Chapter 30 - The Journal

The library held its breath as Altha's eyes moved over the second page.

The ink was fine, its handwriting elegant—ritualistic, yet intimate. The kind only written when one believes they're creating history.

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𝒥𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓔𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎: 𝟣

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𝓦𝔂𝓻𝓶 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓼𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓕𝔂𝓻, 𝓑𝓁𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝔂𝓻𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓮𝓻 𝓘𝓰𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼, 𝓘 𝓪𝓶 𝓼𝓸𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓳𝓸𝓊𝓻𝓃𝓮𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓐𝓲𝓼𝓱𝒶𝔀.

𝓕𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝒶𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓻𝓮𝒶𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓸𝓊𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝔂𝓻. 𝓘𝓷 𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓭𝒶𝔂𝓼, 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓷𝓲𝔁 𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓾𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓭.

𝓘 𝓬𝒶𝓷 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓲𝓽 𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓵𝔂: 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮'𝓼 𝓸𝓫𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓲𝒶𝓷 𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓹𝓼 𝓰𝓵𝓮𝒶𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝒶 𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓼𝓴𝔂, 𝒶 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓰𝒶𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭, 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓯𝒶𝓬𝓮𝓼 𝒶𝓰𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓶𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓭, 𝓭𝓻𝒶𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝒶 𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓲𝒶𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓊𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝒶𝓼𝓱-𝓰𝓻𝓮𝔂 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓴. 𝓘 𝓬𝒶𝓷 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓶𝒶𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝒶𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼' 𝓯𝒶𝓬𝓮𝓼.

𝓐𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓲𝓽, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓗𝓲𝓰𝓱 𝓕𝓵𝒶𝓶𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓶𝓮, 𝓹𝓵𝒶𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓾𝓹𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓊𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓽𝒶𝓷𝓭—𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝒶𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓻, 𝓸𝓻 𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻, 𝓸𝓻 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭—𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓼 𝒶 𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝒶𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓵𝒶𝓶𝓮.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓊𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓳𝓸𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓊𝓰𝓱 𝓶𝓮, 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪𝓷 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓸𝓊𝓻.

𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓸 𝓮𝔁𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓸𝓊𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰.𝓢𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓶𝒶𝔂 𝓮𝓵𝓾𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓊𝓰𝓱 𝓘 𝓹𝓻𝒶𝔂 𝓲𝓽 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽. 𝓓𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵—𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝒶𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼, 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝔀𝒶𝓽𝓬𝓱 𝓶𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓮𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮; 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓵𝒶𝓷𝓭, 𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓵𝓭𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓮𝒶𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓼 𝓬𝓻𝒶𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝔂𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓰𝓻𝒶𝓬𝓮; 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂, 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝒶𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓼 𝓫𝓸𝓽𝓱 𝓪 𝓰𝓲𝓯𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪 𝓬𝓱𝒶𝓻𝓰𝓮.

𝓢𝓽𝓮𝒶𝓭𝓯𝒶𝓼𝓽𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝔀, 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝒶𝓼𝓼.𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝒶𝓻𝓼 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓱—𝔀𝒶𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝒶𝓻𝓽𝓱—𝓫𝓵𝒶𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓊𝓻 𝓽𝓻𝒶𝓲𝓵 𝓫𝒶𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝒶𝓻𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓼𝓶𝓸𝓼.

𝓘 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓊𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝒶𝓽 𝓳𝓸𝓊𝓻𝓃𝓮𝔂, 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓮 𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓑𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓼 𝓔𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝒶𝓵.

𝓟𝓻𝒶𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓫𝓮 𝓗𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝒶𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓾𝓷. 𝓣𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂, 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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Altha read the text once more and spoke the last words aloud.

"Praise be He who birthed the stars and sun. Truly, blessings be us all."

His eyes swept across the deserted library, where towering shelves laden with forgotten tomes loomed like silent sentinels in the dim, dusty light.

"What's a personal journal doing in a dusty, forgotten library like this?" he mused, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

The writing was too hopeful. Too bright. Too clean.

It didn't belong here.

And yet… it had to.

He sighed, eyes fixating on the page. His hand hovered over it for a few seconds then slowly rose to meet his palm.

"Maybe, just maybe, there's a clue in here somewhere," he murmured. "I can sense something rippling through this book—residual emotions, perhaps. Or maybe I'm losing my mind. Either way, it's a risk I'm willing to take."

As instantly as his fingers brushed the parchment, a torrent of sentiments cascaded into his consciousness.

He was enveloped by waves of joy and excitement, tinged with pride and an insatiable curiosity. Yet, lurking beneath those bright emotions, a shadow of fear and confusion whispered of untold secrets.

Altha withdrew his hand, his heart racing.

"Why didn't she write about that?" he wondered. "Why hide the fear?"

Either she chose not to—masking it behind ceremony and devotion—or she never dared admit it, even to herself.

"Is it not mortal to fear?" he muttered to the still air. "Doesn't it show one's humanity?"

But perhaps, he thought grimly, it is also mortal to lie. Especially to oneself.

