The laboratory smelled of mineral ink, dried blood, and the smoke of sealing herbs. There was something sacred yet hostile about the place, as if every object regarded Maple with disdain for daring to touch where he shouldn't. Varikus walked silently ahead, his boots creaking on the stone floor etched with ancient, scorched symbols.
"Now that you've survived the trial," he said without looking back, "you'll learn what it means to shape the invisible. Many wish to mold. Few endure the cost."
Maple stayed quiet, but his eyes were sharp. The pain in his body lingered, but something new stirred within him. A nascent fire, uneasy and thrilling. He was being led into the unknown.
Varikus stopped before a crescent-shaped workbench. Above it, suspended by runic chains, floated a core of faint light—condensed pure essence. The bench was arranged with three types of tools: elemental wire carvers, vibrant chalks, and vials of alchemical offerings. Glowing runes ran along the edges like living rivers.
"Before you touch anything, you'll learn to hear the silence."
He handed Maple a piece of black wood—Drathlen—and placed a fine carver in his hands.
"For one hour, you will not speak. Nor move. Only observe. The wood will tell you everything. If you know how to listen."
The first half-hour was uncomfortable. Maple tried to focus on the wood's veins, but his eyes wandered over its marks and ridges. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. With each passing minute, he heard more: the breeze slipping through the tower's cracks, the crackle of candles, the low pulse from the enchanted floor.
Then, a new sound—a faint echo, a rhythmic thud. Not from outside, but from the wood. Maple touched its surface. A vibration answered.
The world seemed to slow.
He wasn't just observing: he was listening. Each curve of the wood had a sound. Each imperfection, a whisper. It was like standing before a living creature that breathed in silence.
When the spectral bell rang, ending the hour, Varikus approached.
"What did you hear?"
"A slow heartbeat… a gentle pulse. Tired veins."
Varikus smiled.
"It remembers someone. Maybe you."
Over the next few days, Maple studied the proper use of tools: how to hold the carver without offending the wood, how to trace with intent and withdraw without anger. How to understand that a rune wasn't just lines—but rhythm, interval, and weight.
His first practical creation was a simple moisture-repelling rune, used to protect organic objects from rot.
"All wood starts with the basics," Varikus said. "Fail at the simple, and the complex will kill you."
Maple spent two days trying to carve the right sequence. Each failure ended in smoke, cracks, or dissonant vibrations. Varikus didn't correct him—just watched. Until, at last, the rune sounded a long, deep note.
He named it Velm'Ratha—The Skin of the Dry.
Varikus nodded with restrained approval at his apprentice's result.
Varikus prepared a special room for the next step. Stabilization runes were carved into the floor. Four black amber candles were lit. Maple knelt before Sylwenar, the runic wood he'd shaped in the ancestral forge.
"It's yours. But it's incomplete. It needs to sing and resonate with you. So listen to it, and sing back."
Maple closed his eyes. His fingers rested on the existing carvings. Slowly, he began tracing a new rune—not by force, but by instinct. His essence flowed through the lines. A melody formed in his mind. The notes had been there all along, but only now did he hear them.
The rune ignited. An emerald-green glow enveloped the blade. The vibration rippled through the floor. Maple felt warmth climb his arm—not burning, but purifying. It was recognition.
He named the new rune Teryn'Salvor, the Voice of Return.
Sylwenar vibrated as if it had sighed.
Maple and Elvar continued meeting every night. Their bond grew stronger.
"Did he make you bleed?" Elvar asked one night, laughing.
"Three times on the same carve," Maple replied, showing a bandage on his fingers. "Then he smiled like it was a compliment."
"That is a compliment."
There was comfort in Orrenwal's nights. Despite the cold, the demands, and the exhaustion, Maple felt nourished. The villagers' gazes remained wary, but they began to recognize the redheaded apprentice who spoke to the woods.
On the fifteenth day, as he watched the embers fade, Elvar said, "I'm proud of you, kid. But don't get comfortable. Varikus isn't training you out of kindness. He's preparing you for something he hasn't told you yet."
