The silence of my quarters was a palpable thing after the constant, low-grade hum of the academy. It was a sanctuary and a prison, these four walls of polished synth-marble and recessed lighting. I shrugged off my academy jacket, letting it fall onto the simple, utilitarian chair by my desk. The cool air raised goosebumps on my sweat-dampened skin. My body still thrummed with the phantom echoes of combat, muscles twitching with residual energy. But the real battle, I knew, was just beginning. It was a battle of choice, of strategy, a prelude to the physical trial to come.
I walked to the weapons rack, my footsteps silent on the plush, dark grey carpet. My fingers, calloused and sure, traced the leather-wrapped hilts of Resolve and Remembrance. They were my comfort, my language. But for the Path Trial, they might not be enough. I needed a plan. I needed a destination.
"The Path of War," I muttered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash.
The holographic reels of Valerius, the Crown Prince, were unavoidable. A Rank 3 Bladewalker—a specialized, high-speed subset of the broader War Path. He was a symphony of controlled destruction, his every movement a declaration of dominance. To choose the Path of War, to walk any road even remotely similar to his, would be political and personal suicide. The hierarchy of Paths was as rigid as the nobility. A higher-ranked individual on the same Path could exert a form of resonant suppression, a subtle but undeniable pressure that could weaken your abilities, make your own power feel sluggish and insubordinate in their presence. To be forever living in the shadow of my brother's Path, to feel my own hard-won power buckle under the weight of his… that was a form of servitude I would not accept.
I moved to the window, staring out at the spires of Aethelgard, gleaming like shards of bone under the setting twin suns of Aurora. My reflection was a ghost superimposed on the cityscape—a blond-haired, amber-eyed young man with a tension in his jaw that never quite left. My fingers went unconsciously to the cool, smooth surface of the jade key resting against my sternum. It was my one tangible connection to my mother, a simple, dark green key of an unknown make, hung on a thin, unbreakable platinum chain. Strange, angular writing, a language lost to the Betrayal of history, was carved along its length. It was my secret, my reminder of a love that was pure in a world of calculation.
"Alright, Adam," I whispered, my breath fogging the cool glass. "Think. What is your move?"
I began to pace, the confined space of my room feeling smaller with every turn. The Path of the Mind Weaver was a possibility. It was a Path of psychic energy, mental assaults, and illusion. It was subtle, powerful, and would allow me to circumvent the brute-force dominance of the War Path. But it was also notoriously unstable. The texts spoke of Mind Weavers losing their grasp on reality, their consciousness unraveling like old thread. The risk of becoming a Hollow was statistically higher. Furthermore, the current Grand Inquisitor was a Rank 5 Mind Weaver, a man whose gaze was said to feel like insects crawling inside your skull. Trading one overseer for another held little appeal.
Then there was the Vertex Path. A Path of pure spatial manipulation. Teleportation, pocket dimensions, bending distance. It was incredibly rare and versatile. But its rituals were shrouded in mystery, its requirements obscure. Attempting it without a dedicated, high-ranking mentor was akin to signing your own death warrant. I had no such mentor. No one in the royal family had awakened to the Vertex Path in over a century. It was a gamble with impossibly long odds.
My pacing stopped. My eyes fell upon the data-slate on my desk, its screen dark. There was another option. One I had been circling for weeks. The Rune Smith Path.
It wasn't a Path of direct, flashy combat. It was a Path of creation, of inscription. A Rune Smith channeled power not through their body alone, but through intricate, temporary runes they could inscribe on their own skin, their weapons, even the air itself. They could enhance their strength, harden their skin into stone, wreathe their blades in fire, or create shields of solidified light. Their power was limited only by their knowledge, their reservoir of energy, and the sheer, agonizing focus required to write perfect runes under duress.
The advantages were manifold. Firstly, resources. A skilled Rune Smith was invaluable. They could create powerful artifacts, enhance weapons and armor, and were perpetually in demand by the military and the nobility. I would never want for the funds or materials needed for my own advancement. Secondly, no direct counter. Valerius, or any other War Path user, could not suppress me. Our power sources were fundamentally different. I would be outside his sphere of influence.
