Maple trudged along the rugged trail of the Varnen Range. The path was seldom used, flanked by gray cliffs and brittle shrubs. The sun hid behind dense clouds, casting jagged shadows across the ground. The silence here wasn't natural. It was heavy, broken only by the sound of loose stones tumbling downhill.
He kept the lute strapped tightly across his chest with leather bands, but he didn't dare play it. His body still ached from the fight in Dunlin, and his mind replayed his mistakes. He was a novice, still green, with too much luck and too little strength.
If that thing hadn't hesitated… if Kira hadn't been there… I'd be dead.
Yet something called to him. A sound he'd heard two nights ago—a magical echo carried on the mountain wind. A human voice, repetitive, worn by time.
"Help… please… we're still here…"
He'd heard it again, louder, at dawn. A magical echo? A trap? A trapped soul? He didn't know. But he knew enough to know he had to find out.
Farther along, he reached a fork in the path. A figure rested nearby: a dark-skinned man with a sharp face, sparse beard, and hair tied back with woven cloth strips. He wore light leather dyed gray and green, high boots caked in dust, and a pair of daggers strapped to his hips.
"Heading that way?" the man asked without standing.
"I'm looking for… voices," Maple replied, hesitant.
"Then you're going to the right place. Or the end of it." The man extended a hand. "They call me Elvar. I'm a guide… when someone pays. But on that trail, I only take those who don't plan to come back."
Maple shook his hand, wary but curious.
"Maple. I don't have much to offer."
Elvar sized him up.
"A bard? Looking like you slept in a thorn tree? Good. Maybe you're crazy enough. If you're set on going, watch out for empty echoes. Some voices here… answer, but not in a good way."
They walked together for the next few hours. Elvar, silent and alert, moved with feline grace, almost noiseless. Maple stumbled every third step, panting. At each pause, he watched the guide with admiration. There was a steadiness in his posture—the kind only earned by facing too much.
By dusk, they reached an old watchpost. Just ruins: a collapsed tower, debris buried in sand and roots. But there… the voice was clearer.
"We're still here… help… still…"
Maple touched the ground. The vibration was faint but present. Elvar crouched beside him.
"It's not just magic. There's structure below. An old shelter. Buried or sealed."
"Can we get in?"
"If you're crazy enough to dig. Just a warning: if the voice changes… run."
Maple nodded. He pressed a listening rune against the ground. The vibration intensified. A nearby stone cracked slightly, releasing a puff of damp air.
There's a hollow here.
They worked for hours, moving stones, digging with daggers and hands. When they finally cleared enough space, Maple went first, sliding down a rocky incline and landing on cold, broken ceramic tiles.
The air was stifling, the sound… distorted. The walls were covered in faded inscriptions and signs of battle. Old bloodstains. And skeletons.
Maple swallowed hard.
A shelter. But it was besieged…
The voice echoed again. But now… different.
"We're here… with you…"
From above, Elvar hissed, "Bard… that's not an echo. It's a trap."
Maple descended further, guided only by the faint glow of a weak light rune tied to his wrist. The underground shelter was larger than it seemed. The ceiling was vaulted, supported by stone and wooden beams sealed with runes that had faded over the years.
With each step, the air grew thicker, heavy with centuries of dust and damp. Elvar followed, landing with feline lightness, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow.
"Watch the floor. The stones are loose… and there's more down here than dust."
Maple pushed forward to a half-open metal door, forcing it wider to reveal a circular chamber filled with remnants of beds, broken weapons, shattered drums, and more bones. At the center, a stone pillar bore worn carvings, but Maple recognized a familiar structure.
"This was a containment core. A runic channeler. It was… forcibly deactivated." He touched it with a reverence rune.
A sharp click.
Elvar spun. "That was a trap."
Darts shot from the walls. Maple dove behind a fallen shelf, one dart grazing his arm. Elvar dodged with precision, rolling across the floor and toppling a smaller pillar in a cloud of dust.
From the shadows, figures emerged.
Three distorted forms, half-human, half-plant, with cracked skin, opaque eyes, and arms elongated by thorny tendrils. The echoes… had bodies.
"They were survivors… trapped here. Corrupted," Elvar said, drawing his daggers.
Maple barely had time to react. One creature lunged with surprising speed. He tried to dodge but was struck in the shoulder, falling with a muffled cry. Blood trickled.
Thinking fast, he pulled a containment rune and pressed it to the ground, activating it with a vocal snap. A semicircular runic barrier rose, holding the creature back for a few seconds.
"This won't hold long!" he shouted.
Elvar leaped onto one creature, plunging both daggers into its torso, but recoiled as thorns sprouted from its neck. He fell back beside Maple.
"They learn by watching us. And they sense the surrounding sounds."
"Then let's use that." Maple pulled a vibrational rune adapted for sonic pulse and tossed it among the enemies. It spun in the air, releasing a sequence of alternating notes that resonated in their bones. The creatures hesitated, staggered.
"Now!" Elvar shouted.
The guide struck with lethal speed. Maple, though wounded, used his dagger to finish carving a slowing rune into the ground. One creature pursuing him was caught in the field and collapsed under its own weight.
The fight was grueling. Maple missed many moves, stumbled, nearly lost his dagger—but he saw, in that moment, how runes could be more than art or sound. They were tools for survival, control, and support.
In the end, panting, the floor slick with sweat, blood, and dark sap, he slumped against the central pillar.
"That was…" he murmured.
"A lesson," Elvar said, wiping his blade. "And you survived."
Maple looked at the rune he'd used on instinct. It was broken, but it had served its purpose. A small smile crept onto his lips.
With sound… without sound… as long as it's carved with intent, it can still be useful.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a burden to the world. But like someone who could learn, adapt, and fight back.
The next day dawned cold and silent.
Maple spent hours sharpening his tools. He sorted the wood pieces he'd gathered earlier and began carving methodically. This time, without haste. He worked on three types of runes:
Direct Impact Rune — Kar'denak: Applied to small stones, it releases a concussive shock on impact. Ideal for dispersing, destabilizing, or stunning enemies. Its symbol resembles a serrated eye. Structural Vibration Rune — Vel'Sharan: Carved into fixed surfaces, it emits deep vibrations that weaken walls, pillars, or armor. Formed by parallel lines crossed by descending arcs.
Intermittent Light Rune — Lum'Varil: Emits rhythmic bursts of intense light to disorient creatures sensitive to brightness or confuse enemies in dark environments. Its shape consists of concentric circles intersected by lines.
Each carve was made with precision and patience. Maple sweated in silence, body hunched, eyes focused. Elvar watched from a distance, sharpening his daggers but not interrupting. At times, only the sound of carving filled the air.
When he finished, Maple had created seven usable runes, all well-crafted. None would last more than a few hours, but they were far beyond what he'd achieved before.
He also prepared small leather pouches with water and dried rations of fruit, nuts, and smoked meat. He crafted a new strap for his lute and reinforced the bottom of his pack with a wooden plate.
The feeling of readiness was new. He'd never felt this prepared before a journey.
Elvar watched him and, by late morning, said, "There's an old runic forge on the eastern slopes of the Thorn Range. It was taken over by a gnarnik colony years ago, but they say its embers still sing when the right wind blows."
"Runic forge?" Maple's eyes lit up. "I need to see it."
"Then brace for a fight. Gnarniks don't like visitors… especially bards."
Maple laughed, tying his pack shut with a firm knot.
"I'm not just a bard. I'm a carver… apprentice."
With the trail stretching ahead, he took a deep breath, lightly touched the runic necklace at his throat, and walked on, feeling more ready than ever.