The wind blowing through the slopes of the Thorn Range seemed to whisper secrets forgotten for ages. The trail grew narrow and treacherous, winding between rocky outcrops covered in pale lichen. Elvar led the way, each step measured with the precision of an experienced predator, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Maple followed close behind, a bit more confident than on the previous trail but still hyper-aware of his footing.
"How much farther?" he asked, adjusting the pack on his shoulders.
"Two hours, maybe three, if the weather holds," Elvar replied. "Watch for burrow holes. Gnarniks love hiding in the shadows."
Maple had heard of gnarniks: small, agile creatures with gray skin and glowing golden eyes that shone in the dark. They were clever enough to set traps and cowardly enough to attack in groups when their prey was isolated. The kind of enemy that didn't confront you head-on—but made you bleed before you noticed.
The first trap appeared after a tight bend. A nearly invisible silver wire stretched between two rocks. Elvar sliced it with a dagger and pointed to the pit ahead, where crude spears coated in dark resin awaited an unwary leg.
"Poison," he noted. "Crude, but effective."
Maple mentally cataloged every detail. Elvar seemed to have eyes trained for these things. Though Maple wasn't as skilled, he was starting to develop a second sense—the kind forged by learning to survive.
They pressed on for a few more kilometers until they reached a rocky plateau. At its center, half-buried under earth and vines, was the entrance to the forge.
It was an ancient structure, carved directly into the mountainside. Wide arches of black stone framed the entrance, and rusted runes lined the doorway—too old for Maple to decipher. Above, a colossal, cracked chimney released a steady wisp of blue smoke.
"It's still active," Maple whispered.
"Then something's alive inside," Elvar said, drawing his daggers.
Maple checked his runes: Kar'denak, Vel'Sharan, Lum'Varil. Two of each remained. He gripped the runic necklace at his throat, took a deep breath, and followed the guide.
They entered.
The main chamber of the forge was vast, stifling, lit only by distant braziers and glowing veins in the stone floor. The heat was constant, humid, almost alive. Metallic clinks echoed through the corridors, followed by guttural whispers.
Elvar signaled for Maple to stay low. They crept toward a side passage. There, around a magically fueled lava pit, four gnarniks stood with their backs to them, working at an anvil. One was sharpening a crude scythe made of bone and dark metal.
Maple gestured, asking to try a distraction. Elvar nodded with his eyes.
The young carver took a Kar'denak rune and pressed it onto a nearby stone. He spun it between his fingers, activating it with a near-inaudible whistle, and tossed it down the side corridor.
BOOM!
The explosion stunned the gnarniks. Two fell. Elvar moved like a shadow, cutting down the third with a slash to the throat. The fourth, the largest, reacted. It charged Maple with a club. Maple tried to dodge but was grazed, thrown against a pillar. He cried out, coughed blood, but pulled another rune—Vel'Sharan—and smashed it into the ground.
The floor trembled around the creature. Cracks opened beneath its feet, throwing it off balance. Elvar finished it with a leap, crossing both daggers into its chest.
Maple was panting, his body aching, but alive.
"That was better," Elvar said, offering a hand. "Still stumbling, but with courage."
After hiding the bodies and ensuring no more gnarniks were nearby, they explored the forge.
It was magnificent.
Even in decay, the structure exuded ancient power. Channels of energy ran through the floor, connected to a central runic crystal that fueled the furnaces. Ancient machines—pulleys, troughs, mechanical arms—stood aligned, as if awaiting orders. Cabinets held molds, stone tablets with records, and magically sealed ingots stacked with precision.
Maple walked in awe.
"This… this is beyond what I imagined," he said, touching a trough. "The ancients didn't just shape metal… they forged its essence here."
Elvar remained silent, guarding the entrance.
Maple chose a workbench. He pulled out zirkanite, tools, wood fragments, and rune frames he'd collected days earlier. With care, he began his first carved weapon.
The idea was simple: a short, light blade attachable to a sturdy wooden handle. But the secret lay in the runes.
He chose three main inscriptions:
Return Rune — Sarn'Ethol: Carved into the handle, it allows the weapon to return to the wielder's hand when activated by a vibrational command.
Vibrant Cutting Rune — Tel'Varuun: On the blade's edge, it resonates with energy to ease cutting through harder materials.
Wrist Protection Rune — Den'Khala: On the grip, it emits a runic pulse to deflect light physical impacts.
Hours passed.
Maple cut, adjusted, aligned, burned edges with charcoal to seal grooves, and polished each surface with rustic oil from an ancient barrel found in the workshop.
He failed twice. Broke one carving and had to redo it.
Cut his finger, bled onto the wood—but pressed on.
At last, hands trembling, he presented his creation to Elvar.