But the main reason, the one that made my heart beat a little faster, was my uncle.
Lord Kaelen, Grand Duke of the Western Reaches. My mother's brother.
He was a Rank 7 Rune Smith.
The title of Grand Duke was immense, placing him just below the Archdukes and the direct royal line. He commanded respect, armies, and territory. More importantly, he was one of the few people in the entire Monarchcy who treated my mother with genuine affection and saw me not as a political piece, but as his nephew. His influence was the primary shield that had protected my mother and me from the more vicious machinations of the court. If I walked the same Path as him, I would have a guide. A true mentor. Someone I could trust, as much as anyone could be trusted in this den of wolves. His support would be invaluable, a lifeline in the treacherous waters of royal politics and Path advancement.
The decision crystallized within me, hard and clear as diamond. It was the right choice. The smart choice. The only choice.
"Rune Smith," I said aloud, the words feeling right, settling into the empty spaces of my soul.
I activated my data-slate, the screen flaring to life. I navigated past the theory texts and combat manuals to a secure, encrypted messaging channel, one that was a direct line to my uncle's personal terminal. My fingers flew over the holographic keypad, the message brief and to the point, encoded with a cipher he had taught me himself.
Uncle Kaelen,
My Path Trial is in five days. I have made my decision. I will attempt to awaken to the Rune Smith Path. I believe it is my best chance for a future of strength and independence. I would value your counsel.
Adam.
I sent the message, the data packet whisking away into the secure networks. A sense of resolve, quieter and deeper than the fire of battle, filled me. This was it. The first concrete step.
I began to mentally catalogue the supplies I would need for the ritual. The academy provided a baseline kit, but for a targeted awakening, specific components were required. A stylus of purified Void-touched silver, for the initial inscription. A vial of grinding dust from a geomantic focus crystal, to anchor the runes to reality. A small brazier and incense made from the petrified wood of a World Tree sapling, to purify the space and attract the correct conceptual energies. I started making a list on a fresh screen, my mind fully engrossed in the practicalities.
Then, my personal comm-unit, a sleek, black device on my wrist, vibrated with an insistent, priority pulse. The screen identified the caller: Kaelen.
He had responded immediately. A flutter of nervous anticipation stirred in my gut. I accepted the call, raising my wrist to my face.
"Uncle."
"Adam." His voice was a warm, rich baritone, but it was layered with a tension I rarely heard. It was the voice of a man used to command, but now it was edged with concern. "Your message… are you certain about this?"
"I am," I said, my voice firm. "I've considered all the variables. The War Path is untenable. The Mind Weaver is too risky. The Vertex Path is an unknown. The Rune Smith Path offers me everything: independence, resources, and your guidance."
There was a long pause on the other end, filled only by the faint static of the encrypted line. I could almost hear him thinking, weighing his words.
"Adam, listen to me," he began, his tone becoming earnest, persuasive. "The Rune Smith Path is not what you think. It is not a safe harbor. It is a path of immense mental strain. Every rune you inscribe is a contract with cosmic forces. A single flawed line, a moment of doubt, and the feedback can shatter your mind or worse. The rituals for advancement are perilous, requiring rare and dangerous components from the deepest parts of the Void Realm. The political games… they don't stop. They just change. You become a prize to be captured, a resource to be controlled. As my nephew and heir-apparent to my Path, that target on your back would only grow larger."
"I understand the risks, Uncle," I replied, my gaze fixed on the jade key in my reflection. "But the risks of being weak, of being a pawn, are greater. I am not seeking a safe harbor. I am seeking a sword I can forge myself."
"Your determination does you credit, boy," he said, a hint of pride warring with his worry. "But there are other swords. The Path of the Phantom Blade, as you've studied, is elegant and powerful. It would suit your skills."
"My mind is made up," I stated, leaving no room for argument. The silence stretched again, heavier this time.
