Spellcraft and Runes

Eric didn’t know what to expect when he finally arrived at his first class with Welyvyne, but he definitely hadn’t pictured this.

The room was half lecture hall, half arena. Rows of benches sloped downward in steps, each with narrow tables scarred from years of nervous carving and spilled ink. At the bottom, polished stone gleamed, a wide circle etched with runes that shimmered faintly as if the floor itself were breathing. Metal — actual inlaid metal — traced every line, catching the lamplight and humming under his boots.

On the far side stood five practice dummies. At first glance they looked like something dragged out of a medieval gymnasium, leather-skinned and blocky, but then Eric noticed the stitching. Each seam glowed faintly, runes stitched right into the hide like tattoos. It was the same strange leather as his belt and boots, only here it was shaped to take a beating.

Eric blinked, torn between awe and suspicion. So this was Spellcraft 101 — part lecture hall, part gladiator pit. Guess they didn’t want students just waving their hands around in a study cubicle.

There were already students scattered through the benches — some hunched over their slates, nervous and pale, others lounging like they’d been born here. Welyvyne moved to a spot near the top row, and Eric dropped beside her.

“Well,” Eric said, glancing around the room, “this exceeds expectations.”

Welyvyne’s lips curved faintly. “I didn’t know what to expect either. I’m one of the very few lowlanders to ever come to the Arcanum.”

Eric tilted his head toward her, curious. “Why is that? Does the Arcanum make it that hard for your people to enroll?”

She shook her head. “No. The Arcanum is fair. If a goblin wanted in, they’d be tested like anyone else. My people have schools of their own, just not ones built for artificing. We’re fighters and spellcasters, not scribes and craftsmen. Politics and professions — that’s more the high-elves’ world than ours.”

“Didn’t realize there was such a need for fighters,” Eric said. “But I guess every world needs its protectors. Your world just… has that culture embedded in its different peoples, then?”

Welyvyne tilted her head, studying him. “Yes, I suppose there’s truth to that. Does your world not do the same?”

Eric shrugged. “When you look at it, yeah — but the lines are a lot more blurred. We don’t have a population that’s mostly fighters. And we don’t have spellcasters at all.”

Her brows drew together. “Then how do you protect yourselves? How do you keep the monsters out?”

That earned a sudden laugh from Eric — loud enough that a few nearby students glanced over. More were filing in now, filling the benches with a steady murmur.

“We don’t have monsters,” he said, grin tugging wide. “Other than ourselves. And the things we make back home? They’d make magic here look like pillow fighting. Though—” his expression sobered, just a little, “—I haven’t really seen what serious spell casting can do yet. Or what a true spellcaster looks like in action. For all I know, your world’s version of ‘pillow fighting’ could level a city.”

Soon the professor strode in, his robes the most elaborate Eric had seen yet — deep blue trimmed with red, yellow runes stitched at the collar and cuffs. The collar rose high, framing a face paler than any elf Eric had seen, skin like polished marble. His eyes were piercing white, and his hair wasn’t quite white at all but a shifting opal sheen that caught the light when he moved.

In his hand he carried a long staff capped with an amber orb that glowed faintly, like firelight trapped in glass. The hum of conversation died the moment he crossed the threshold.

“Welcome, students,” he said, his voice smooth and clear, carrying effortlessly through the chamber. “I am Professor Orren Maelith. Today we will spend our time learning about your personal affinities. I will divide you into groups according to those affinities, so that you may practice with spells suited to your strengths.”

Eric’s stomach dropped. He shot Welyvyne a glance, panic flickering across his face. She returned it with an odd, unreadable look — part curiosity, part worry.

“Now, students,” Professor Orren continued, “when I call your affinity, you will come forward and stand where I stand.” He moved to a rune-marked circle on the polished floor, staff tapping once against the stone.

“Air.”

A cluster of students rose at once, some eager, some hesitant. Seven made their way down to stand before him, forming a loose line.

He shifted a few paces to the side. “Earth.”

Ten more students got up, footsteps echoing as they joined him.

Again, he moved. “Fire.”