He pushed on, eyes narrowing. One skeptical eye open at all times.

"Perhaps in her world, such vulnerabilities were best left unspoken." He thought.

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The following seven entries chronicled days of seemingly mundane existence. She toiled in her parents' quaint emporium, its wooden counters polished to a gleam by years of use.

The air was thick with the scent of spices and herbs, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly baked bread from the adjacent bakery.

Each morning, she rose with the sun, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestone streets as she delivered fresh loaves to the elderly widow down the lane or assisted the blacksmith in mending a broken cartwheel.

Her writing brimmed with details: the glint of light off copper kettles, the soft call of bell-chimes when doors opened, the warmth of her mother's tea.

And yet...

Even in these ordinary moments, there were hints of something more.

Though her smile was ever-present, there were instances when her gaze would drift to the horizon, a flicker of unease crossing her features as if she sensed a storm brewing beyond the tranquil facade of her daily life.

"𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱," 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮. "𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓭 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓽. 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓽𝓱. 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓽."

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"𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝔂 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓪 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓾𝓼𝓴. 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵, 𝓫𝓾𝓽… 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽."

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"𝓐𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓻𝔂, 𝓞𝓵𝓭 𝓜𝓻. 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓲𝓬 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮. 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓼𝓲𝔁."

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Altha paused, the weight of her unspoken fears settling over him like a shroud.

He sighed, fingers resting lightly on the margin.

He could feel it now.

A slow shift. A subtle unraveling.

The girl had sensed something—not just in herself, but in the world around her. And she had kept writing, smiling, pretending all was well.

"The truth is here," he said softly, "it has to be."

He stared at the next page.

And with a breath caught between fascination and unease… he turned it.

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𝒥𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓔𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎: 8

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𝓦𝔂𝓻𝓶 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓼𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓕𝔂𝓻, 𝓑𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓭.

𝓜𝔂 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮, 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼, 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂—𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓬𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂.

𝓗𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂… 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸.

𝓣𝓸 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮—𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓹𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓮.

𝓐 𝓹𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓘 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯.

𝓘𝓷 𝓪 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭—𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭—𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝔂 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀. 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽.

𝓘 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓸𝓻, 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮.

𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓹 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓪𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝔂—𝓫𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷—𝓘 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝔀 𝓗𝓲𝓶.

𝓢𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓿𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓬 𝓿𝓮𝓲𝓵.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓭.

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓸𝓻𝓭''𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓷.

𝓐 𝓱𝓲𝓰𝓱 𝓐𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽.

𝓐 𝓭𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷.

𝓐 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰.

𝓞𝓻 𝓼𝓸 𝓘'𝓶 𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓭.

𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮, 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯. 𝓘 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝓾𝓷𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓻𝓮𝓯𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷.𝓘𝓽 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓿𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓲𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵—𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵.

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮.

𝓜𝓪𝔂𝓫𝓮 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝔀 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓪𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝔀.

𝓘𝓽 𝓲𝓼, 𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓵𝓵, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓪 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝔂𝓻 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵.

𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓼.

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓼 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂, 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝔁𝓽, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴: 𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓷.

𝓗𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓶𝓮.

𝓣𝓸𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓘𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓹𝓱, 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓪𝔀.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼, 𝓶𝔂 𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓼, 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰.

𝓘 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓭𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮.

𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓫𝓮 𝓗𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓾𝓷. 𝓣𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂, 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

---

"Hmm..."

Altha lingered on the page.

The parchment was crinkled, creased in crescent patterns like faint ripples from a long-forgotten drop of water.

Tear-shaped stains.

Faint. Faded. Nearly erased by time—but not to him.

They would be invisible by now if not for the emotional residue that clung to the page like ash that would not brush away.

Curious, he reached out, brushing the warped dots with his fingers.

The moment he made contact, emotions surged through him.

Not simply sadness.

A grief so raw it scraped the inside of his chest.

A loneliness swallowed in ritual.

A rage that had no name—only duty.

His own throat tightened as his breath hitched.

Tears traced his cheeks, uninvited and hot.

So strong was it that all that rang true in Altha's ears were distorted weeps, far away and close all at once.

He jerked his hand back, nearly stumbling off his chair. He took his crimson side cloak and wiped the tears away.

Wiping his face as if he could push the feelings out of him.

He gritted his teeth. Not in pain. In knowing.

"Must've been hard," he whispered. "To leave everything you've ever known… for a calling that was never yours to choose."

His voice barely stirred the air.

But the weight of it—all that unseen sorrow—sat heavy on his chest.

He took in a deep breath and sat back down. With a lazy swipe through the air, the page turned—but he didn't read it. He just stared at it, eyes glazed.

"How much more of this book is there?" he muttered. "I never thought reading could be this exhausting. But after reliving what amounts to—what—nine days of someone else's feelings?"

He blinked slowly.

"I'm beginning to reconsider my own willingness in this endeavor."

