Allow me to tell you a story. 

In a world nestled in the leaves of Yggdrasil begins the story of a rather peculiar elf. This world was called the Gardens, a grand, magical forest that the elves, fairies, satyrs, and other equally fantastical creatures called home. The elvish capital was a city called Eden, with buildings constructed by the most brilliant of elvish architects, filled with tall white-stoned buildings, streets paved with marble laced with silver and gardens filled with the most vibrant of colors beyond anything you could imagine. 

In this city, there was an estate, a grand mansion that housed the family of Rune. Now, the family of Rune runs as far back as the history of elvish kind. Being among the first created by the spirits of light during their war with spirits of darkness, the spirits gifted the Rune family with a natural inclination towards the art of magic. Thus, the Rune family formed a lineage of the most powerful sorcerers across Eden, and even the Yggdrasil beyond. That is, until the youngest son of Lysanthir Rune was born. 

Alren Rune was not born with the powers that the Rune family had. Alren was still an elf, meaning that he had a greater connection to magic than most. However, when compared with his family, and even other elven protegees, his power was limited.

Still, his father held him to the same strict standard as that of his older siblings, who inherited the magical blood. Alren spent day and night studying, burying himself in his books, and spending long, long hours in the library. It was something he loved to do. 

Too often, Alren had fallen asleep in the grand libraries of the elvish capital, surrounded by tomes filled with ancient knowledge, knowledge that he would travel to the ends of the Yggdrasil to learn. He would also spend hours locked in his study, compiling his notes from his books, tinkering with variations on traditional spells, and even trying his hand at inventing new charms and trinkets. 

Still, the shadow of his father’s expectation fell over Alren, constantly reminding him of what he needed to achieve, to not be the failure of the family name.

Here is where we find Alren today, lost amidst his flurry of ideas. Alren snapped back to reality when three sharp knocks echoed from his study door. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Alren knew better than to keep his father waiting. He quickly stood up and closed his journal, quickly covering his designs before standing up. As he approached the door, Alren was suddenly aware of how messy his room was. Books were strewn about, half open and at various points of completion. Clothes covered the foot of his bed. Alren had planned to wear these clothes, at least, eventually. Alren hadn’t made his bed and his closet was a mess with bits of fabric sticking out of the cracks. The desk appeared as if a winter storm had blown past, with papers, inkwells and quills strewn about and nearly pouring out of the drawers.

Alren opened the door and, sure enough, his father was waiting for him. Alren’s appearance was like that of his father. In fact, he was often told that he was the spitting image of his father when he was younger. They had the same long black hair, one noticeably neater than the other’s, pale skin, lean, regal features, long pointed ears, and brilliant blue eyes that shimmered like sapphire. Their only actual difference was in height and expression. 

In terms of height, Alren was average height for a high-elf, standing at just an inch over six feet. His father, however, was an incredibly imposing figure for, standing nearly half a foot taller than Alren. In terms of expression, Alren always wore a small smile on his face, and his eyes sparkled with kindness and curiosity, always searching for a new wonder to discover.

This was in contrast with his father, who’s age weighed down his expression. The many wars he lived through and the battles fought had made him jaded, cynical, and cold. His expression was hard, his gaze pierced through anyone who looked upon him. For a time, the only brightness within him had come from his wife, Alren’s mother, but when she died, the bitter frost of his life quickly consumed him.

“Father,” Alren said quietly in acknowledgment, keeping his head slightly bowed down, just enough to avoid eye contact.

Without speaking a word, Alren’s father stepped past him and into Alren’s room. He surveyed the incredible mess before moving next to Alren’s desk, where he picked up his journal and began flipping through the pages.

“What have you been working on during these past few days?” his father asked, his voice calm and measured.

“Nothing in particular,” Alren said, his eyes still downcast, though he nervously glanced at his journal.

This, of course, was a lie. His most recent projects were a sword with a light, mythril blade that he could use to channel his magic while in combat and a specialized wand to cast his spells.

Wizards most often used devices called spell focuses to channel their magic, tools such as wands, staffs, crystals, magical orbs, and other objects of magical nature. However, Alren found these somewhat impractical, as they had no other uses outside of casting spells. At the very least, a sword without magic could continue to cut, slash, hack, and otherwise maim an opponent as a last resort, though Alren recognized that those methods were less than tasteful. 

“Nothing in particular?” Alren’s father repeated with a hint of distaste, “Then what is this?” Alren’s father opened the pages to show him the sketches of a pen.

“A small project,” Alren answered meekly, though he sighed inwardly, relieved that his father had not discovered the drawings for his sword. Yet.

“A small project that is ‘nothing in particular’?” Alren’s father looked at Alren sternly, “So explained to me exactly how these drawings apply to your studies.”

“It’s a device that will allow me to channel my magic properly.”

“So it’s a wand?”

Alren shook his head.