Welyvyne stood this time, her eyes flicking toward Eric in a silent question before she went down with five others. The lines were taking shape now, each group neat and clear.

Orren raised his staff again. “Water.”

Four students stood and filed forward, the last of the obvious affinities claimed.

Eric remained seated. Alone.

The hush that followed was louder than the shuffling feet. A few students glanced back at him, brows furrowed, whispers rising at the edges. Eric forced himself to stay still, even as his pulse kicked harder in his chest.

Welyvyne glanced back up at him, her expression sharp with concern. The question on her face was plain enough, but she mouthed it anyway:What are you doing?

Eric gave the faintest shrug, palms flat on the table as if pinning himself there. I don’t know, he wanted to say. His throat had gone dry.

Down below, Professor Orren’s pale gaze swept the benches again. His staff clicked once against the stone. “And yet… one student remains seated.”

The whispering swelled. Dozens of eyes slid toward him.

Eric swallowed hard. “Aw, hell.”

Professor Orren’s pale eyes fixed on him. “Well,” he said smoothly, “I am certainly not going to guess. What is your affinity, young man?”

Eric pushed himself up from the bench, legs stiff, and made his way down toward the rune circle. His mouth felt dry, but he forced the word out anyway.

“Lightning.”

He thought he’d spoken softly. Apparently not. The sound carried through the hall like a spark across dry grass. Gasps rippled through the students, a wave of wide eyes and sharp whispers.

Orren’s lips curved, the faintest smile tugging against his composure. “Lightning.” He gave a low, amused chuckle, the kind that seemed to echo against the rune-etched floor. “Well then… it will be my pleasure to instruct you.”

“We are all in luck,” he announced, voice carrying smooth and unhurried. “Lightning stands apart. It belongs to two categories, and none at once. This student may draw upon fire and upon air, but his true gift lies in the fusion between them. Lightning is both—destructive and beautiful.”

Murmurs rippled through the benches, a mixture of awe, envy, and disbelief.

Eric blinked at him, shocked. No one at the Arcanum had talked him up like this — not once. He felt heat creep up his neck, a mix of pride he hadn’t tasted since leaving home and embarrassment at having it thrown on him in front of everyone.

Orren, of course, didn’t glance back. His words had been for the class, not for Eric. And that, somehow, made them feel heavier.

Professor Orren turned back to him, pale eyes steady.

“Do you have a spell you can demonstrate to the class? To show them what I mean. If not, I can teach you one.”

Eric froze, caught off guard. “I… I’ve got a couple. But I’m guessing you want something flashy.”

Orren’s mouth curved into a rare, wide smile. “Yes. Cast at one of the targets.” He gestured with his staff toward a rune-stitched dummy at the far end of the practice floor.

Eric straightened, pulse hammering, and lifted his hand. “My pleasure.”

He reached for the spell, pushing his mana harder than usual. Lightning gathered sharp and sudden, and before he had time to second-guess it, a thick arc snapped from his palm.

The flash lit the hall like midday. The boom followed an instant later — thunder rolling off stone walls.

The rune-stitched dummy staggered under the strike, unharmed but smoking, thin tendrils of gray rising from its seams.

Silence clung to the room, every eye fixed on Eric.

The professor blinked, mouth parting just slightly before he straightened. His gaze shifted from Eric to the rest of the class.

“Like I said,” he intoned, voice carrying easily through the hall, “beautiful… but destructive.”

Then his eyes cut back to Eric, his face unreadable.

“Let’s get settled into your groups,” Professor Orren said, his staff tapping once against the floor. His gaze shifted back to Eric. “What is your name, young man?”

“Eric Elwyn,” Eric replied, straightening a little.

A faint smile touched Orren’s lips. “Well, Eric… you may choose either the fire or the air group. But know this—” his opal hair caught the light as he inclined his head, “—I will be instructing you personally.”

Eric glanced toward Welyvyne, then back at the professor. “I’ll join fire. I’m sure you’re aware of my situation with Welyvyne.”

A ripple of giggles ran through the class, like they were all in on the same joke.

