The forest never slept, not truly. Even buried beneath the snow, the ancient trees of Blackpine seemed to breathe, to creak and settle like bones worn by time. Caelan had wandered its edges before, even hunted within its shallows, but now he walked its heart—and the forest knew it. He could feel its scrutiny with every crunch of snow beneath his boots, every half-heard rustle beyond the trees.
Three days had passed since he left the keep. Three nights with only his rations, the cold, and the Gravemaw affinity to keep him company. Three days searching for what should not exist: a magic stone vein.
If the legends were true, magic stone was the hushed spine of the earth, a mineral formed in places where mana had saturated the ground for centuries—usually in the aftermath of ancient battles or deep beneath leyline convergences. It responded to mana like dry kindling to fire. To a sorcerer, it was amplification. To a sovereign, it was leverage. To Caelan, it was both foundation and future.
He crouched near a frozen stream now, his gloved fingers brushing aside a patch of snow to reveal the stone beneath. Nothing. Just old shale and frost-pocked roots. He let out a slow breath, visible in the frigid air, and stood.
His mana flared subtly—barely more than a pulse—but the air thickened in response. He'd been testing pressure gradients, shifts in resistance, anything that might mark the telltale mana density of buried veins. He walked a dozen paces and tried again. Nothing.
The forest remained silent. Watching.
As the sun crept toward its lowest arc—never truly rising above the horizon in Gravenreach—Caelan came upon a rise in the terrain. Here, the trees were sparse, their branches warped with age. The snow clung thinner along the rocks. He moved slowly, senses honed.
Then he felt it.
A strange pressure beneath his boots, like the air had thickened slightly, resisting his every step. It wasn't gravity this time—it was resonance. His mana buzzed faintly at the edge of awareness.
He stopped and knelt, placing both palms on the ground.
"Come on," he whispered. "Show me."
He sank his will into the earth, just a thread of gravitational mana, and waited.
Something answered.
Not a voice. Not a shape. Just an undeniable thrum, faint and deep, pulsing through the stone like a second heartbeat. His Gravemaw affinity resonated faintly, a low hum in his chest.
He drew a small chisel from his belt, brushing away more snow until the rock beneath showed faint discoloration. Gray, with veins of violet that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
His breath caught.
This wasn't just mineral. It was dormant, condensed magic.
Magic stone.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if afraid the moment might collapse. Caelan had found it. Not a mine—not yet—but the edge of something much deeper.
His hands shook as he drew out a marked vial and scraped a shard into it. It rang like crystal when chipped, but the note was lower, more resonant, as though charged with buried echoes.
He sat back on his heels, breath shallow, eyes wide. A true vein. A narrow one perhaps—but veins deepened. And if this much energy sat so close to the surface…
He stood, sweeping his gaze across the slope. A vein meant a source. Mana flowed, and it gathered. If this was a tributary, then the heart had to be nearby.
Caelan began to move with purpose now, sweeping the terrain in concentric arcs, noting every rise and dip in pressure. The gravity affinity guided him, subtle tremors beneath his skin growing stronger with each step—until he came upon a jagged cluster of stones pressed against the face of a hill.
At first, he dismissed them as a landslide, weather-worn and overgrown.
Then he noticed the frost clinging differently to one crevice.
Warmer.
He knelt and pressed his gloved hand against the stone.
Air.
A current.
There was a hollow behind.
Caelan drew his dagger, carefully wedging it between two slabs and levering them aside. It took ten minutes of delicate prying and muttered curses, but the gap widened. And behind it—
Darkness.
Not dead darkness. Alive. Breathing.
A cavern.
He slipped inside.
The light of his mana-forged orb flared to life, casting eerie shadows along the stone walls. What he saw first stopped him cold.
Veins.
Dozens.
No the narrow streaks, but thick channels of crystallized mana embedded into the rock, glowing faintly with hues that should not have existed in nature. Blues and greens… and purples.
Purple.
His breath caught.
Purple mana stone was the highest known grade—ultra-dense, pure, refined by centuries of pressure. Only one in a thousand veins ever produced them, and most were buried deep beneath battlefields or sacred ruins.
Yet here they were.
Dozens of jagged crystals jutting like frozen fire from the cave walls, faintly pulsing with power.
He stepped forward reverently, as though afraid to offend the earth itself. Every breath felt heavier now—not in a threatening way, but rich. Saturated.
And at the end of the cavern, half-hidden beneath a ridge of stone—he saw it.
A casket.
Made of black wood, bound with silver bands etched in ancient runes. Beside it, a long-forgotten journal leather-strap-bound and dust-covered. Along with it on a pedestal of rock there lay a heart, runes all over it yet still beating in open environment.
Caelan approached slowly, heart pounding.
The casket was untouched by time. No rot. No mold. The mana in the air seemed to preserve it, or perhaps ward off decay entirely. The runes shimmered faintly, old magic humming beneath their surface—sealing, not trapping.
He looked at the journal, brushing snow and dust from its cover.
The emblem on its front was unfamiliar—a tower crumbling into stars.
He turned the first page.
The ink was still legible. A crisp hand, old but clear.
"If you read this, then you must have found the mine. You are either a fool who stumbled blindly, or something darker born of intent. As for me I was fool—driven by hunger, by the idea of what magic, runes and relic together could create. I was not able to test what I created for my time has run out, but I hope you will, as this was created for grander purposes."
Caelan frowned, flipping to the next page.
There were sketches—runes, diagrams of mana flow theories something he'd never seen before, annotations in languages he only half-understood. Notes about something called The Runic Heart Core, with instruction to drop one's blood on it to find result of some ancient ritual practice.
He looked back toward the core sitting atop the pedestal and then at casket, thoughts racing.
What could be inside? A body? A relic?
Why was it sealed?
He felt the pull then—not from the journal, not from greed.
From fate.
Something here was meant to be found. Not just by anyone.
By him.
And yet… he hesitated.
This wasn't just treasure.
It was a turning point.
He set the journal down beside the casket and took a single, cautious step back.
Night ruled above the earth, and winter ruled above all.
But down here—in this womb of stone and silence—something older ruled still.