The first true shaping came unbidden. I moved without intent, and the world moved with me. A stone lifted. A flame flared. A whisper caught the breath of a dying tree and held it a moment longer.
I did not speak a spell. There are no incantations here, not truly. Only will, and the form that will chooses.
The Codex recorded it. Not in language, but in texture. A ripple through my soul-library, like a new chamber had opened. I walked it in a dream: a narrow corridor lined with echoing footsteps I hadn't taken.
I left no names for what I did. Naming grants ownership. I am only the Archivist.
Others around me cast with ease, but they do not remember it later. Some grow in power. They die. They return. And they marvel at their own instincts, never questioning the empty space where knowledge should be.
I have met them. Warriors who wield fire. Healers who sing light. Artificers with tools humming with intent. But they are hollow foundations. Palaces built on sand.
I am different. My steps, once taken, leave footprints that no wind can erase.
I felt mana grow warmer around me. Not in approval—mana does not praise. But in curiosity.
Perhaps it began to see me not as a user, but as a partner.