Professor Orren paused for a heartbeat, white eyes narrowing slightly as he recalled. Then he nodded once. “Ah. Yes. I remember very well. Please, join the fire group.”

As Eric crossed the floor to the fire group, Welyvyne’s eyes locked on him, disbelief plain on her face.

“What in the pits was that?” she hissed.

Eric rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Surprise.”

Her glare sharpened. “Why didn’t you tell me your affinity was Lightning?”

He met her look with a deadpan stare. “You didn’t ask. And besides—” he lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, “—I didn’t want to pry into yours either. Thought it might break some unspoken rule. I’m kinda touchy about rules right now.”

Welyvyne glanced at the smoking dummy, then back at him, her voice low but sharp. “That was a serious display of power. Not one of us could have matched it.”

Eric gave a casual shrug. “Lightning’s strong.”

Her glare deepened. “It is — but not that strong. That was a lot of mana, Eric. All of us felt it.”

“If a student did that,” Welyvyne pressed, her voice low and edged with concern, “they’d be on the floor. What is going on with you?”

Eric blinked at her, caught off guard by the seriousness in her tone. “Tell you what,” he said after a beat, keeping his voice just as low, “I’ll share some secrets after class. For now… not here.”

His eyes flicked around the room, and sure enough, more than a few students were leaning a little too close, ears straining. The kind of silence that meant people were listening.

The professor gave a measured nod, then began walking the rows with unhurried steps, staff tapping softly against the floor. One by one, he paused, asking each student for their name, seeming to check it against a list in his hand.

It became clear this first day wasn’t about fireballs or rune drills. Orren was giving them space — room to see one another, to know one another.

Surprisingly, the fire group loosened first. One student offered his name, another followed, and soon introductions passed around with unexpected ease. No bravado, no sneering. Just names, one after the other.

Eric couldn’t help but notice: maybe fear, or respect, was enough to make people act decent. At least for now.

After class, Orren’s staff clicked softly against the polished floor as he stopped Eric at the door. His voice was low, calm, but with an edge of gravity.

“Lightning alone is rare. To wield it with that much force, without faltering—” his white eyes narrowed slightly, unreadable. “You will require more than standard instruction. I will see that you have it.”

He inclined his head just enough to make the words feel official. “Do not waste what you’ve been given, Eric. Few are afforded the chance.”

When they stepped out into the hall, Welyvyne kept pace beside him, her hood shadowing her face. She was quiet at first, then said under her breath, “That display wasn’t normal, Eric. You know that, right?”

He sighed, rubbing his neck. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

For a moment he hesitated. Then, on impulse, he muttered, “You know what? I’ll just show you.”

Her golden eyes flicked toward him, wary. “Show me… what?”

“My status.” He smirked faintly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She stopped in her tracks, staring at him as if he’d suggested stripping in the middle of the hall. “Eric— that’s…you’re talking about showing me your soul. do you have any idea how taboo that is?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But if we’re stuck together, you should know what I can do. And I should know what you can. Seems fair.”

Welyvyne’s eyes widened, something like trepidation flickering across her face. “Well… that is perfectly logical. But Eric, that’s something we reserve for people we care about. Like family.”

Eric’s grin spread slow and shameless. “Welcome to the family, then.”

Welyvyne let out a long breath, golden eyes narrowing. “Well… let’s get this over with, then. I am really curious now.”

Eric’s grin softened, and he nodded. He remembered himself doing the same for Seltherin, back when he was first dragged into this world.

So he reached inward, called up the same instinct, and willed the screen to appear where she could see.

A faint shimmer rippled between them, like light on glass. Then the words unfolded in the air, sharp and clean.

[ Status — Eric Elwyn ]

Race: Outworlder

Class: Mage

Profession: Artificer

MP 137 / 145

Base Stats

Strength 4 Endurance 5

Dexterity 4 Agility 8

Wisdom 6 Intellect 8

Outworlder Bonuses: +5 to all base stats

Strength 9 Endurance 10

Dexterity 9 Agility 13

Wisdom 11 Intellect 13

Affinities:

Lightning (Complex)

Fire (Primary)

Air (Primary)

Traits:

Omni-Lingual — You may comprehend and speak all known tongues.