"I called it 'Sylwenar.' It means returning wind," he said, voice low, almost reverent.
The warrior studied it for a moment. Weighed it in his hand.
"It's light. Well-balanced. And… alive," he said, handing it back. "That's you, kid. You've started to take a step toward strength."
Maple gripped the blade. A faint vibration ran through his arm.
He smiled.
For the first time, it wasn't something made out of fear or reliant on luck. This was his first creation, the first fruit of his sweat and blood.
The ancestral forge's quiet didn't last.
The heat, once merely natural, began to intensify, pulsing in rhythmic intervals as if the mountain's heart had awakened. Maple noticed first: the runes carved into the central pillars began to glow—an amber hue mixed with deep red, vibrating with energy that seemed to watch them.
Elvar dropped his dagger onto the workbench and gripped Sylwenar.
"Did you touch something you shouldn't have?" he asked, tense.
Maple scanned the room. The runic matrix fueling the energy channels looked different: more alive. The energy veins in the floor now formed patterns he didn't recognize—and he'd studied the basics of runic language for years.
"It wasn't something I touched… it was something I created," he replied, clutching the blade he'd carved.
In the next instant, the temperature plummeted.
From the forge's core, a dark vapor rose. It didn't spread like normal smoke—it crawled, tracing the carved patterns as if reading them. In the chamber's center, the heat condensed into a single point. There, a creature—or spirit—formed, made of ancient fire and liquid iron.
Its eyes were like black embers, and its voice echoed without moving its mouth.
"Who forges without hearing the ashes? Who carves symbols in silence? You do not sing with the fire. You profane it."
Maple stepped back, sweat trickling down his neck. Elvar positioned himself between him and the creature, but the spirit didn't move.
"That's…" Maple whispered, "a Core Entity. A Primordial Forge Spirit."
Elvar didn't respond. The tension in his shoulders was palpable.
The spirit hovered above the ground, studying Maple. When it spoke again, its voice came from all directions.
"For centuries, we sealed this forge so only the worthy could awaken the Song of Metal. It is not enough to carve. Not enough to survive. You must hear, understand, and shape what lives within the creation."
Maple knelt. He felt this not as a threat, but a test. Instinctively, he placed Sylwenar on the ground before the spirit.
"I didn't forge for vanity. I didn't steal your flame. I created because I'm learning. Because I need to grow. Because the world doesn't wait for those who hesitate."
The creature remained still. Elvar frowned. Time seemed suspended. Then, slowly, the spirit extended an arm that dissolved into smoke, swirling around the blade.
"Sarn'Ethol. Tel'Varuun. Den'Khala," it recited the runes' names. "You created names. Gave identity. Gave rhythm. But you are still empty. You do not know the paths of strength. You must climb the steps."
The ground shook. From within a wall, a hidden compartment opened, revealing a stone pedestal holding a runic tablet—a Record of Primordial Forgers.
Maple approached, mesmerized.
The tablet outlined the evolution tree of runic creators, something he'd only heard of in legends. Elvar stepped closer, keeping an eye on the spirit.
SYSTEM: THE LADDER OF SHAPERS
The tablet was divided into three great paths:
• Word Carvers – Those who inscribe and activate runes. Divided into 10 stages of mastery, called Vocalhas.
• Essence Forgers – Those who combine rare materials with runic catalysts to create sentient items. They evolve through 4 great Arcs of Heat.
• Domain Weavers – Capable of generating magical spaces with their own laws, through Cycles of Attunement.
Each stage had prerequisites: elemental affinity, channeling mastery, runic memory, and, most crucially, Resonance with Creation—a concept meaning the fusion of will, technique, and intent.
"This is how they grew strong," Maple murmured. "This is why every ancient tool felt alive. They weren't just artisans… they were conduits of matter itself."
The spirit spiraled around him again, trails of smoke and embers.
"You have begun the First Vocalha. One step. But the next will demand more than wood and silence. It will require sacrifice, vision, and… purpose."
Maple closed his eyes. His breath was heavy, his heart pounding like an anvil.
"Then I'll seek it," he said, voice steady. "I want to grow. I want to be worthy of the world I'm discovering."
The spirit dissipated into heat and shimmering dust.
Elvar exhaled.
"That was… easier than I thought."
"It was a warning," Maple replied, hand still on the tablet.
They gathered everything. Maple copied parts of the record onto scrolls, and Elvar helped carry molds and runic alloys. On the trail back, Maple looked at Sylwenar and murmured, "First Vocalha…"
"What?" Elvar asked.
"Nothing. Just… I'm in a hurry to reach the second."
Elvar laughed, for the first time.
And together, they vanished into the valley's shadows.