Rune of Immortality

"Don't just stand there. Come, sit. I believe it's time we had a proper conversation."

Lazarus' voice carried a warmth that was almost disarming, but none of the three boys moved. Arthur, Abel, and Jacob stood rooted in place, backs stiff, eyes locked onto the ancient sorcerer seated across from them. It wasn't fear that kept them frozen it was reverence. They had grown up hearing stories of this man: Lazarus, the pioneer of time runes, the first to weave the fabric of chronology into magic, the living scholar whose name had never faded with the passage of centuries.

Seeing them hesitate, Lazarus gave a small, knowing sigh and coughed lightly into his hand. "It's hard to introduce ourselves properly if you all insist on standing like statues."

The awkwardness broke, and the boys moved, albeit slowly. They settled onto the chairs arranged before Lazarus, who, now that they looked closer, appeared more relaxed than they expected, a steaming cup of tea in hand, a modest tray of cookies resting on the low table in front of him. With a casual motion, he nudged the tray closer to them.

"You can have some if you'd like," he said, taking a sip of his tea and savouring it before placing the cup back down. "Now then… Arthur, Abel, and Jacob. I know all your names already, but let me officially introduce myself."

He paused, setting his cup aside and leaning back in his chair with the air of someone preparing for a long and meaningful discussion. "As you might've guessed, I am Lazarus, Grand Scholar of Eterna and as of today, your new mentor."

The three boys instinctively stood and bowed in unison. They opened their mouths, likely to express gratitude or introduce themselves more formally, but Lazarus raised a hand, stopping them.

"No need," he said with a small smile. "I already know who you are. Normally, a mentor would take time during the first meeting to get to know his students. I think that's a wonderful tradition, so I'll be asking you some questions not to test you, but to understand you better. That all right with you?"

Jacob nodded politely. Glancing to his side, he noticed that Abel remained still, his expression unreadable, while Arthur gave a far too enthusiastic nod, nearly knocking over his tea. Jacob figured the boy must be nervous or simply excited or perhaps both.

Lazarus reached forward and picked up a cookie. He took a small bite, chewed, and hummed in satisfaction. "These really are good," he murmured, brushing crumbs from his fingers before looking back up. "Let's start with something simple."

He set the cookie down and folded his hands together, his tone shifting into one that held both curiosity and quiet gravity.

"Everyone knows what a knight is like. On the battlefield, they are fierce, proud, unyielding, wild in spirit, strong in body, and driven by honour. That's the nature of a knight. But you're not knights. So, I ask you this instead: What, in your opinion, is the true nature of a sorcerer?"

His gaze drifted toward Abel, clearly expecting him to answer first.

Without hesitating, Abel straightened his back and responded, his voice even and confident. "A sorcerer's nature is elegant, commanding, and strategic. They use magic to control the battlefield, deal devastating blows, and manipulate the outcome of a fight. Their strength is in control, precise, deliberate, and calculated."

He leaned back slightly, satisfied with his answer, a small grin forming on his lips. Jacob, listening, agreed inwardly. It was the kind of answer they had been taught since their first lessons in magical theory, succinct, respectable, and rooted in common knowledge.

But Lazarus frowned, almost pityingly. "You are too prideful for your own good," he said quietly. "Dedicated to walking the path others have defined for you, so much so that you never considered your own. And you believe most of what you're told without question. Naïve."

The grin vanished from Abel's face in an instant. He leaned forward, eyebrows narrowing.

"So, you're saying that you alone understand the true nature of a sorcerer better than the millions who've come before us? That your answer is superior to centuries of tradition? I expected better," he said, voice sharp with disbelief.

The room grew still. Even the faint creak of the floorboards beneath Jacob's feet seemed to go silent. He and Arthur exchanged glances, both stunned. Had Abel really just challenged Lazarus, the Lazarus to his face?

But the old mage didn't seem offended. In fact, he looked… amused.

"Of course, you're right," Lazarus said with a small nod, reclining slightly in his chair as his fingers tapped against the porcelain rim of his teacup. He glanced toward Abel, a faint smile lifting the edges of his lips. "My interpretation of what it means to be a sorcerer is bound to differ from someone else's. And that's exactly how it should be. The millions of sorcerers who came before us, those you mentioned, most of them followed paths carved out by others. But a sorcerer, in truth, should forge their own way. Their nature should be as unique as their aspect. Otherwise, what's the point of different aspects at all?"

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Abel fell silent, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. A subtle tremble began in his hands and then spread to his shoulders, something so sudden and visible that it startled Jacob. Lazarus' words had been thoughtful, yes, but not so earth-shattering that they should shake Abel like this.

"Why that reaction?" Lazarus asked, his voice soft but sharp, as if he were peeling back the layers of Abel's thoughts. "Did you realize something? That your path doesn't belong to you? Are you afraid of becoming a shadow of someone else's dream, afraid of losing yourself to the ideals of another?"