He chuckled.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, self: 'You could just read it. Just skim through the damn words like a normal person.'" He raised a finger, imitating some invisible, over-logical version of himself. "'You don't need to experience everything that she felt.'"

He shook his head.

"But that's where you'd be wrong," he said aloud, softly. "I'd be blinding myself to the truths. Truths wrapped in tone and nuance and silence."

He folded his arms and stared back at the page, frowning.

"And now you're going to argue that emotions aren't facts. That they're tainted. That I could be misinterpreting everything—projecting my own thoughts onto hers."

He paused. Then smiled faintly. "Be calm, my simple mind."

He stood up, stretching his back with a satisfying crack.

"Whether I feel her pain or not, the truth will be distorted—by my ignorance, my lack of context, my biases. I can't pretend there's a 'clean' version of any of this. It would be disingenuous of a claim."

He held out his hand, and the Eidolomancy Script shot from the table into his grasp summoned by a thread of Psyche.

"We need to keep working on that," he muttered. "Energy output's still a little shaky. But one thing at a time for now."

He flipped to the table of contents and ran his eyes down the list, absorbing titles and chapter numbers.

"Now where was I? Oh, right.

In fact," he said, "I'd wager a raw emotional perspective is more honest than a sterilized one. History, after all, is more than just dates and names. It's what people felt when the world turned upside down."

He traced a finger across the page.

"It is often true after all, that war described in excruciating detail blurs the line between winner and loser."

Audacious as always his thoughts echoed back. "Oh, really...? Since when were you Mr Empathetic?"

The voice sounded like his, but not his own. Older. Colder.

"What can I say, we're just more mature now."

"No, no, no..." The voice chuckled. "I see where this is coming from. Still chasing after her ghost, are we? How fitting for you. How poetic. Being haunted by the living and the dead."

Altha fell still.

His fingers hovered over the page, unmoving.

Then, softly, almost to himself: "No... she's gone. What's left to chase?"

He tapped the parchment, slowly. Thoughtfully.

And turned the page.

Eidolomancy Script: Vol. I — Table of Contents

---

Front Matter

I. Preface

II. Acknowledgments

III. How to Use This Volume

---

Chapter 1: Foundations of Aethear Theory

1.1 What Is the Aethear?

 • The Foldless Weave of Reality

 • Ether, Cogni & Athar: The Trinity of Essence

1.2 The Four Pillars of Magical Interaction

 • Resonance, Confluence, Manifestation, Stabilization

1.3 Vectors & Vortices

 • Scalar vs. Vector Flows

 • Vortical Nodes: Wellsprings of Power

1.4 Awakening the Channel

 • Priming Ether: Breathwork & Trance

 • Crafting Cogni: Mental Constructs

1.5 Elemental Aspects & the 24 Standard Runes

 • Fire, Water, Earth, Air Frameworks

 • Rune Combinations & Spell Precision

1.6 Runic Geometry: Shapes & Arrays

 • Circles, Triangles, Squares, Spirals

 • Planar vs. Volumetric vs. Fractal

1.7 Foreshadowing the Path Ahead

 • From Script to Conjuration

---

Chapter 2: The Runic Language

2.1 Origins & History of Runes

2.2 The 24 Core Runes: Names & Meanings

2.3 Stroke Order, Ligatures & Bindings

2.4 Runic Phonetics & Semantic Resonance

2.5 Practice Exercises & Calligraphy

---

He exhaled softly, tugging the silken bookmark free and folding it over the beginning of Chapter 2. The fabric slipped through his fingers like memory.

"However," he murmured, "I do agree with you, self. I will heed the author's warning. It's best not to lose oneself to things too deep, and all that."

"Which is fine, but if I hope to escape from here sooner rather than later, certain calculated risks will have to suffice."

He clutched his head for a moment, his brain readjusting from the sudden influx of foreign emotions. Emotion it hadn't prepared for.

"But perhaps that'll have to wait. I don't think I can... I think-"

He sighed.

"I think I need a break. My reserves of Psyche are running low anyways. Maybe a little sip of water will calm my nerves."

---

Passing back through the garden, he breezed by the arcane device—still pulsing softly. The orb cast its serene cyan light over the statues: six figures clad in flowing robes, each one reaching toward the suspended crystal... except one, whose hand had fallen, and four whose heads were missing entirely.

He did not linger.

Soon, he sat beside the fountain, cupping the cold water in his hands and splashing his face. Droplets scattered like stars across stone.

The relief was immediate—cool and clear—but it did little to slow the storm behind his eyes.

He stared down at his rippling reflection, not quite recognizing the face looked back.

A flicker of pale hair, silver eyes staring back piercing through the ripples.

He blinked once, and the reflection had vanished. Replaced instead by a familiar dark skinned male with dreads that obscured his eyes.

...