"Infuse the material with magic."
Eric squinted at the sunlight falling across the desk and rubbed the back of his head in frustration.
The words in Saruman's notebook made sense in theory, but the meaning slipped away the moment he tried to grasp it. Inspiration flickered in his mind like a candle behind glass, tantalizingly close yet blocked by something he could not break through.
It felt like remembering you had something important to do, only to forget it the moment you turned around. That half-knowledge gnawed at him, neither revelation nor ignorance, and it was driving him mad.
"I get it… sort of. But not really," he muttered.
"Truth is not something you comprehend by casually glancing at it," came a cold voice behind him.
Eric turned to find Saruman watching him, the White Wizard's expression a mixture of disdain and irritation.
"You appear to have poor manners. That is my private property," Saruman snapped, snatching the page from Eric's hands and slapping it onto the desk.
Eric sighed. "Fair enough. It's not exactly easy to understand anyway."
"Indeed," Saruman replied with a thin smile. "Wisdom is not a gift shared by all. Peering at things beyond your understanding only scars the mind. I suggest you go to the lower library and read storybooks. Those might suit you better."
Eric chuckled. "Perhaps you're right. But what about this particular study here? Care to enlighten me?"
"I have nothing to say to you on that matter," Saruman said flatly, already seating himself and lifting a small lens to examine a chunk of ore.
Eric ignored the insult. His eyes had already fixed on the odd instrument in the wizard's hand.
"And what exactly is that you're holding?"
"I am not obliged to tell you."
"A shame," Eric replied smoothly, "because I was about to share one of my experimental brews with you…"
Saruman's gaze flickered, then he sighed. "A tool for my research. With this lens, one can study the patterns in metal or stone, and thus better grasp their nature."
"Mind if I try?"
"Go ahead," Saruman said, handing it over.
Eric raised the lens to his eye and peered through it, first at Saruman himself. All he saw was a scowling old man's face, magnified and even more unpleasant. He quickly turned away and focused on a nearby cup of water.
The liquid caught the faint light, casting a reflection of the room. Eric studied it, pondering the nature of water. Strong enough to wear down stone, yet gentle enough to curl around a fingertip.
A spark of realization stirred.
"Water. Fierce enough to shatter mountains, gentle enough to slip through fingers. It is the source of life itself."
The words of some ancient note or memory drifted into his mind. Elements are everywhere, waiting to be understood.
A soft chime rang in his thoughts.
[Elemental Insight Acquired: Water]
New recipes flickered into his mental crafting table.
Eric carefully set the lens back on the desk.
Saruman arched a brow. "Well? Did you see anything worth mentioning?"
"I found the wisdom of water," Eric said, smiling faintly.
Ignorant fool, Saruman thought, though he gave no sign beyond a disdainful sniff.
Instead of arguing, Eric pulled a small vial from his satchel and tossed it onto the desk. "Here. A little gift. Your tower is rather dim, and this potion should help you see better."
Saruman uncorked the vial, sniffed it, and his expression softened for a fraction of a second. "A draught that lets one pierce darkness and discern outlines… passable. Nothing I could not achieve myself, but still of minor interest." He set it aside. "I will accept it. Consider it your fee for trespassing on my work."
Eric shrugged. "Glad to be of service."
Leaving the White Wizard to his brooding, Eric stepped out into the cool air, his mind racing.
Elements. The language of true magic. A new path was opening before him, a whole new era of understanding.
The Age of Mysteries had begun.
The very next morning, Eric saddled his horse, gave his squire brief instructions, and set out for Roadside Keep.
Life in the settlement was as lively as ever. Farmers bent over their fields, miners rattled along in ore carts, and fishermen lounged with rods dangling lazily over the riverbanks. A group of villagers huddled on a patch of open ground, arguing about what kind of house they should build next.
Everything seemed ordinary—until Eric arrived with a backpack stuffed with stone, iron, and wood, and claimed a large piece of ground outside the walls.
There, he traced a great jagged circle of stone and began stacking blocks upward, laying the foundation of something vast.
A tower.
And not just any tower.
A colossal fortress-spire, so broad its base dwarfed the castle itself.
Mordor had Barad-dûr. Isengard had Orthanc. If wizards were meant to shape the destiny of the world, surely Eric deserved his own tower as well. Without one, what kind of sorcerer was he?
Thus began one of the most ambitious construction projects the Free Peoples had ever witnessed.
Within weeks, villagers flocked to the battlements each day to watch.
At first, they thought their lord would use enchantments to hasten the work. A handful of villagers with his aid could already build houses in mere days.
But no. This was different.
Eric himself worked ceaselessly, day and night, stone by stone, timber by timber. And the tower grew not slowly but at a dizzying pace.
A single night's sleep, and the walls had climbed higher. A moment's distraction, and the base thickened into something monumental. The spire rose as though it were racing the clouds themselves.
"That grey tower," one villager scribbled in his journal, "in the space of a single season, grew from bare stone to a colossus that pierced the sky. It defies imagination. Travelers gape until their necks ache, for even standing at its foot they cannot see the summit."
The entry was carefully dated. Autumn, Year 2942.
By the time the caravans returned from their circuit through distant towns, the work was finished.
The tower's crown gleamed against the autumn sky, and the chill wind carried whispers of awe through the land.
High atop the spire, Eric stood with arms wide, drinking in the thin, cold air. Clouds drifted so close he could almost touch them, and the world below seemed small and fragile.
"Now that," he declared, grinning to himself, "was one satisfying binge-build!"
His task complete, he leapt from the edge.
A sudden gust carried him as wings of enchanted membranes snapped open, his elytra guiding him in a wide spiral until he alighted at the great stairway of the tower's base.
On the grass nearby, his young pink dragonet looked up from the bald patch of meadow it had been chewing bare. With a squeal of delight, it bounded over and rubbed its head against his leg, eyes full of longing for the skies.
Eric stroked the scaly head, then glanced at the ruined patch of grass and sighed.
"One day, you'll fly," he said softly. "But until then, stop eating the lawn."