Abel raised his head slowly and met Lazarus' gaze. The trembling faded. "Yes," he said, the word falling from his mouth like a confession. "Yes, I am."

Lazarus gave a quiet nod, then turned to Arthur. "And you?"

Arthur blinked, clearly caught off guard. He scratched the side of his head and let out a soft laugh, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. "Well... I never really thought about what it meant to be a sorcerer. I spent most of my life training to be a knight. If I had to say, I think a sorcerer should be fierce, wild, proud, like a knight on the battlefield, but one who twists the world itself with magic. Someone who bends reality to their will and crushes enemies beneath their strength."

Lazarus chuckled and reached for a cookie, taking a bite with a casual air. "You really ought to try this, it's surprisingly good. Anyway, I can see it now: a knight with the gift of magic. Battle-hungry, unyielding, proud. A unique lens on the nature of a sorcerer, but no less valid than any other."

Jacob didn't need to be prompted; Lazarus hadn't yet turned to him, but he could feel it coming. Still, he didn't need time to think. He already knew his answer, had known it since the day he first dreamed of becoming a scholar.

"A sorcerer should be intelligent," Jacob said plainly, "driven by a hunger to understand the world. Addicted to knowledge. Someone humble, quiet, and relentless in their pursuit of truth. I don't care much for combat. I just want to learn, to read, to study, to discover runes that no one else has found before."

Lazarus tilted his head and studied Jacob closely, an odd expression in his eyes not disappointment, but something harder to read. Still, Jacob stood by his words. He didn't care if his answer was wrong. Even if Lazarus, the greatest living scholar, told him he was mistaken, it wouldn't change what he felt in his bones.

But Lazarus smiled.

"That's an interesting perspective that's rare to hear from someone your age." He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. "In fact, your answer reminds me of something Akashic once said, when asked the same question."

Jacob blinked, stunned. Akashic? The man who had killed a god? That couldn't be right. A man capable of such a feat didn't seem like someone who would dedicate his life to quiet study and theory. He was a legend of destruction, not a scholar. Yet Lazarus saw the disbelief in Jacob's eyes and chuckled again.

"Knowledge," he said, lifting his teacup, "is the root of all power. The greatest sorcerers in history were always the greatest scholars. You can't master the world without first understanding it."

Jacob instinctively began listing the strongest living mages in his mind, and as he did, he realized the truth in Lazarus' words. Out of the top ten mages, at least eight were among the top twenty scholars. It made sense. The more you knew, the more runes you had access to. The better your understanding of magic, the more precisely you could wield it.

"Now," Lazarus said, setting down his cup and leaning forward, "let me tell you what I believe the true nature of a sorcerer is."

For the first time since they met, his tone lost its warmth. The weight of his years seemed to settle on him all at once, the slight tremor in his hand, the faint lines around his eyes, the exhaustion hiding behind his composure. He was no longer just a friendly mentor or an eccentric old man; he was Lazarus, the scholar who had lived for over eight centuries.

"A sorcerer," he said, his voice calm but heavy, "is an architect. A manipulator. A researcher. And… a god."

Jacob nodded instinctively as Lazarus spoke the first few words, but at that last one, he faltered. He wasn't the only one, Arthur and Abel were both staring in confusion.

"You look surprised," Lazarus said, his expression unchanged. "But think about it. A mage can shift the earth, set the sky ablaze, shape the elements. They mould the world to fit their desires. Isn't that exactly what gods are said to do?"

He let go of the teacup, letting it clatter gently against the saucer, and stood up. He began to pace slowly, his footsteps unnervingly quiet despite the weight of his presence.

"If mages aren't akin to gods, then how did Akashic kill one? Why do gods look like men? Is it because we were made in their image, or because they were once men themselves, who surpassed the limits of mortality?"

Jacob felt a knot tightening in his stomach. The longer Lazarus spoke, the more his words sounded like something from a cultist's sermon rather than a scholarly lecture.

"There's only one line dividing us from them," Lazarus continued, his back to the students now. "And that's immortality. Gods live forever. We don't. Why do you think Akashic, Gabriel, and even I chase it so desperately? Immortality is the threshold to divinity."

Then, just as suddenly as his tone had shifted, Lazarus walked back to his seat and settled in with a content sigh, his easy-going demeanour returning like a breeze brushing away storm clouds. He looked more like a kind old grandfather again than a man who had just spoken of gods and mortality.

"But that's just my opinion," he added with a light shrug. "Everyone's path should be different, after all. You're free to disagree."

He clapped his hands, a sharp sound that made Jacob jump and caused Arthur to flinch visibly.

"That's enough talk for today. I've got things to do, fourth prince's birthday is coming up, and you know how these events are. Until then, I want each of you to learn a new rune."

And just like that, a symbol shimmered beneath Lazarus' feet. There was no flash of light, no sound, not even the rush of air to mark his departure. One second, he was there, the next he was gone.