It was tradition for a wizard to craft their own spell focus best suited for their spells, and the pen would provide him with a more suitable tool for Runesmithing, Alren’s unique style of magic. 

Runesmithing is a special form of magic that involves summoning or tracing magical runes into the air, rather than speaking them in traditional incantations. This allows for greater flexibility and creativity, as the user can choose whichever runes they desire, as opposed to the typical incantations. 

“Then what is it?” Alren could tell his father was getting impatient.

“It’s a tool for runesmithing,” Alren said. “I have gained the approval of the Professor for this idea, and he helped me make this.”

Until now, Alren would draw the runes using his fingers and hands. Different runes require different amounts of magical power to use, and because Alren was very limited in power, his more ambitious spells often failed, though his mind would not allow him to stop tinkering and experimenting with new spells. 

The wand would house a magical core that Alren could charge by channeling his magic into it. The charged crystal could better control the amount of power channeled into each rune, as the pen would include a sort of dial or magical mechanism to control the amount of magic released. 

Alren was close to finishing this project. He had already decided on the design of the body, and he had already created the mythril nib with the help of the Professor as well as compiled the runes needed to regulate the magical flow out of the core. All he needed now was the core of the pen, something powerful enough to store immense amounts of magical energy, yet compact enough to fit inside the pen.

Alren quickly grabbed the mythril pen tip off his desk and showed it to his father. His father took it and inspected it, holding it close to his eyes.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“So the Professor is having you make your own wand. Fine. Then what is this?” Alren’s father flipped a few pages backwards in Alren’s journal, revealing his designs for the sword.

“A sword,” Alren said curtly.

“And what do you plan on using a sword for? Combat? Duels?”

“Mythril naturally channels magic, so I thought—” Alren began trying to explain.

“I will not have my son swinging around a sword like a brute,” his father said with firm and complete authority.

Alren’s father ripped out the pages that contained the design and crumpled them in his hand. A rune burning flashed, hovering above the torn pages, and the paper burst into flames. Alren could only watch as his designs melted into embers and ash. His father shook out his hand disdainfully and a wind servant quickly swept away the ash and soot that fluttered downwards.

“You are a wizard,” his father said, his voice like daggers of ice. “Your battle is with wands and staffs, not blades. Must I remind you that your blood is of the Rune clan? You will not embarrass me or our forefathers like this again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” Alren said quietly.

“You have a guest waiting for you in the front hall. I suggest you make haste. He seems to be rather eager to see you.”

Without another word, Alren’s father turned and briskly marched away. Alren bowed to his father receding back before rushing to the front hall.

Alren felt as if he should be upset, but his father had ripped up many of his designs before. In fact, his father took and burned anything of Alren’s that he considered sacrilege or an offense to traditional magic. Such inspections were common, and confiscated designs included ones for a gloved spell focus, a reusable scroll that could store spells to be used for later, and special ink that could with a pen or quill to trace runes on a person’s skin to store spells. Alren had tried many ways to hide his less-than-traditional ideas from his father, though he had minor success. Alren remained optimistic and focused on entertaining the guest, rather than his ruined designs.

Alren turned the corner and saw, to his delight, the Professor patiently waiting for him. The Professor was an older elf, even older than Alren’s father, with long white hair and fair skin. He was a little shorter than Alren, only by a few inches, and he was thinner than him as well. The Professor’s eyes glinted with ancient knowledge and wisdom, while his expression always had an air of mischief and mirth. As per usual, he wore his scholarly robes, white silk with golden trim and designs evoking ancient magical traditions.

“Mr. Rune!” The Professor smiled warmly, “How are you doing today?”

Alren bowed deeply. “I’m doing well today, Professor. Thank you for asking.”

“Brilliant!” The Professor jovially clapped his hands, “Come, there is little time. I have a class in a few hours and it would be rather embarrassing if the teacher was late. How about a walk around the courtyard? I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

The Professor led the young elf around the courtyard, which was being diligently tended to by the estate’s hired servants. Alren smiled and greeted the servants by name, at least for those he remembered, while the Professor spoke.

“So tell me, Mr. Rune, how are your studies going along?”

“As well as usual. I’ve finished all the books you recommended to me, as well as a few additional ones I found in the library.”

“Good! I’ve got a few more for you, now that you’ve got the basics down. Come by my office tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Alright,” Alren agreed. He paused for a moment, searching for something to continue the conversation and fill the awkward silence. 

Finally, Alren settled on this question, which he wasn’t terribly proud of. “How is the war coming along?” He asked. 

The Professor chuckled, “Now why would you ask about something like that?”

“Father was home today, and he wasn’t wearing his war robes. I want to know if I can avoid the War, and if I can do something else with my magic instead.”

“What would you rather do instead?”

“I want to do what you do. I want to teach people and show them how wonderful magic can be.”

