The afternoon sunlight slanted through the high windows of the study, falling across the gray-white stone floor in fragments of soft blue. The curtains had been drawn half-open; the pearlscale veil swayed gently in the breeze, like a thin, luminous membrane on water. The air in the room felt cleaner than in the morning, carrying a faint trace of sea salt drifting in from the inner courtyard.

  Ryan was already waiting.

  He stood by the long table, where a sheet of parchment lay spread out. Beside it were a few simple tools: a slender volcanic glass needle, a small vial of obsidian powder, a cup of clear water, and two prepared whale-bone tablets—each about the size of a palm, smooth-surfaced, with a faint milky sheen along the edges.Ian entered first, footsteps light and quick. His silver-white short hair caught the sunlight in tiny glints. He placed the spiral shell he had picked up yesterday carefully on the table, like offering a treasure.

  “Teacher, I’m ready!” he said, excitement still lingering from the seaside.

  Lorne followed more quietly. He set the fan-shaped shell beside his brother’s. In the sunlight, the silver veins inside shimmered faintly, as though brushed by light.

  Iris did not come in. She paused for a moment at the doorway, watching the backs of her two children, then turned and left. Her cloak trailed across the corridor stone with the softest whisper.

  Ryan did not speak at once. He first pushed the two whale-bone tablets toward them.

  “No need for your shells yet,” he said. “First learn how to carve on a blank surface.”

  He picked up the volcanic glass needle and drew a shallow line across one tablet. He used almost no force, yet a thin silver-blue line immediately surfaced, as if lit from within the bone.

  “Runes have many shapes,” he said, “but the most basic ones never stray from three elements: straight lines, arcs, and points.”

  Ian tilted his head. “What shapes are there, Teacher?”

  Ryan sketched several simple diagrams on the parchment with quick strokes.

  Triangle — attack, sharpness, penetration

  Circle — defense, cycle, stability

  Square — structure, solidity

  Pentagon — amplification, harmony, balance

  Hexagon — precision, resonance, connection

  Octagon — extreme reinforcement, multi-layered operation

  Spiral — dynamic casting, infinite amplification

  Cross — balance, distribution, domain control

  “Shape determines the character of the spell,” he said.

  He drew a second line—this time an arc. The line curved across the bone like a crescent moon. The silver-blue veins extended along it, intersecting the first straight line to form a small L-shape. The light pulsed faintly across the surface, as though the bone had come alive for a moment.

  “These three—straight, arc, point—combine to become the foundation of all runes.”

  Ian leaned closer, blue eyes wide, breath quickening.

  “Just like that?” he asked. “No incantation? No hand gestures?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “The rune itself is symbolic meaning. To activate it, you must infuse mana. Incantations and gestures come together at that moment.”

  He handed the glass needle to Ian. The needle felt cool and smooth in the palm, its tip refracting a faint red gleam in the sunlight.

  “Try it. Draw a straight line first.”

  Ian took the needle; his fingers trembled slightly. He drew a deep breath and pressed the tip to the whale-bone tablet, moving slowly.

  The line came out crooked.

  The silver-blue vein appeared for only a short segment before breaking, like smoke scattered by wind.

  Ian frowned.

  “Why did it break?”

  “You have to want it to be straight,” Ryan said. “Not force it with your hand. Relax. Let the needle move on its own.”

  Ian tried again. This time the line was steadier, but the end still wavered, the light vein stuttering in places like a thread pulled too tight.

  Lorne took the needle next.

  He did not take a deep breath or tense his shoulders. He simply placed the tip lightly against the bone.

  No hesitation. No force.

  The needle glided as though carried by a gentle current across still water.

  A perfect straight line appeared.

  The silver-blue vein glowed steadily from end to end, smooth and unbroken, like a thread of light awakening inside the bone.

  Ian’s mouth fell open.

  “Cool! Teach me that!”

  Ryan looked at the line; a flicker of surprise passed through his eyes, brief and almost imperceptible.

  “Very good,” he said.

  He slid the second whale-bone tablet toward Ian.

  “Try a few more times.”

  “Remember—your intent must be clear.”

  Ian bit his lip and took the needle again.

  This time he didn’t breathe deeply or tense up. He simply set the tip down and let it move.

  The line was still crooked, but more complete than before. The light vein broke twice but eventually connected.

