Soon after my time with Master Dragan Voss, I began noticing how silence carried meaning even without battle. Every word my masters used had weight — every sentence seemed to shape thought itself.
When Elder Aarion came to me one evening, he saw the curiosity on my face and smiled. "You have learnt how to lead, fight, heal, and create," he said. "Now, it is time to learn how to speak—not with a tongue alone, but with truth."
He gestured toward the northern jungle, where the trees grew taller than towers. "Go to the library that has no walls. The one who guards it will wait."
At sunrise, I began walking. The deeper I went, the louder the forest became — leaves rustling, birds calling, the wind whispering words I couldn't understand. Finally, I reached a wide clearing filled with floating scrolls, ancient books, stone tablets, and hovering symbols of light.
At the centre of it all, sitting cross-legged atop a stone platform, was a man who looked both young and old. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined. His robe was ink-black, covered with glowing runes that shifted like words rewriting themselves. He held a small quill that never seemed to touch paper, yet lines of light formed in the air wherever it moved.
"You're late, Mukul Sharma," he said without looking up. "Though perhaps on time from another point of view."
"You know me?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "I know everyone who has ever been written."
Elder Aarion's voice echoed beside me, filled with reverence. "Meet Master Elior Nareth, the Keeper of Words. He is the oldest storyteller in all realms. It was his hand that carved the first rune and wrote the first promise between men and gods. Some call him "The Sage of Echoes"; others, "The Librarian of Fate.
Elior set aside his quill, eyes glimmering gold behind round glass spectacles. "Titles, he said softly, "are just words too — and yet they hold more power than most armies. Sit, child."
I sat before him. Thousands of glowing scripts floated around us, each whispering faint phrases. "What are these voices?" I asked.
He smiled knowingly. "Thoughts—the words people never say aloud. The air remembers them. My job is to listen."
That was how his lessons began.
He started with the ancient arts—the study of the divine alphabet, the runes of creation. "Every sound carries vibration," he told me. "The universe itself was born from a word — not spoken, but felt."
He made me write symbols in sand while chanting tones that matched the rhythm of my breath. Each time I concentrated, the symbols shimmered as if alive. "Runes are not letters," he said. "They are laws clothed in sound."
When I asked him what he meant, he explained, "When you speak with truth, reality listens. When you lie, it closes its ears. This is why some words heal, and others destroy."
Then came his modern teachings. Inside the forest clearing, hidden panels glowed into life. From them emerged thousands of holograms — languages, computer codes, and equations dancing together.
"In your world," Elior said, "words evolved into data. Digital alphabets travel faster than thought now. But language — whether carved on stone or sent by satellite — always holds the same power: connection."
He taught me data linguistics, the art of combining digital code with emotional resonance — programming not machines, but meaning itself. "Coders and storytellers are the same," he said with a smile. "We both build worlds."
In another lesson, he made me write a short poem and asked me to speak it aloud. As I did, the ground beneath us rippled with faint light, the leaves of the forest glowing softly. "See?" he said. "Words don't end when spoken — they move. They create ripples the world responds to."
He told me how entire empires collapsed from lies and how civilisations rose because of promises kept. " The first wars, he said, "weren't fought with swords—they were fought with words."
When I struggled to understand how sentences could hold power, he chuckled. "Words are thoughts made visible, Mukul. You learnt to command soldiers. Someday you must learn to command hearts. For that, language will be your sword."
His strictness sometimes surprised me. One morning, I used a rune incorrectly, and it caused part of a floating book to burst into flame. Elior simply handed me another, saying calmly, "Rebuild what you break — that is the price of speech."
Late one night, under the glow of moonlight, I asked him why he came to Aarvak Island.
He leaned back, his voice soft and weary. "Because I spoke too much," he said. "My stories changed kings and gods. But in my pride, I wrote destinies I had no right to alter. So I came here to learn to listen again—to understand silence."
He turned to me, eyes gentle. "Creation begins with listening, not speaking."
By the end of my training, I had learnt his deepest technique — Word Weaving. It combined ancient runic sound and modern linguistic coding. A whisper spoken through it could inspire courage, heal despair, or even bend matter slightly — but only if the speaker's heart was pure. "Intent, Elior said, "is the soul of expression."
Before I left, he offered me his quill, glowing faintly with golden ink. "This is not a weapon," he said. "It is a reminder. Every word you write joins eternity. Be sure your voice adds peace, not noise."
I bowed low. "Thank you, Master Elior."
As I turned to leave, his voice followed softly through the tree shadows. "Remember, Mukul—when you lead the future, your worlds will not rest on war or wealth. They will rest on your words. Speak with care."
As I walked away from the forest library, the glowing scrolls slowly faded behind me, whispering sentences that sounded almost like blessings.
And that was how I met Elior Nareth — The Keeper of Words, the master who taught me that every truth begins as a whisper, that words shape worlds as surely as swords pierce them, and that silence — not noise — is the language of wisdom.