chapter 10-threads of power
The ruins faded behind them like a half-remembered nightmare.
Neither spoke for hours.
They moved in silence through a stretch of pale forest where the trees grew taller and skeletal, their bark bleached white by wind and time. The quiet was disturbed only by the crackle of dry leaves and the occasional whisper of distant water.
Arthur's head reeled—not with fear, but with questions. His limbs still ached from yesterday's flight, and his bones still hummed from the impact of Lysaria's magic.
He had seen her battle before.
But never like this.
Not with that kind of precision. That kind of authority. As though every motion she performed was sliced from years of merciless training, of sacrifice—of pain.
They camped that evening under the arms of a dead willow, its roots stretched out like fingers to the stars. The fire burned low. The silence was too loud.
So he asked.
Your magic," Arther said, watching the fire. "What was that back there? What kind of magic was that?"
Lysaria didn't look up immediately. She sat cross-legged across from the fire, re-wrapping the cloth around her right hand—scorched somewhat from deflecting aether with her bare hand.
"Structured casting," she said. "Second-cycle Elven Form."
He blinked. "That doesn't tell me anything."
"I know," she said with a slight smile.
He bent forward, his voice stern. "Then make it mean something."
She exhaled through her nose and gazed into the flames for a long while before responding.
"There are all manner of mages in Eryndor. Some draw from Essence directly. Some through catalysts. Others through contract, pact, divine fragment, blood, song, memory…";
She traced a rune absently in the ashes next to her.
Mine is sigil-based. I craft spells through a script inscribed into the aether—anchored by what we call Forms. Patterned order. If I draw the wrong line, or speak the wrong word, the spell falls apart—or worse, backfires."
Arther frowned. "So. you're writing words into magic?
"Kind of. It's language. But also art, mathematics, and intention. Think of it as a web. Every spell is a knotted weave—every knot must be symmetrical in mind and spirit."
"Is that why your magic distorts other spells?"
She nodded. "It's not so much power. It's redirection. Rebinding energy to fit my forms. It's not flashy, but it's hard to counter. Most enemies don't know how to read my spells before it's too late."
Arther leaned back against a root. "And how long did it take you to master that?"
Lysaria gave a humorless laugh. "Sixteen years. Eight teachers. Two deaths I caused. One vow I can never abandon."
He turned. "What promise?"
Her voice was soft. "I vowed never to use magic to kill a child—no matter what the circumstances."
Arther blinked. "That's. oddly specific."
"It was not hypothetical."
Silence again.
At last, he broke the silence.
"May I know what you do?"
Lysaria shook her head. "Not what I do. It's not work—it's resonance. Sigil magic is attunement to certain frequencies in the ley-web. Only elves can tap the Sylvan Layer. Your body would reject the inscriptions."
He nodded slowly. "So. if I'm going to master what's in me, I need to find a whole other way."
"Yes."
Arther swallowed. "Then I hope the Seer's helpful."
The fire crackled between them.
And then Arther asked the question that had been brewing since the beginning.
"Who are the gods?"
Lysaria didn't answer for a long, long time.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because she didn't know how.
Finally, she said, "That word doesn't mean what you think it means. Not anymore."
"Try me."
She leaned forward, elbows on knees.
There were twelve of them once. Not gods—not as your world portrays them. They weren't worshiped in temples. They weren't omnipotent. But they were. greater than us. Transcendent of the mortal cycle. Beings bound to laws so old, they were the very cornerstones of our world."
Arther did not speak a word.
She continued. "They didn't rule as much as they governed. They didn't impose so much as decide. They chose to leave. There are leftovers—artifacts, texts, myths. But no firsthand knowledge. No voices. No presence. Not anymore."
"They vanished?"
"No," she said. "They retreated. There's a difference."
"Why?"
Lysaria's eyes narrowed into the flames.
"That is the question, isn't it?"
She took up a fragment of dry bark, fed it to the fire.
The most widespread theory is the Pact. That they anticipated something coming—something that would reverse their order. So they left. Or barricaded themselves in. The Church of the Twelve claims they watch us still, from the far side of the Veil."
"And you?"
"I think if they're still watching, they're doing so with their eyes closed."
Arther stared into the fire for a long time.
Then said, in a low voice, "The man who gave me the shard. he wasn't one of the Twelve."
"No," Lysaria said right away. "That much I can tell you."
"How do you know?"
"Because the Twelve were bound by rules. Laws of balance. And whatever is inside you—it doesn't balance anything. It consumes."
The wind shifted.
Ash fell across the coals.
Lysaria said one thing more before sleep took them.
"You're not part of the world's design, Arther."
"I know."
"No. You don't. Which means you're not held by its restrictions."
A pause.
"That's either a blessing. or the end of everything."
[End of Chapter 10]