  Ian exhaled and grinned.

  “Progress!”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Now you understand,” he said. “Runes are not drawn.”

  “They are allowed to appear.”

  He took his own glass needle and swiftly drew an arc on a fresh whale-bone tablet. The line curved into a small circle. The silver-blue vein stabilized, glowing steadily like an unbroken ring of thin light.

  “This is a basic circle,” he said.

  Ian stared at the ring, eyes sparkling.

  “I want to try again!”

  Ryan smiled faintly.

  “You have the rest of the afternoon to practice.”

  “Draw a circle.”

  Ryan had gone to fetch the dragonfly.

  Only Ian remained at the long table, head lowered in fierce concentration as he carved runes. Silver-blue veins of light flickered and stuttered across the whale-bone tablet like small fish struggling in shallow water. Ian’s fingers gripped the volcanic glass needle tightly; a fine sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. His silver-white short hair caught the sunlight in tiny glints, several strands clinging damply to his forehead. His breathing came quick and excited—each time the light vein broke, he let out a soft “tch” under his breath, then immediately adjusted his posture, trying to steady the line.

  Lorne’s gaze rested on that trembling straight line, and a quiet, tender smile rose in his chest. He could feel the purity of his brother’s full immersion—the way Ian leaned forward, the linen short robe’s collar loosening slightly from the motion, revealing a glimpse of sweat-glistened collarbone. In that moment, Ian looked like a small flame burning bright yet unsteady.

  But Lorne soon turned his attention back to the tools in his own hands.

  The volcanic glass needle gleamed with a faint red sheen in the sunlight, its body smooth as flowing water. The whale-bone tablet gave off a soft milky luster that shifted with the angle of his fingers, like thin ice floating on a pond. Lorne lowered his head and let his thoughts sink slowly, like a stone dropped into deep water—the surface rippling faintly. The warmth of his palm transferred through the needle to the bone, a tiny point of contact that felt like mutual testing: the bone warmed subtly in response, as though acknowledging his stillness.

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  He thought of bone carvings from Earth—the traces left by ancient civilizations and cultures: tribal animal-bone engravings, city-state decorative plaques, temple ivory reliefs. Every piece carried more than decoration; it held human intent and skill, lines either intricate or simple, yet all conveying a sense of order and purpose. In his mind, Lorne quietly reflected: perhaps this was the earliest form of magic and shape merging—a flowing order.

  “Why can I draw patterns…?” he murmured inwardly.

  He placed the needle’s tip lightly against the whale-bone tablet; his fingers trembled ever so slightly, yet exerted almost no pressure. The silver-blue vein extended with his intent, like an invisible current guiding it forward. He simply remained still, acting as a vessel, allowing mana to flow naturally through the needle and bone. Thought, material, energy—three elements in quiet harmony, like water fitting perfectly into its container: simple, yet flawless.

  His fingers adjusted their grip on the needle very slightly as he pictured the shape of a rune in his mind. Straight lines, arcs, points… and the triangles, circles, spirals Ryan had shown earlier—each form a grammar of magic, carrying symbolic meaning while channeling real power. The light vein wavered gently across the bone, like ripples stirred by a soft breeze on still water, echoing the image in his mind.

  Suddenly, a thought struck him like an out-of-control carriage: What if I try a pattern this world has never seen?

  Snowflake.

  This world had no snow. Northern cities never saw it fall; the climate seemed to have a hard lower limit. Yet the image in his mind was crystal clear: six radiating arms, symmetrical yet unique, each branch splitting into finer sub-branches like tiny rivers guiding mana in different directions. The light in his head flashed pure and cold, like ice water—chilly yet perfectly ordered.

  He did not act immediately.

  He closed his eyes first, letting the image form completely in his mind. Six primary arms spread from the center; each divided into six secondary arms, symmetrical but never rigid, like naturally grown crystal. He felt mana tremble faintly at his fingertips—drawn to this unfamiliar shape, yet hesitating whether to follow.

  Lorne opened his eyes.

  He slowly extended his hand and placed the needle’s tip against the whale-bone tablet. In his mind, the snowflake’s sixfold branches took shape. At first the light vein flowed unsteadily, tugged by his intent in fits and starts, but he did not panic or hurry. His mind remained calm and focused. The vein grew outward from the center, branching layer by layer, each line balanced and echoing the others. Silver-blue light shimmered across the bone’s surface, carrying a faint chill, as though frost had crystallized under morning sun.

