The forest around us pulsed faintly, leaves rustling not from the wind but from the fading energy of the summoned treant. We had moved to a secure outcropping of rock, overlooking the cracked battlefield below. There, twisted husk bodies lay still, burnt and impaled by thorny branches and spectral roots.
I leaned against the cold stone wall, watching the sky dim into twilight. My legs ached, my eyes heavy from the stress of the day, but Father was crouched nearby, humming as he cleared a flat patch of dirt. A precise circle formed under his fingers. Not a rune this time—this was different.
"You're going to teach me something, aren't you?" I asked, already smiling despite my exhaustion.
He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Would you rather sleep?"
I shook my head.
"Good," he said, gesturing for me to come closer. "You need to know the differences between the three written languages of power. Especially now."
I dropped beside him, watching carefully as he used a faint shimmer of aura to draw lines in the earth. "This… is a sigil," he said.
A blazing mark formed, its curves aggressive and swift—almost like a claw swipe frozen mid-motion. "Powered by aura. Fueled by force of will, physical energy, instinct. These are meant for warriors, for battlefields. Traps, enhancements, even reinforcement techniques rely on sigils."
I traced the mark slowly, feeling a faint hum through my fingers. "And the one you used to summon that treant?" I asked.
"That was a glyph," he replied. "Not mine originally. Learned it from a Druid woman with eyes like fog and hair like moss. Glyphs flow with anima—the breath of life and death. They're harder to learn unless you're attuned to the spirit world."
He then sketched a new pattern—this one curved, elegant, almost like natural vines spiraling together. It shimmered green for a heartbeat before fading.
"Glyphs work with instinct too, but they need a strong soul. And respect for balance. You force a glyph and you'll get backlash."
I nodded, recalling how the treant seemed more summoned than controlled. "So glyphs invite things... they don't command?"
"Exactly."
He then paused, his tone softening. "And then there's this."
With deliberate, methodical motion, Father inscribed a final shape into the earth. It was intricate, full of geometric precision. It took longer to draw, and I could feel the difference immediately.
"This is a rune," he said. "Powered by magic itself. The most stable, the most versatile. But also the most demanding."
The symbol flared a deep blue before vanishing. "Runes must be perfect," he added. "One wrong stroke, and they fail—or worse. That's why you rarely see them in a fight. Too slow. But in fortresses, arrays, wards—this is the language."
I took a breath, overwhelmed. "So sigils are aura, glyphs are anima, and runes are magic?"
"Correct." He looked at me proudly. "You remembered. Not bad for a forest rat."
I scoffed and shoved his arm lightly. "Better than forgetting the treant sigil and nearly getting us crushed."
He laughed. "I didn't forget. I calculated risk."
We both sat in silence for a while, staring into the quiet fire we'd built. Shadows danced across the nearby rocks, and somewhere, an owl cried.
My gaze wandered to my hand. I traced a mock glyph into the dirt beside me, trying to recall its curves. "Could I combine them?" I asked aloud. "One rune, one sigil, one glyph?"
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "That's a master's work. But… maybe one day. Some Archons and Elder Scholars have tried. Fusion casting is possible—but the energies clash unless perfectly harmonized. Still, with your gifts…" He let the sentence trail off.
With your gifts.
I thought of the way I'd sensed the treant's arrival before it appeared. The way I saw invisible symbols in the air around our home. The way Raven stirred when I imagined combining them.
She emerged from my shadow then, materializing in silence. Midnight black flames curled off her skin, veins of white lightning tracing her silhouette. She looked between the symbols on the dirt and me.
"This knowledge is precious," she said, her voice soft and layered. "But you'll need more than understanding. You'll need resonance. And resonance comes from being, not just knowing."
I looked up at her, puzzled.
She smiled. "You'll understand soon."
My father didn't seem surprised to see her now. In fact, he nodded slightly, as if expecting her.
"You have good guides, Igris," he said, standing up. "But don't forget—there is power in your hands as well."
I stood beside him, the sigils, glyphs, and runes still glowing faintly in my memory.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll teach you how to lay your first real ward. Not just a trap. A protective seal."
I grinned. "Can I choose the power source?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Only if you don't blow yourself up."
We laughed.
As the stars shimmered overhead and the shadows curled protectively around our camp, I knew one thing for certain:
This world was vast, dangerous, and layered with power—but I was learning. And I wasn't alone.