Finally, he let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to travel across the continents between us. "Stubborn, like your mother. Very well. If your will is truly set, then you will need more than the academy's kit. Do you have your ritual chalk?"
"Yes."
"Draw the Sigil of Receptive Ground. The one I showed you when you were twelve. The nine-pointed star within the circle of containment. Do it now. I will wait."
Intrigued and slightly unnerved, I retrieved a stick of pure white ritual chalk from a locked drawer in my desk. Kneeling on the floor, I pushed the rug aside and began to draw on the smooth, dark stone. My movements were precise, my hand steady. The circle came first, a perfect ring of white. Inside it, I carefully inscribed the nine-pointed star, each point touching the inner edge of the circle. It was a symbol of openness, of a prepared vessel waiting to be filled.
As I completed the final line, the sigil began to glow with a soft, silver light. The air in the room grew thick, charged with static.
"Done," I said.
"Step back," my uncle instructed.
I did. And then, the center of the sigil rippled like the surface of a pond. The air tore open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing not a void, but a glimpse of a vast, star-filled library. A figure stepped through the rift, and it sealed behind him without a trace.
Lord Kaelen, Grand Duke of the Western Reaches, stood in my bedchamber.
He was, as always, a man who commanded a room without uttering a word. He looked to be in his prime, perhaps in his late thirties, though I knew he was decades older. His face was handsome and sharp-featured, with a strong jaw and laugh lines around his piercing blue eyes that spoke of a humor he rarely showed in court. His hair was a thick, unruly mane of jet black, streaked with a single, dramatic shock of silver at the temple. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his frame muscular and powerful beneath his simple, but exquisitely tailored, dark grey travel clothes. He carried an air of immense, contained power, like a dormant volcano.
His blue eyes scanned my room, then settled on me, missing no detail—my training gear, the swords on the rack, the determined set of my shoulders.
"Adam," he said, his voice now a physical presence in the room.
"Uncle," I bowed my head slightly. "A spatial translocation… I didn't know you could travel such distances so precisely."
"A perk of reaching the higher ranks of my Path," he said dismissively, his gaze intense. "We do not have much time. This little jaunt is… energetically noticeable to those who know how to look. I ask you one last time, nephew. Reconsider. Choose the Phantom Blade. It is a fine Path. You will be strong, and you will be free of my particular web of obligations."
I met his gaze squarely, letting him see the unyielding resolve in my amber eyes. "My path leads to the Rune Smith, Uncle. I wish to walk it beside you."
He searched my face for a long moment, and then, finally, he nodded, a gesture of grim acceptance. "So be it. The will of the aspirant is the first and most important ingredient. If I cannot dissuade you, then I will ensure you are as prepared as possible."
He raised his right hand, and the air beside him shimmered. A small, temporary subspace portal, no larger than a dinner plate, swirled into existence. He reached into it and pulled out a small object.
It was a trinket, seemingly unremarkable. A flat, grey disc of what looked like stone, about the size of my palm. It was smooth and cool to the touch when he handed it to me. Its surface was blank.
"This is not a part of the standard ritual," Kaelen said, his voice low and serious. "Listen carefully. The official ritual for the Rune Smith Path is complex. You inscribe the six primary runes on your body with the silver stylus, using the geomantic dust as a catalyst. You light the brazier, chant the Oath of the First Inscription, and hold the concept of 'creation' and 'law' in your mind. If successful, the Void will grant you the Path, branding the six runes permanently onto your skin, and you will return to this world within hours."
I nodded, familiar with the theory.
"But," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "that ritual is for those whose affinity is naturally aligned. Your bloodline, Adam, resonates with the War Path. It is your inheritance from your father's side. To force a different Path, especially one as conceptually opposed to pure destruction as the Rune Smith, requires a… more robust method. A trial by fire."
He gestured to the stone disc in my hand. "This is a Rune Seed. A concept anchor. When you enter the Void Realm, you will perform the standard Rune Smith ritual. But the moment you complete the sixth rune, you must press this seed against your chest. It will not grant you the Path. Instead, it will initiate a secondary, far more dangerous process."