  He lifted the needle.

  He looked down at the finished work.

  The snowflake pattern lay quietly glowing on the whale-bone tablet. The silver-blue veins no longer flickered; they had solidified like true crystal, edges so fine they showed no tremor. The tablet felt cool to the touch, as though it had just been taken from a nonexistent field of snow. He brushed a finger along the edge—smooth, cold, perfect.

  Ian was still focused on his own straight line and hadn’t noticed.

  Lorne did not call out to him.

  He simply gazed at his snowflake, the faintest smile touching his lips—not excitement, but a quiet confirmation.

  This world had no snow.

  Yet he had made a snowflake.

  And it had not shattered.

  Lorne stared at the cold blue light beneath his fingertip, his heartbeat quickening in the midst of calm.

  He realized he had crossed an invisible boundary. This snowflake was not merely a pattern; it was a pure, alien sense of order that did not belong to this world. It was so perfect that it felt utterly out of place in this study filled with the scent of sea salt.

  He quickly covered the snowflake with his fingertip, trying to soothe the unnatural chill with his body heat.

  At that moment, steady bootsteps echoed from the corridor.

  Ryan pushed open the door, holding a cage woven from fine metal wire. Inside, a dragonfly with transparent wings buzzed restlessly in emerald green. He scanned the long table, his gaze lingering for a moment on Ian—who was still struggling—before settling on Lorne’s folded hands.

  “Ian, stop,” Ryan said, setting the cage down. His tone was calm but left no room for argument. “Your hand is already shaking.”

  Ian let out a relieved breath and dropped the glass needle, shaking his hand vigorously. “Teacher, I feel like I’m about to drill straight through this bone!”

  Ryan did not smile.

  He stepped closer to Lorne, halting half a pace from the table. The air in the study seemed to thicken; Lorne felt Ryan’s “lucid focus” brush across the back of his hand like the edge of a blade.

  “Lorne,” Ryan said, his voice dropping slightly lower, “move your hand away.”

  Lorne paused for a moment, then slowly raised his palm.

  The snowflake pattern on the whalebone plate was clearly visible—silver-blue lines condensing into a crystalline lattice, silent and still. It radiated a cold, lucid glow that made the warm afternoon sunlight seem impossibly distant. That faint chill was tangible, like frost blooming on glass inside a room that should have been warm.

  Ryan narrowed his eyes. He did not touch the plate. Instead, he leaned forward just enough to study the pattern while maintaining a careful distance. For a long while, no one spoke. The dragonfly in its cage fluttered its wings once, then twice—before going completely still, as if it, too, had sensed something amiss.

  Ryan slowly exhaled. “Well,” he said softly, “that is not one of the patterns I taught you.”

  Lorne met his gaze without moving a muscle. “No,” he replied. “It isn’t.”

  When Ryan left the study, his steps remained steady. He stopped at the corner of the corridor, his back to the room. His shoulders sank slightly, as though setting down an invisible burden. Then he went completely still. Deep within his pupils, a nearly transparent silver light appeared—not a human gleam, but a lunar refraction within crystal.

  In that moment, the God of Knowledge, Sera, made brief use of this vessel.

  It was not possession, but a glance. The silver light withdrew as quickly as a receding tide. Ryan blinked, his expression settling back into its familiar mix of weariness and focus. He turned and called from outside the door: “Lorne. Come with me. The Library of Knowledge.”

  Ryan led Lorne through the cloisters at a pace ill-suited for a palace. This was not haste; it was a deliberate shortening of the window in which they could be noticed. The Library soon came into view—a polished slab of bedrock devoid of decoration, encircled by a dense band of runes. In Valian City, where the God-King’s laws forbade altars within the walls, this archive was Sera’s only foothold—a sanctum hidden in plain sight.

  Ryan stopped at the door. “You go in alone,” he whispered. “I can’t go any farther. From here on, it’s His affair.”

  1. Pilot Whale-bone

  3. Obsidian Powder Uses: Used to fill in engravings. Once a rune is engraved, fine obsidian powder increases the stability of the light veins, allowing them to retain their shape for a longer period after mana is depleted, preventing them from easily dissipating.