Solviel emerged faintly behind me, not fully visible, but present as golden light and fractured reflection in the mirror's corner.
"Aren't you a long-lived spirit? Can you decipher that rune?"
She hummed softly, a wistful note in her tone.
"Even for a spirit like me… it would be difficult. We spirits don't cast magic the same way mortals do. Our abilities flow from our essence. No need for casting patterns or incantations—we are what we are. The magic simply follows."
"So even you can't read it?"
"I can recognize its structure… the simpler patterns, yes. Those that deal with light, memory, blessings. But the deeper syntaxes… the high-form runes crafted by kings and sages… no. They are layered with meaning far beyond practical magic."
I leaned back in my chair.
"Then… do you know anyone—or any spirit—that could?"
A pause followed.
And then, a tension.
"Well…" Solviel's voice grew distant. "Gren Leviyatan made use of runes."
My heart stiffened slightly at the name.
"Some say he didn't just use them—he reshaped them. Cast spells with language that was deemed impossible. Even spirits feared what he could do."
"Is that spirit… really impossible to kill?" I asked quietly. "That it took sealing instead?"
"Yes," she replied, without hesitation. "When it comes to rune mastery… I believe no race—human, spirit, or celestial—could stand against him when he tapped into its full depth."
"Except…"
"Except for the Great Sage of the Silent Age," she said softly. "The only one who could comprehend and cast in the same breath. The only one who could speak the lost tongue like his first language."
I looked out toward the window.
The sky had shifted slightly, clouds moving in a slow rotation overhead.The same sky that once watched over war… and over legends I was only beginning to understand.
"Do you think," I whispered, "that those runes are returning to the world?"
Solviel's voice was solemn.
"No… I believe they never truly left."
By the time the sun dipped low and painted the horizon in tones of rust and faded rose, I was already waiting beneath the eastern spire of the Academy, where the ivy-grown path curled into the Hall of Records.
The archives of Aetherfall weren't simply a library—they were a vault of memory. Tiers of stone shelves rose like walls of a temple, and manuscripts bound in chain-leather sat sealed behind glass inscribed with protective runes. Even here, you could feel the weight of ages pressing down.
Elowynn arrived shortly after, her silver-blonde hair tied up in a soft knot, her arms filled with scrolls, notes, and one book I recognized from our class—A Syntax of Mourning: Structures of Sovereign Spellwork.
"I took the liberty of requesting access to the southern annex," she said quietly. "That's where they house records linked to the King-Founders. Not open to most first years, but I may have borrowed a favor."
"You're not as cold as you try to appear," I teased, walking beside her.
"And you're more dangerous than you look, Lady Gadriel."
The southern annex was colder, less visited, and yet cleaner somehow.As if time knew to tread carefully here.
We passed statues—each one etched with names I had memorized but never seen in stone: King Mournel the First, Queen Elatha of Thorns, The Whispering Strategist. Their eyes were blindfolded with metal bands, a mark of humility among rulers who dealt with divinity and spirit alike.
Our destination was a sealed chamber called the Vault of Linguistic Constructs, guarded by a thin golden arch with a single glowing rune at its peak.
Elowynn tapped a sigil carved into her student badge, and the rune pulsed once.
The doorway split apart with the sound of stone and breath.
The further we stepped into the archive's southern annex, the quieter everything became—not the kind of quiet born of solitude, but one soaked in reverence, as though the scrolls and tomes around us still remembered the voices of those long gone.
Towering shelves, dustless yet ancient, formed winding rows that led us toward the heart of the vault: a sealed brass chamber etched with faint celestial markings. Light from floating lanterns flickered, casting dancing shadows against the obsidian stone. Elowynn moved ahead confidently, her student crest glowing faintly.
"The archivist gave us one hour," she said, slipping her badge into a recessed slot on the wall. "Let's use it well."
The seal flickered, and the doors opened with a mechanical hum.
Inside, the chamber felt strangely alive. I could feel a pressure—soft but present—curling at the base of my neck like something watching from above. A low hum, perhaps magical resonance, lingered in the air.
We set our satchels down before an ornate circular table where an ancient scroll waited under glass.
"This was transcribed from what little remains of the Mourning Era Syntax, attributed to the First King himself," Elowynn said, reverent. "We won't get many chances to see this up close."
I leaned in.
The script wasn't runes as we were taught. These markings spiraled inward in complex shapes—some branching, others jagged like scars across the page. This wasn't magic in its refined, modern form. This was language as intention, will made ink.
"This isn't like what we've studied," I murmured. "There's no mana core structure. No conduit. It's...pure declaration."
Elowynn nodded. "In their time, they didn't channel power—they commanded it. This isn't casting. This is bargaining. Threatening. Naming."
One spiral near the edge caught my eye—a formation of five interwoven symbols, etched sharper than the rest. It resembled an anchor with wings and bore an outer ring that spiraled inward like a whirlpool. There was no label. No king's name. Just a sigil.
And yet, something in me recoiled.
"This symbol," I said slowly, "I've never seen it before."
Elowynn narrowed her eyes.
"Neither have I. And I've studied nearly everything the Archives allow."
We looked to the bottom margin where a faint note was half-scratched, faded by time or intent. Elowynn dusted the page with a soft magical breeze. There, barely visible, were six words in old Mourning tongue.
"Classified. Forbidden. Record traced to G. L."
I froze.
No. It couldn't be.
The initials stirred something deep within me. A sliver of memory—no, not mine. Solviel's.
Her presence shifted—tensed, as if startled awake.
"Solviel."
A pause.
"I had hoped you wouldn't see this."
"What is it?"
"…It is a name lost to time. Forgotten for a reason. Please, Luna, do not speak it aloud here."
"Do you know who G. L. is?" Elowynn asked, curiosity piqued.
I shook my head quickly. "No. Just… it gives me a strange feeling. We should move on."
We resumed studying the syntax quietly, but the room felt colder now.
I could feel Solviel lingering closer than usual, silent but alert. She was watching the scroll—not to learn it, but to remember it. And that scared me more than anything else.
And then—faint as a breath through fog—I heard it.
A whisper, barely audible, like a voice heard underwater.
"So… this is your new vessel?"
The sound passed like a chill down my spine, gone as quickly as it arrived.
I didn't flinch. I simply kept reading, my hand trembling under the table.
"We should document what we can and leave," Elowynn said. "There's too much here to decipher alone."
I nodded, though my eyes drifted once more to the strange sigil—the spiral, the eye, the echo of something ancient and still breathing beneath the fabric of the world.