Outside, the sky was smothered in the darkness of night, but inside Noah's trunk-laboratory, time seemed irrelevant. The magically expanded space carried the scents of burnt wood, polished silver, and strange reagents mixed with the smoke of accidental explosions.
For the past weeks, Noah had been preparing for something bigger. The image of that mysterious stone he'd seen on the tapestry refused to leave his mind. And the Forbidden Forest—no matter how forbidden—was calling to him like an inevitable melody.
But Noah wasn't a fool. He had sharpened his offensive magic, controlling fire as if it were merely an extension of his own fingers. He felt ready to step into the forest. Yet one last thought stopped him—his identity, both as a Gray and as a Hogwarts student.
"Going in barefaced is just begging fate to mess with me," he muttered, lying upside down in midair, held aloft by an improvised levitation spell. Below him, an enchanted quill scratched furiously across a parchment, struggling to keep pace with his words. "I need a disguise. Something practical, functional, that won't fall apart in the middle of a fight. And, of course, stylish."
The quill scribbled stylish with three exclamation marks. Noah frowned.
"No, cross that out. That's not scientific."
The parchment tore itself up, and the quill darted to another sheet, writing again with desperate speed. Noah sighed, snapped his fingers, and released the levitation spell. He dropped flat onto an improvised mattress made of open books.
The pain was minor, but the crash made nearby glass vials rattle.
"Right… maybe I do need more discipline," he grumbled. "After years studying with Nick at my side, working alone in a lab feels a little strange."
On the central table, a polished block of wood lay waiting. He had considered using silver, but decided to start simple. Wood was more forgiving—easier to carve, absorbed magical energy well, and burned in interesting ways when things went wrong.
He ran a hand over the grain.
The memory of his grandfather surfaced, sharp as if it had happened yesterday: a stern-eyed old man leaning over a poorly drawn rune.
"A flawed rune isn't failure, Noah. It's a warning. Magic doesn't forgive arrogance. Only patience."
Noah smirked faintly. "Grumpy old man… but he was right."
He picked up a fine chisel and began. The first mark was simple: the Rune of Concealment. Three lines crossed by a single arc. As soon as he finished, he opened his right eye to its magical sight and let power flow.
For a moment, it seemed stable. Blue lines danced across the carved strokes. Then a spark slipped sideways, cracking the wood.
Pop!
A splinter cut his cheek.
"First attempt: predictable failure."
The quill scribbled the words instantly. Noah tossed the cracked piece into an already dangerously tall pile.
"There's something wrong… Drawing runes with a magical reagent is way easier than carving them directly into an object…"
He had expected it to be harder, but not this unstable.
His greatest advantage was his right eye, which allowed him to skip many repetitions—rarely repeating the same mistake twice. He could see the magical flow in the runes and correct with precision.
On the second day, he tried with more patience, carving two runes and attempting to link them. The result:
BOOM!
The explosion shredded his robes into rags, leaving him naked, covered in soot, hair standing on end. He coughed, stood from the smoke, and stared up at the scorched ceiling of his trunk-lab.
"Note to self: never link runes without a stabilizer. And buy clothes resistant to explosions."
"For this project, no linked runes. Only simple, single-function ones. Linking runes is tempting, but that'll be a vacation project."
The quill wrote it down, hesitated, then doodled a tiny sketch of him naked, arrows pointing at the soot. Noah looked at it and nearly laughed.
"Traitor," he muttered, but let the drawing stay.
Despite the failures, his mood was good. Getting back into rune-crafting felt right. He even let himself daydream—
Maybe one day I could open a shop for enchanted items.
He pictured a simple, happy life, running a rune shop.
But the thought evaporated like smoke. He was too ambitious for that.
By the fourth night, tired of failing, Noah simply slumped face-down on the table, staring at his mountain of failures—splintered wood, blackened chunks, unstable symbols fading to nothing.
"Maybe I should've just made a paper mask… so much easier," he muttered, drumming his fingers. "Just draw on it. But no, here I have to carve, embed, infuse—as if sculpting my own patience."
He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened his right eye again—this time forcing it into the second level. He followed the world's magical flow.
It wasn't a full activation, but enough to reveal a deeper truth of magic.
When he focused on the rune, he saw how energy flowed through the strokes.
It wasn't aggressive. It was a dance. Flowing like water.
If he treated each line as a river and each curve as a dam, maybe he could stabilize it.
"The magic of this world is stronger—but steadier too. I don't need raw force. Gentle, controlled… that's better. Simple runes only need that: order without chaos."
He tried again.
On the fifth day, he completed his first Rune of Concealment without failure. The wooden mask pulsed faintly, the symbol glowing blue for an instant before fading.
Noah lifted it, spun it between his fingers, and smiled.
"It worked."
The quill scrawled in massive letters: IT WORKED!!! then filled the page with hearts. Noah rolled his eyes.
"You're getting far too emotional for a quill."
On the sixth day, he attempted the Rune of Voice Alteration. Simpler, but demanding delicate, almost artistic curves. He failed three times, his index finger trembling from the strain of controlling the flow.
"If only my grandfather could see this…" he murmured, staring at his scorched fingertips.
By the seventh day, all the runes were finally in place. Concealment, voice alteration, suppression of magical traces. Nothing advanced, but enough to create a new identity.
It would serve its purpose for the forest. Later, he could rebuild it with more complex runes.
The mask rested on the table—unfinished in appearance, but alive in essence. A faint warmth radiated from it, like a heartbeat beneath the wood.
Noah collapsed into a chair, exhausted. The quill, without command, wrote by itself: Seven days. One hundred and forty-two failures. One success.
He stared, smiled wearily, and whispered,
"One success is all I need."
He held the mask in his hands but didn't put it on yet. There would be time.
Placing it back on the table, he dimmed the lights in the trunk-lab and stretched out on the makeshift sofa, still smelling of smoke and ash.
He was nearly ready for the Forbidden Forest. Ready to step into the shadows and the unknown, surrounded by towering trees and darkness.
His last thoughts before drifting off were simple:
"Now… no one will know who truly walks in the shadows."