The newly formed rune glowed faintly on the altar's surface, its lines trembling like a flame in the wind. It was fragile. Imperfect. But it existed.
Aeron's breath was slow and steady as he stared at it. His arms trembled from exhaustion, sweat dampened his forehead, and his mind burned with an unfamiliar strain.
This single rune had taken everything he had.
Beside him, Segirus studied the rune in silence. His silver eyes reflected its glow, unreadable. Then, finally—
He erased it.
With a single motion, the rune vanished, leaving the altar smooth and unmarked.
Aeron's heart stopped. "What the hell are you doing?" His voice was hoarse with disbelief.
"You must do it again," Segirus said simply.
Aeron clenched his fists. "I just spent hours—"
"And you will spend days. Weeks. Years." Segirus met his gaze, his voice calm, yet absolute. "One rune is nothing. You must carve it a thousand times until it is flawless."
Aeron exhaled sharply, his frustration rising. But he knew arguing was pointless. Rune Magic was not easy. And Segirus was not the type to offer shortcuts.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped forward again.
"Fine."
---
The Second Attempt
Aeron placed his hand on the stone once more. The power within the altar pulsed beneath his fingers, waiting.
He focused, trying to recall the feeling from before—the delicate flow of energy, the pattern hidden beneath reality.
A flicker. A spark. The rune began to form.
Then—
Collapse.
A shockwave burst from the altar, knocking him back. The backlash wasn't as strong as before, but the failure still stung.
Aeron gritted his teeth.
Again.
He stepped forward, placed his hand down, and focused.
A flicker of energy—
Collapse.
His jaw tightened.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Minutes passed. Then hours. Each failure carved frustration deeper into his mind, like a knife against stone. Why was this so difficult?
By the time the sun had started setting, he had not created a single stable rune.
His hands shook. His breath was ragged. His legs ached.
And still, Segirus watched in silence.
Aeron turned to him, scowling. "Say something."
Segirus arched an eyebrow. "What do you want me to say?"
Aeron clenched his fists. "I don't know. Maybe that I'm improving?"
Segirus tilted his head slightly, as if considering. Then: "You are not."
Aeron's irritation flared. "Then what am I doing wrong?"
"You are rushing." Segirus stepped forward, tapping the altar. "You still do not understand the nature of the rune. You are treating it as a task to be completed, rather than a concept to be understood."
Aeron exhaled sharply. "Then explain it to me."
Segirus studied him for a long moment. Then, he finally spoke.
"Tell me, Aeron—do you know how a sword is forged?"
Aeron frowned at the sudden shift in conversation. "What does that have to do with—"
"Answer."
Aeron sighed. "Fine. You take metal, heat it, hammer it into shape, quench it, temper it."
Segirus nodded. "And if you rush the process?"
"The blade becomes brittle. It shatters."
Segirus gestured to the altar. "And yet, that is what you are doing now."
Aeron hesitated.
Segirus continued. "You want the rune to form instantly. But power without structure is nothing. You must shape it correctly, slowly, carefully—or it will collapse under its own weight."
Aeron clenched his fists. He hated to admit it, but Segirus was right.
His failures weren't because he lacked power. They were because he was impatient.
He closed his eyes. Took a slow breath.
Then he placed his hand on the altar once more.
This time, he did not rush.
He let the energy flow. Listened to its rhythm. Allowed the rune to take shape bit by bit, stroke by stroke.
A faint glow. A spark.
Then—
A rune.
It was small, incomplete, imperfect. But it was stable.
Aeron exhaled sharply. He could feel the difference.
Segirus nodded slightly. "Better."
Aeron stared at the rune, exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight. But beneath the fatigue, something else stirred—
A flicker of satisfaction.
---
Days of Failure, Moments of Progress
The days that followed were brutal.
Every morning, Aeron rose before the sun. Every night, he collapsed from exhaustion. His world became nothing but runes—carving, failing, carving again.
Most of the time, he failed.
Sometimes, he made progress.
The more he practiced, the more he began to feel the difference. When he rushed, the rune collapsed. When he shaped it with care, it held.
Slowly—painstakingly—he improved.
And then, one night, as the moon hung high above the forest—
The rune did not fade.
Aeron stared at it, his breath caught in his throat. It was small, but perfectly formed.
The first stable rune.
He turned to Segirus, expecting some sign of approval. But the old rune master simply nodded. "Now, you begin to understand."
Aeron exhaled, exhaustion pressing into his bones.
He had thought this would be easy. He had been wrong.
Rune Magic was not a power to be wielded—it was a discipline to be mastered.
And he had only taken the first step.
---
The Path Ahead
As Aeron sat beneath the night sky, his hands still tingling with the remnants of energy, he realized something.
This was the hardest thing he had ever done.
He had faced death. He had survived impossible battles. But none of it had tested him like this.
Rune Magic was not just power. It was understanding.
It was the first time he had ever needed patience. The first time he had ever needed control.
And deep down, he knew—
If he failed to master this, he would never be strong enough to face what lay ahead.