The chamber's eerie silence stretched between them. The masked figure stood at the threshold, his posture relaxed yet unreadable. Ryn's mind was still reeling from the strange whispers, the fragmented visions that had seeped from his inscription.
He clenched his fists. His work had spoken to him, but its meaning was elusive, just beyond his grasp. What did it want from him? What had he truly engraved?
The masked figure turned slightly, his voice smooth yet laced with an edge of expectation. "You are beginning to see the truth of inscriptions. They are not merely carvings upon stone, metal, or flesh. They are echoes—of intent, of power, of something far older than you can yet comprehend."
Ryn swallowed, his throat dry. "Then what must I do?"
The figure gestured toward the glowing symbols. "This is the first mark of your will, but it is raw, unrefined. You have force, but force alone cannot shape the world. To carve something truly lasting, you must grasp its full weight."
A wave of frustration rippled through Ryn. He had poured his energy into the inscription, shaping it through instinct, yet it was still lacking. It was not enough.
He stepped closer to the stone and placed his palm upon it again. The glow of his inscription flickered, responding to his touch. This time, he did not force his will upon it. He let himself feel.
The chamber seemed to narrow, the rest of the world fading into the background. A heartbeat pulsed through the symbols—his own, yet separate. The whispers returned, but softer this time, weaving through his thoughts like tendrils of mist.
You wish to impose your will.
But will is shaped by knowledge.
What do you truly seek?
Ryn's breath hitched. What did he seek? Revenge? Strength? Purpose? The words churned in his mind, but before he could answer, the whispers shifted.
The symbols beneath his palm flared, and suddenly, he was falling—not physically, but deeper, into something vast and unknowable. The feeling was both intoxicating and terrifying. For the first time, he sensed the enormity of the path ahead, the countless inscriptions carved throughout history, each carrying their own purpose, their own weight.
Then, as swiftly as it began, it ended. Ryn gasped, his vision clearing. He was back in the chamber, standing before the stone, the masked figure watching him closely.
A moment of silence passed before the figure spoke. "You felt it, didn't you?"
Ryn nodded slowly. "The weight. The… history."
The masked figure folded his arms. "Good. That is the first lesson. Engravings are not just techniques. They are not just weapons. They carry purpose. And now, you must decide what purpose yours will carry."
Ryn exhaled, his mind alight with thoughts. The test was not over. It had only just begun.
The weight of the inscription lingered on Ryn's palm, like an ember refusing to fade. He took a step back, his breathing uneven, his thoughts tangled. The sensation had been overwhelming—more than just an engraving, more than just power. It had been alive.
The masked figure's voice was steady. "You are beginning to grasp the essence of inscription, but understanding alone is not enough. If you cannot direct its purpose, the power will consume you."
Ryn clenched his jaw. "Then how do I control it?"
The figure raised a hand, tracing a faint pattern in the air. Symbols flickered into existence, intricate and deliberate. "Inscriptions are more than markings. They are echoes of will. To control them, you must first control yourself."
Ryn frowned, his mind flashing back to the moment the whispers had surged through him. He had felt a pull—something beyond his own understanding. Was it his own doubt? His own lack of direction?
He turned to the stone, where his engraving still pulsed. His fingers twitched. He had carved his defiance into it, but had he truly meant it?
"Again," the masked figure ordered.
Ryn inhaled sharply, then stepped forward. His fingers grazed the surface of the stone. This time, he did not let his frustration guide him. He let the memory of the whispers settle in his mind, let their questions coil around him.
What do you truly seek?
The question echoed within him. He could not silence it, nor could he ignore it.
Slowly, deliberately, he began to carve anew.
Each motion of his tool was measured, each symbol an extension of his thoughts. He was not simply etching lines into the stone—he was inscribing himself. His will. His purpose. He could feel the weight behind each stroke, the resonance of intent threading through the glyphs.
As the final mark was made, the stone shuddered.
A pulse of force rippled through the chamber, and the inscription came alive.
Ryn staggered back, his heart hammering. The air around the stone wavered, as if bending to the force of what had just been created. The whispers did not return, but something else did—a presence. A silent acknowledgment from the engraving itself.
The masked figure regarded the glowing symbols. "Better," he murmured. "But you are still far from mastery."
Ryn wiped sweat from his brow. He didn't need to be told that. He could feel it. This was only the beginning. He had taken another step, but the road ahead was long.
Still, something deep inside him stirred.
For the first time, he felt as though he had truly carved his intent into the world.