The sound of Maple's lute still echoed in the quietest hours of the early morning when he was startled awake by a snap at his window. A small parchment tied to a stone had been tossed inside, rolling slowly across the floor. He opened it, eyes still heavy, and read:
"At the third bend of the eastern trail, when light breaks the fog, come."
Maple instantly recognized Elvar's signature. He dressed quickly, donning his carved leather coat and securing his case of living runes to his belt. He also took his lute—not as a weapon, but it might prove useful.
The eastern trail wound through roots so thick they formed living tunnels. Morning fog hung like a magical veil. When light pierced the silver leaves, Elvar stood waiting atop a mossy stone.
The veteran looked different: light black leather armor with silver stitching, two curved blades strapped to his back, and a necklace with a pulsing amber stone—a visible extension of his Mark.
"You're here," Elvar said without turning. "Time to pit your music against steel. Let's see if it resonates or shatters."
Elvar started slowly. A movement. A cut through the air. A pause.
"Combat isn't fury. It's about cadence. Every step, every breath, every vibration—everything has its timing. Even mistakes are part of the rhythm."
The first exercise was rhythmic synchronization. Maple had to react to attacks following a specific cadence—not dodging by instinct, but by rhythm. Elvar tapped his foot, setting a pattern. Each strong beat brought a thrust; each weak beat, a feint.
Maple struggled. Hard. Sweat dripped down his temple, mingling with the constant hum of his Mark. The runes in his case glowed, but he resisted the urge to activate them.
"You're not fighting like a desperate caster! Fight like a shaper! Make time work for you!"
After hours, he finally synced three dodges and a counterattack while carving a rune mid-combat: Maple activated Delr'Nath with a sharp thud, throwing Elvar off balance for a second. That was all he needed.
A light cut on the veteran's glove. Elvar smiled.
"Nice start."
Before they could rest, a crack in the air alerted them. The ground trembled, and a shadow rose among the trees. It wasn't a Whispering Hunter like before—something new, yet similar. The vibration in the air tore at their ears.
Elvar shoved Maple back.
"Shield yourself! This isn't training anymore!"
The creature was sleek, with polished black armor and long arms ending in multiple fingers. Its six eyes glowed in fractured blue. Each movement distorted the surrounding sound.
Maple activated Syrah'Vol—the echo rune—to read its patterns. Vibrations returned, but they were rhythmically chaotic. The creature wove its own disordered cadence.
Elvar dove into direct combat, weaving between trunks and roots. Maple followed, activating Aen'Sariel on a carved totem to maintain warmth and prevent mana numbness. Then he swiftly shaped a new rune: Taryk'Tharn, which sent vibrating pulses in concentric waves.
The creature lunged with unnatural speed. Maple was thrown against a root but activated Delr'Nath before the blow landed—the barrier absorbed part of the impact. Elvar, meanwhile, used what he called the Dance of the Fourth Cycle—a style blending close combat with rhythmic feints and brief Mark usage.
The fight lasted tense minutes. Runes flickered. Cries were stifled. Wounds opened. When the creature finally dissolved into dark smoke, both were on their knees.
Maple laughed through blood and exhaustion.
"Was that… good enough for you?"
Elvar nodded, spitting on the ground.
"Good enough to show you're getting better."
That night, Maple didn't sleep. He sat on the inn's veranda with his lute in his lap and a compress on his shoulder. His fingers ached. But he played anyway.
The new song had no name at first. As the notes emerged—wounded, flawed, trembling—he realized it wasn't about victory. It was about persistence.
He named it The Song of the Broken Blade.
"Even shattered, it still cuts. Even mute, it still vibrates. Even fallen, it still pulses. As long as I play, I'm not dead."
The wind carried the melody to the treetops. And the leaves, as if understanding, danced.
The sun hadn't yet cleared the eastern mountains when Maple was summoned to Varikus' living forge. The morning air was damp, heavy with an earthy scent, as if the forest itself were sweating mystery.
Varikus awaited, cloaked in black with dull silver buckles. Around him, enchanted embers burned green, fed by dark pinewood—a dense, near-black wood that released thick, spiraling smoke when burned, traditionally used in spiritual refinement rituals.
"Today, we'll test what's left of your structure, boy," Varikus said. "The body is shaped by steel, but the spirit… that's forged by fire and time."
Maple nodded silently. His runic case was clipped to his belt, and he now carried a short training staff with simple carvings strapped to his back. Elvar accompanied him but stood silently in the hall's corner, arms crossed, observing.
Varikus presented a new material: a block of whispering wood, harvested from rare trees in mana-soaked fields. It was light, with veins like corroded silver threads. When Maple touched it, he felt the wood murmur ancient sounds—unintelligible voices in a prayer-like tone.
"This wood doesn't accept common runes. You must pour your intent into it. Don't just carve. Listen. Feel. Offer a pact." Varikus touched the block, and a faded rune briefly glowed under his skin. "It remembers every failure."
Maple took a deep breath and sat. The ritual was long. First, he burned a strip of enchanted moss to prepare the air. Then, he began the initial carve with a short silver runic chisel, a tool demanding utmost precision. Each stroke resonated, and the wood responded: pure cuts sang cleanly; hesitation drew a low, contained thunder.
Hours passed. His hands ached. But in the end, the living rune Thav'rell, a symbol of reinforced memory, emerged. It would aid objects needing to retain magical traces for long periods—like staves, grimoires, or armor pieces.
Varikus tested it, pressing two fingers to the symbol.
"Activate."
Maple spoke softly:
"Thav'rell… silvak ora."
The rune glowed. It didn't flicker or pulse. It stayed steady, constant. Varikus nodded with a proud, almost imperceptible smile.
After the ritual, Elvar suggested something different: a short journey to a clearing a few hours from the village, called Veiled Fall Root, where small but dangerous creatures gathered—perfect for testing the practical use of living runes.
The path was a maze of thorny vines, demanding coordination, patience, and magical control. Maple used Velm'Ratha to shield his legs from aggressive tendrils and Taryk'Tharn in gentle pulses to repel swarms of mist mosquitoes.
Upon arriving, they faced three badger-like creatures with crystalline bone claws and quivering fur—Root Hurnaks, territorial predators resistant to loud sounds.
Maple tried opening with Delr'Nath, but the Hurnaks scattered with unnatural speed. Elvar dove forward with his runic dance, drawing two beasts, while Maple quickly carved Garn'Yul, an experimental rune of focused vibrational collapse. He placed it on a rock, stepped back, and activated:
"Garn'Yul… kathom!"
The ground shook within a three-meter radius. One Hurnak lost balance, and Elvar pierced its side. The second fell to a precise strike after a feint and lateral cut mid-motion.
The last charged Maple directly. It was his chance to apply his lessons. He raised his staff, parried using the rhythmic cadence he'd learned, and activated Taryk'Tharn alongside Velm'Ratha. The creature hesitated, stunned by a vibrational surge. Maple spun the staff, striking its snout. With the momentum, he pinned it and carved Syrah'Vol directly into its dorsal armor.
A magical roar sounded. The beast collapsed, unconscious.
On the return, Maple stared at his hands, crusted with dried blood and dust. Each fight seemed to drain something from him—but also gave something new.
At the inn, he wrote the first verses of a new, unnamed song:
"Those who dance among the roots return with silence in their eyes. But within, a thunder rests, held between strings and steel."
And when he slept, he dreamed of marks drawing themselves and voices whispering among living woods.