Dimensional Storage (Rank 1) — Access a personal pocket-space to store carried objects. (Upgradable.)

Adaptive Cognition — Neural enhancements optimized for complex mana analysis.

Skills:

Artifice Theory (12)

Process Optimization (Passive)

Adaptive Logic (Passive)

Mana Manipulation (39)

Spells:

Arc (2) (Lightning)

Lightning Strike (3) (Lightning)

Gust (1) (Air)

Ignite (1) (Fire)

Welyvyne studied the shimmer of text, her golden eyes flicking line by line. The way her brow furrowed told Eric she wasn’t seeing the same symbols and runes Seltherin had.

So I may actually be on to something, Eric thought, watching her. The system shows people what they’re able to understand, not one fixed display.

Her lips parted, voice low. “Outworlder. Your race changed… you aren’t even human anymore, huh?”

Eric winced, then gave a crooked grin. “Guess not. But hey—labels are just labels.”

She kept scanning the glowing lines, her lips moving slightly as though reading them twice just to be sure. Then her eyes widened. And widened again.

“You…” Her voice was almost a whisper. “You’re a monster. These don’t even make sense.”

Eric spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve got no reference to know any better. Numbers, bars, ranks—it’s all just data to me.”

Her head snapped up, eyes sharp now, almost accusing. Then she drew a steady breath, the gold in her gaze burning with something closer to resolve.

“Well then,” she said firmly, “let me show you mine.”

The shimmer between them rippled again, this time bending toward Welyvyne. Lines unfolded sharp and graceful, written in script that shimmered like firelight.

[ Status — Welyvyne Aerasyn ]

Race: Elf (Lowlander)

Class: Mage

Profession: Artificer

MP 34 / 62

Base Stats

Strength 2

Endurance 3

Dexterity 4

Agility 6

Wisdom 8

Intellect 9

Affinities:

Fire (Primary)

Traits:

Night Vision— Allows you to see at night.

Natural Agility — Recovery spells consume slightly less mana.

Enduring Spirit — Higher resistance to fatigue and elemental backlash.

Skills:

Artifice Theory (4)

Mana Manipulation (12)

Spells:

Ignite (Fire) — Rank 2

Ember (Fire) — Rank 1

Fire Wall (Fire) — Rank 1

The screen pulsed once and stilled, its glow softer than Eric’s jagged lightning-blue display.

“Well?” she said, chin tilted. “Compared to yours? Tell me that looks normal side by side.”

Eric scratched his neck, giving her a sheepish grin. “Yeah, okay. Point taken. ”

Welyvyne’s eyes lingered on his numbers, her mouth tightening as if she wasn’t sure whether to frown or gape. Finally, she let out a sharp breath.

“Kind of jealous, you know. No one is walking around with stats like these.” Her golden eyes flicked up to his. “You could do anything.”

Eric shifted under the weight of it, his grin faltering. “Anything, huh? Funny — feels like I’m still fumbling through day one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “That much mana, those numbers… people spend decades climbing toward half of that. You’re dangerous, Eric. Even if you don’t want to be.”

Eric gave a dry little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, hence the handler. Speaking of which—after Runes, we should head there. I’m sure he’s got something important lined up for me. Plus…” he shot her a sidelong look, half-grin tugging back into place, “he wanted to meet you.”

Welyvyne arched a brow, arms crossing. “Your handler wants to meet me?”

“Yeah.” Eric shrugged. “Apparently anyone tied to me becomes his problem too. Guess that includes you now. I mentioned it last night.”

Her sigh was long and theatrical. “Wonderful. I always wanted to be someone else’s problem. And I remember, I didn’t know if you were being serious or not”

Eric smirked. “Oh, I’m always serious. Just not always about the parts people expect.”

Welyvyne rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed the smallest twitch of a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets as they started down the hall. “But now I’m your impossible.”

Welyvyne huffed, shaking her head — but she didn’t argue. The murmur of students spilling toward the dining halls rose ahead, pulling them into the current.