A cold trickle of apprehension ran down my spine. "What process?"
"It will write the foundational schema of the Rune Smith Path directly onto your soul and body," he explained, his blue eyes gleaming. "But the Void will see this as an imposition, an act of defiance. It will reject the clean, quick awakening. Instead of six runes, you will be marked with dozens. Temporary, unstable runes will cover your body—your arms, your legs, your torso, your neck. They will be the basic, unformed glyphs of our Path: Strength, Endurance, Perception, and others."
He leaned forward, his presence overwhelming. "Your trial will no longer be about a single ritual. Your trial will be survival. You must survive in the Void Realm, with these volatile runes etched upon you, for seven days. The runes will be active, but unstable. They may flare with power one moment and fade the next. They will act as a beacon to the lesser Void Beasts, drawn to the raw, unbound energy. You must protect them. If a single rune is scuffed, scratched, or written over—even slightly—by an external force, the entire schema will collapse. The Rune Seed will shatter, and you will be ejected from the Void Realm, having failed. You will have to attempt another ritual for another Path later, your spirit weakened by the failure."
Seven days. The standard trial lasted hours. Seven days in that hostile, alien landscape, with a target painted on me in glowing, fragile ink.
"The runes will be your only tools," Kaelen said, his voice relentless. "You must learn to read them, to feel their flow, to use the bursts of power they grant you to stay alive. It is the hardest way to awaken, but also the most profound. If you succeed, your foundation in the Rune Smith Path will be unshakable. You will have earned your power in blood and focus. You will have defied your bloodline and claimed your own destiny."
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "This is the true path of the Rune Smith. It is not about safe creation in a workshop. It is about imposing your will, your order, upon the chaos of the Void itself. Can you do that, Adam? Can you survive?"
My heart was a drum in my chest. This was far more than I had bargained for. It was a nightmare scenario. But as I looked at my uncle, at the fierce pride and deep concern in his eyes, and then at the blank stone disc in my hand, I felt that same resolve harden. This was the price. This was the challenge. It was a test worthy of a prince who refused to be a pawn.
"I can," I said, my voice steady. "I will."
A genuine, sharp-toothed smile finally broke through my uncle's grim demeanor. "Good." He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Then I have given you all I can. The rest is up to you. Remember: protect the runes. They are your lifeline and your vulnerability. Use your swords, use your wits, but most of all, use the runes. Learn from them, even in their instability."
He stepped back, and the air began to tear open once more behind him. "I must go before I attract unwanted attention. Your mother would never forgive me if I got you vaporized by a rival before your Trial even began." His smile softened. "She believes in you, Adam. As do I. Survive. Come back a Rune Smith."
With a final, powerful look, he stepped back into the shimmering spatial rift, and it vanished, leaving the room silent and still once more. The Sigil of Receptive Ground on the floor was now inert, just simple chalk lines.
I looked down at the Rune Seed. It felt heavier now, imbued with the weight of my future. I carefully placed it in a secure pouch on my belt, where it would be within instant reach.
Then, a strange sensation began to crawl over my skin. A faint, prickling heat. I looked at my right arm. Faint, silvery lines, like ghostly tattoos, began to shimmer into existence, tracing patterns I didn't yet understand. They spread up my arm, across my shoulders, and down my legs. I pulled down the collar of my shirt and saw the same ethereal script coiling around my neck. They were faint, barely visible, but they were there. A preview. A promise of the trial to come.
They were not yet real, not yet binding. But in five days, they would be.
A sudden, fierce energy surged through me. Theory was over. Lists of supplies were secondary. My uncle had given me the truth of my journey, and it was a truth of combat.
I strode to my weapons rack and took up Resolve and Remembrance. Their familiar weight was a comfort. The ritual components could wait. The lists could wait.
I had to train. Not just the dance of blades against holograms, but the brutal, enduring art of survival. I had to prepare my body and mind for seven days of hell.
I left my quarters,ready to train survival my modt pressing concern.