'The rune is alive.'

That single, impossible thought had occupied Jacob's mind for the past ten minutes, looping again and again as he sat unmoving at his desk, eyes fixed on the faint mark of power that had refused him only moments ago.

It was absurd, completely irrational, and yet it didn't feel like madness. If he said it aloud, if he told Arthur or even Lazarus what he suspected, they would laugh, or worse, they would think he'd finally gone mad under the strain of training and failure. But he knew what he had seen, what he had felt. The rune was alive. Not metaphorically, not in some poetic, symbolic way. It was alive. And it had denied him, wilfully. And worse still, it had mocked him.

He should have felt despair, frustration, or even fear, those would have been natural reactions.

Once, long ago, he might have. He had already drowned in despair when he'd first learned that conventional runes, those studied, memorized, copied, and repeated by others simply did not respond to him.

That had been a crushing realization. But this? This was different. There was no despair in him now. Instead, something else was stirring in the corners of his mind: a deep and rising curiosity, like a slow-blooming flower cracking open under pressure.

Was it truly possible for a rune to possess life? Not just function or energy or form, but something approaching awareness? If so, how? True Runes were the very language of the world, Jacob had learned that much already.

Every common rune was merely a diluted imitation, a warped echo of something older and more fundamental. True runes, he had come to believe, weren't just constructs, they were roots.

The fire dancing in the small candle beside his bed, the faint warmth it gave off into the quiet air of the room, it all had to be built upon the foundation of true runes. If that were the case, if such runes were everywhere, woven into flame and stone and wind, then wouldn't that mean the world was full of things that were, in some way, alive?

But no. That couldn't be. If every true rune carried the spark of life, then the world should have been brimming with awareness. People would have noticed by now. A chair would recoil when someone sat on it. A candle's flame would flicker away when touched. The wind would pull back instead of pushing forward.

But none of those things happened. The world behaved like the dead, or perhaps the unthinking, complex, powerful, beautiful, but inert. So what was different about his true rune? What set it apart from the ones hiding behind natural forces?

He tapped the desk lightly with his fingers, then leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as the question unfolded into a theory.

Perhaps the difference lay in origin. The world might not be alive in any meaningful sense, not truly. It had power, yes, but not ego, not will, not thought.

It created without intention, and what it created lacked purpose beyond function. But Jacob was different. He had a mind. He had will. His mana didn't come from the cold and silent earth or the unthinking stars, it came from within him. From something conscious. Something capable of wanting.

What if that was the key?

What if, in forming the true rune of fire with his own mana, Jacob had unknowingly imprinted something of himself onto it? A fragment of awareness, a sliver of identity.

Not enough to create a true mind, maybe, but just enough to give the rune the faintest echo of ego, enough to allow it to choose. And if that were true, then perhaps the rune hadn't just denied him for no reason. Perhaps it knew something was wrong. Or perhaps, in some twisted mirror of its creator, it had simply decided it didn't want to obey.

Jacob sat up a little straighter, a quiet tension forming in his jaw. He wasn't sure how natural true runes formed, not really. He assumed they were shaped by the will of the world, born from the ambient mana of creation itself, cold, impartial, and distant. But his own rune had not been shaped by the world. It had been shaped by him.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant it carried a piece of him inside it, however small.

That was, for the moment, the best theory Jacob could settle on. The others, while interesting in their own right, had far too many holes, gaps he couldn't overlook no matter how much he wanted them to be plausible.

He had considered the idea that natural true runes were alive, that perhaps they had always possessed some hidden consciousness or presence, but that something, some vast, intangible force restricted their ability to express it.

But that only led to another question: what could possibly restrict a rune born of the world itself? The world? And if it was some universal law or pressure, wouldn't scholars far greater than him, mages who had studied for decades, even centuries, have noticed something by now? Surely someone would have seen the signs.

Another possibility was that the rune he'd drawn wasn't actually a true rune at all, but a near-perfect imitation, close enough to echo the original structure but still inherently flawed, not by accident, but by intention.

Perhaps it wasn't corrupted by his mana, as normal runes were, but by his mind, by the peculiar weight of his thoughts, his desires, his identity. A rune shaped not just by energy, but by ego. He gave a small, humourless smile at that. Ego runes. That name actually felt… right. Too neat to ignore.

That theory, strangely, felt the most grounded. A rune born from his own mana, shaped by his thoughts, moulded by something deeper than technique, something personal.

It would explain the strangeness, the feeling of resistance, the sense that what he had created wasn't just reacting, but responding. Still, it left him with nothing more than guesses, the beginnings of frameworks with no way to prove or disprove any of them. For now, all he had were questions.

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And among those questions, one had begun to gnaw at him more than the rest, not why the rune was alive, but why it was rejecting him.

In the banquet hall, during that chaotic, terrifying moment of combat, the rune had obeyed him without hesitation. He hadn't even realized he needed permission; it had felt like an extension of his will, as natural as breathing. So why now, in this quiet, still room, was it resisting him? What had changed?

Jacob sat in silence for a while longer, then drew in a slow breath and decided, against all logic, and certainly against his pride, that he would try something absurd, something that would seem utterly insane to anyone else.

"Hey… um… how are you?"

His voice was soft, hesitant, almost embarrassed, and as the words left his mouth, he could feel a creeping warmth rise up his neck and settle in his cheeks. He was talking to a rune. The sheer ridiculousness of it struck him, and he glanced sideways at the door, half-expecting it to creak open and reveal Belemir standing there, silent and unimpressed.

Just the thought of what his ever-dutiful attendant would think, seeing his young master sitting alone, nervously chatting with a glowing mark of mana in the air was enough to make Jacob grimace.