Maple nodded, his gaze distant, touching Sylwenar.
"When he tells me… I'll be ready."
Deep down, he already felt it: the world outside was waiting. But he was no longer the same.
The sixteenth day began with dry thunder over Orrenwal. Purple lightning cut the sky before dawn, a portent of something magical.
In the laboratory, Varikus awaited Maple with a steaming bowl of black ink mixed with enchanted oak powder and ground runic bone. His gaze was sharper than usual.
"Today, you'll cross the first threshold."
"Threshold?"
"All cultivated essence needs a vessel. Shaped mana demands form. You're ready to receive your Stellar Mark."
Maple swallowed hard. He'd never heard the term spoken with such reverence. He knew there were stages of power, but what came next was different from mere training.
Varikus explained as he lit zairn root incense.
"The Stellar Mark is the crystallization of your affinity and potential. Each star is awakened with blood, mana, and will. The first is the cruelest—it scratches the soul. There's no hiding who you are when it emerges."
Maple sat in the center of a magical circle. Sealing runes began glowing in sequence. The old carver approached with a ritual brush dipped in steaming ink.
"Where do you want the mark?"
"On my back," Maple answered firmly. "Between my shoulders."
"Wise choice. There, the weight can be carried without unbalancing you."
Varikus began tracing the rune in the air before touching it to Maple's back. The stroke wasn't ordinary—it was a direct mana carve, infused with the essence of what Maple had earned: the Drathlen wood, Sylwenar's essence, the runes he'd created, and his unspoken effort. Each line trembled and seared into his flesh like fire.
Maple bit down on a leather strip. The pain was brutal, like crystal nails driven into his bones. But at its core, he felt something… something that made sense. A broken star-shaped rune appeared, its vibrant center with four lines extending in different directions.
When the final line was complete, thunder roared in the sky—inside the tower.
Maple gasped. His skin trembled. His eyes briefly glowed golden.
Varikus stepped back.
"The First Star has awakened. You are now bound to the cycle of the ascendant."
Over the following days, Varikus detailed the stellar progression system.
"Each person can awaken up to Ten Stars—represented by unique Marks manifesting on the body with distinct patterns. The first typically signals dominant affinity. In your case: carving and runic harmony."
Varikus pointed to a grimoire with Mark illustrations.
"Warriors have Marks shaped like blades, fists, or mountains. Shamans and mages—spirals, eyes, flames. Assassins often develop shadows with slits or webs. Each Mark is alive, feeding on practice, not theory."
Maple's Mark—named Elyndar—took the form of an asymmetrical star with musical traces, like interwoven clefs and harmonic runic circuits. It glowed faintly when he attuned with Sylwenar or carved with deep focus.
Marks also offered passive benefits for Maple:
Increased sensitivity to runic vibrations; Faster synchronization with living wood; Ability to create complex runes with less carving time.
But they came with restrictions:
Intense pain when carving something misaligned with his style; Greater mental and emotional energy consumption; The Mark pulsed in response to cursed or enchanted places.
"Marks aren't blessings, Maple," Varikus warned. "They're pacts with what you're becoming."
To test his Mark and mastery, Varikus took Maple to the Tirn-Gal caves, not far from Orrenwal. An ancient tunnel system where crystal insects—aggressive, vibration-sensitive creatures—nested.
"Your mission: craft three runes in the field. One for camouflage, one for containment, one for pure crystal extraction. No returning to the tower until you're done."
Maple swallowed hard but accepted.
At the cave entrance, he traced Feln'Dyr, the tense silence rune—muffling his steps. The insects didn't react.
Inside, when a dog-sized creature cornered him, he activated Irn'Shalvek, the containment web—made from two interwoven stone runes.
Finally, using Sylwenar, he traced Thol'Varun, the pure cutting rune—extracting a crystal fragment without cracking it or losing its energy.
He returned at dawn, exhausted but unharmed. The Elyndar Mark glowed brightly on his back.
Varikus, for the first time, nodded with full respect.
"You've crossed. Now you're truly part of this world."