“You have a long life ahead of you, Mr. Rune, and I assure you that the opportunity will present itself for you in more ways than one. I will warn you, however, the War has taken a great toll on Nexus and Yggdrasil. The people there fear us. Some would go even so far as to hold hatred for our kind.”

“You mean the elves?” Alren asked.

“Worse, I’m afraid. They fear all casters. In some cities, they go so far as to exile anyone who they even suspect can cast a basic spell or that has any inkling of magical talent. At least, that is what some reports have been saying.”

“I will be the one to show them!” Alren declared. “I will prove to them that magic is not to be feared, but to be admired, to be studied as a tool to be used for the betterment of people.”

“I admire your passion, Mr. Rune, but the Nexus is in a dangerous place. Our war has nearly destroyed The Ethereal Barrier, and some rather unsightly creatures are beginning to slip through the cracks. You’ll have more than just angry humans to worry about.”

“I will protect them,” Alren insisted, “And I will teach them how to use magic to protect themselves.”

“I would encourage you to do so, Mr. Rune, but you have certain things here that must first focus on.”

“Like what?” Alren asked.

“Do you not remember?”

Alren shook his head, his mind still preoccupied with his father’s actions in the morning, as well as his inventions and books waiting for him back in his study.

The Professor sighed, though more out of amusement than annoyance, “The Tournament!” said the Professor, “The event that brings elves from across the Gardens to the capital on the turn of every decade!”

Alren’s distracted and confused gaze prompted the Professor to turn and grab Alren’s shoulders, much to his surprise.

“Have you forgotten your lineage? As a descendant of the Rune family, they will certainly choose you to take part against the best of the next generation of elvish scholars, warriors, and sorcerers!” The Professor exclaimed with great fanfare.

“I haven’t received an invitation.” Alren shifted somewhat uncomfortably. The Professor’s grip was like iron, and his hands were cold as ice.

Alren was relieved when he released his grasp. “You will soon,” The Professor said, “The tournament is only two weeks from now, and you will receive an invitation a week prior to the event.”

“What sort of tournament will it be?”

“Nobody knows. How could they? It wouldn’t be fair if contestants could plan so far ahead of time. You will find out the day of the tournament. The best way to prepare is to prepare for anything. So tell me, what ideas are cooking in that little head of yours?”

“Well,” Alren said as they sat at a small stone table in a small shelter overlooking the gardens, “I’ve got a few things that may help. That pen that I’ve been working on, I’m almost certain that nobody would have anything similar, nor would they have any knowledge of runesmithing. They will probably stick to traditional incantations, which will be more powerful, though I may be more flexible. I also have that sword I asked you to help me with. I know all the runes that I need to infuse into the blade, and I can add more with the pen as the tournament continues on. All I need is just the blade itself.”

“Well, luckily for you, I should have that blade finished by the end of next week, though I advise you to get some training. You can’t just pick up a sword over night and expect to swing it around, you know.”

“I have been training with one for a few years now,” Alren said a little too unceremoniously.

The Professor laughed in surprise. “What with a sword? For years? Behind the back of your father and you’ve never told me?”

“If father found out I’ve been training with a sword, he would have my head. It would be better not to tell anyone,” Alren said quietly.

“Then what do you think you will happen when you show yourself wielding one in front of an audience of the aristocracy?”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Alren answered. “I’ll use the sword as a last resort—a surprise that I hopefully won’t have to reach for.”

“I see,” The Professor said, “Then best of luck to you, Mr. Rune. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

Alren stayed silent for a few moments, his mind racing.

“I have to win, don’t I?” Alren realized.

“Well, not necessarily,” The Professor said. “Not everyone in the Rune clan has won.”

“But most of us have,” Alren said. “I remember reading about it in the family records. Our clan has the most championships out of any other. If I don’t win, then I’ll be a disgrace to my father and my forefathers before me.”

“Now,” The Professor’s tone softened, “Don’t put any heavy expectations on yourself. It will do you no good to worry about such a silly little tournament. What will it matter when all is said and done? Win or lose, you will move on, and you will make a name of yourself as a wonderful teacher and mentor. Just do the best you can, and use this as an opportunity to learn and better yourself.”

“Right,” Alren said, his gaze turning distant again.

The Professor sighed, knowing that his words hadn’t reached young Rune’s heart.

“Well,” The Professor stood and brushed off his silvery robes, “I must be off now. Good day, Mr. Rune. I would encourage you to get some rest. Don’t push yourself too hard in the coming weeks. It would be a good idea to preserve your energy for the tournament.”

Alren nodded and followed the Professor to the gate of the Rune estate. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before bowing to one another. Alren watched the Professor as he departed. The Professor placed his hands out in front of him, as if grabbing two doors, and pulled them apart. A variety of glowing runes swirled around the Professor’s feet as the air in front of him split with soft blue light. A gateway shifting and sparking with magical energy opened between the streets, revealing the inside of the Professor’s office. The Professor stepped through and the gate closed behind him, leaving Alren to his own thoughts.