But the rune didn't respond. It didn't pulse or shimmer or shift. It didn't even flicker.

Still, Jacob raised his hand again and tried once more to activate it, pushing his intent forward with as much clarity and calm as he could manage. And this time, there was no ambiguity, he felt it clearly, without doubt. Denial.

The rune had begun to stir, the power within it starting to move as if to follow his command, and then, just as suddenly, it stopped. It was as if a blade had cut the thread connecting them, severing his control in a single stroke.

And then, something worse.

He felt a laugh, not heard, not imagined, but felt, like a cold ripple running just beneath the surface of his thoughts. There was no sound, no voice, but he knew. The rune was laughing at him. It was mocking him. Not with malice, exactly, but with a sort of amused detachment, like someone watching a child try and fail to solve a puzzle they didn't understand.

'What's different between now and the banquet?' That question had been circling in Jacob's mind like a slow-turning wheel, and though the answer wasn't immediately obvious, he managed to come up with a few plausible differences, none entirely convincing on their own, but each worth considering.

First and perhaps most obvious was the danger. At the banquet, he had been fighting for his life, facing down opponents who would have struck him down without hesitation.

The rune might have chosen to act then as a response to that immediate threat, allowing itself to be used in order to keep him alive, and now, here in the calm of his room, surrounded by nothing but silence and books it saw no reason to obey. That was one theory.

Second, during the banquet, his emotions had been suppressed by Samuel's rune. He had felt nothing, not fear or anger or even excitement, just cold, clinical detachment.

But that explanation felt flimsy. Why would the rune care whether or not he had emotions? Mana usage, especially at the level of drawing and activating a rune, should have been unaffected by such things. Feelings were not supposed to matter to runes. That was the whole point of structure and calculation.

The third difference was environmental. The banquet hall had been thick with mana. Spells had been flying in every direction, and with each one cast, a small percentage of the mana had escaped into the air. Most mages, even those with fine control, couldn't avoid wasting at least a fraction of their energy, two to thirty percent, give or take.

And with so many spells being thrown around, that ambient mana had built up into something noticeable. Perhaps the rune had drawn strength from that, or perhaps it had simply been easier to connect with in a space where magic hung in the air like fog.

And finally, the last reason, the one that felt most grounded, though equally unconfirmed was the artefact he had used.

Those were the four differences he could identify, and with no better approach available, he resolved to test each one, eliminate them one by one until the truth stood alone, undeniable.

He would start with the easiest: the artefact.

He still had it with him, tucked away in a hidden inner pocket. Part of him had intended to return it after the banquet, but the man who had given it to him, whoever he was, had disappeared before Jacob could get a good look at his face.

And besides, if he was being honest, he hadn't exactly wanted to give it back. It wasn't just useful, it was powerful.

It was, without a doubt, a powerful artefact, far more potent than anything Jacob had previously come across, and certainly the kind of tool his father would have gone to great lengths to acquire, which meant that if he intended to keep it, and he did, he would need to keep its existence entirely to himself.

He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his robe, fingers brushing against the cold, smooth surface until they closed around it, and without drawing it out into view, he allowed a modest trickle of mana to pass into the artefact.

Almost immediately, a translucent blue barrier formed around him, barely perceptible but distinctly present, shimmering softly with a light glow that flickered like moonlight on water.

Then came the second effect, subtle but unmistakable, a foreign strength began to flow through his limbs, light yet firm, as if the artefact were infusing his body with borrowed vitality.

He flexed his fingers, and for a fleeting moment imagined how easily he could wield a blade in this state, how fluidly he could move if he needed to fight. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

More importantly, however, his mind began to shift. It was difficult to explain, even to himself, but it felt as though something had clicked into place, a clarity, a quiet focus that extended from his thoughts to the very movement of his mana.

Everything became sharper, more controlled, more immediate. He could feel his concentration narrowing like a blade being drawn across whetstone.

He raised his free hand and let the mana flow, carefully shaping it into the structure of the true rune. This time, it came together with more precision than before, the improved efficiency allowing him to draw it faster and with less strain, every curve and line of the symbol forming in flawless sequence. The air in the room responded, a faint heat rising as the pressure of the rune grew more distinct.

He took a quiet breath, one filled with anticipation, and pushed his will into the rune to activate it.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, drawing more mana, shifting the angle of his intent, even attempting to subtly change the pressure, but the result was the same.

The rune remained inert, utterly unmoved. After several more failed attempts, he let out a low breath, deactivated the artefact, and released the rune, allowing it to fade back into mana.

'That's one test done,' he thought to himself as he began to pace slowly across the room, arms folded behind his back.

To test the ambient mana theory, he would need to find a place saturated with magic, somewhere rich with leftover spellcasting or natural energy, the kind of place only found in ancient ruins, high-level training arenas, or the private chambers of old mages. Not an easy thing to arrange, but not impossible either.

The second theory, danger, would be harder to test. He would need to simulate a life-threatening situation, something that pushed his instincts to the edge, without actually risking his life. Sparring with someone like Alex came to mind, but even then, he'd have to convince himself, and more importantly convince the rune, that the threat was real.

As for the emotion suppression theory, that was a dead end. He had no desire to seek out Samuel again and unfortunately, he didn't know anyone else who specialized in emotional suppression runes or anything close to it.

With a soft sigh, he turned toward the door, his hand brushing the frame as he paused for a moment to glance once more at the empty air where the rune had been.

"I suppose I'll have to wait a little longer," he muttered under his breath, "before I can call myself a proper mage."

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