The moment the choice was made, the expanse answered.
The cold, silver-blue star did not drift closer. It plunged. It crossed the starless void in a silent, terrifying instant and slammed into his consciousness. There was no impact, no pain, only a total, absolute consummation. The quiet dark was annihilated, flooded with a brilliant, crystalline light. The void was gone, replaced by the star. He was inside it. It was inside him.
The change was not merely a new understanding; it was a rewiring of his very perception. The formless expanse gained texture, depth. He could suddenly perceive the world beyond his physical shell, not with eyes or ears, but with a new, fundamental sense. He could feel the distant, smoldering warmth of the village hearths, a dull orange pulse in the distance. He could feel the deep, slow, green thrum of the forest, the collective life-force of a million sleeping things.
But overwhelming all of it was the frost.
It was not a temperature; it was a song, a presence. He felt it as a vibrant, silver-blue energy that saturated everything. It was in the air, in the snow, in the very stones of the mountain. It was the power of the raging vortex outside, and it was the resonant hum in his own soul. It felt like home.
Within this new, element-laced perception, knowledge bloomed. Geometric patterns of pure light and cold began to form in his mind's eye. They were runes, their purpose and meaning as intrinsically understood as his own name.
The foundational grammar of his craft unfolded within him, a birthright claimed.
The deluge of light and concept was more intense than the passive infusion of knowledge he had experienced before. For a timeless moment, his awareness was shattered, remade, and then slowly annealed in the cold fire of his new path.
When his consciousness reformed, the brilliant, crystalline light had coalesced, sinking deep into the core of his being. He turned his awareness outward. The other three stars—the Mage, the Hunter, the Druid—were still there, faint but steady points of light. A vast, unbridgeable chasm now separated him from them. He could not approach, could not draw upon their essence. Yet, it was not a static separation. He could sense the chasm narrowing, an infinitesimal, glacial creep, a silent promise that the potential of those paths was not lost forever, but merely waiting.
Curiosity sparked within him once more. Just as a nascent intent to explore formed, a powerful, irresistible force hooked into his consciousness. It was not a gentle summons, but an abrupt, physical wrench.
The starless void of his inner world shattered like black ice.
The muted hum was replaced by a roaring wind, the scent of pine and cold stone crashing back into his awareness. He opened his eyes. The swirling tornado of snow that had encased him was collapsing inward, its furious winds slowing to a gentle flurry. Through the dissipating veil of white, he saw them. Two figures, familiar silhouettes against the moonlit snow. His elders.
The last of the vortex dissolved into a cascade of glittering snowflakes. Alph sat on the log, blinking, the world swimming into focus. He saw Elara, her face pale, her eyes wide with a desperate, fierce concern.
She raced forward, stumbling through the deep snow, and threw her arms around him. The embrace was tight, almost crushing, a frantic reassurance that he was solid, that he was there.
"Alph," her voice was a choked whisper against his shoulder.
He returned the hug, his own arms wrapping around her. A profound mental exhaustion weighed on him, but he found a strength he did not realize he possessed. "I'm alright, Elara. I'm fine."
She pulled away, her hands still gripping his shoulders, searching his face. Iska trotted over, circling him once with a low, inquisitive whine. The great wolf pushed her cold, wet nose into his hand, sniffed him from head to toe, and then seemed to issue a satisfied huff before nuzzling against his leg.
Hemlock approached, his steps slow and deliberate, the Treant Guard a silent shadow behind him. The old druid's ancient eyes held a deep, knowing light. "Congratulations, boy. You have found your path."
Alph finally found his feet, his legs unsteady. He met his teacher's gaze, the questions burning in him, but he pushed them down, focusing on the single, most important truth. "Teacher," he began, his voice raspy, "I am... a Frost-Rune—"
"Later," Hemlock cut him off, his voice gentle but firm. "The mountain has given its gift. Now, you must rest." He gestured with his staff towards the distant, warm lights of the village. "Let us return to the hall. The night is far from over, and you are exhausted."
Alph looked from Elara's worried face to Hemlock's unwavering gaze and nodded. The questions could wait. He took a steadying breath, the crisp, frost-touched air a welcome shock to his system. With Iska at his side and his guardians flanking him, he turned and began the walk back toward the village.
Half an hour had passed. A bowl of rich, savory broth had done wonders to chase the deep chill from Alph's bones, though a profound mental weariness remained, a phantom weight behind his eyes.
He sat on a bench near the hearth. Elara was a quiet, watchful presence beside him. Across the stone slab table, Hemlock stared into the dancing flames, his expression unreadable.
The old druid finally broke the silence. He turned his gaze from the fire to the boy. His ancient eyes were not questioning, but expectant. It was time. A simple, slow nod was his only signal.
Alph straightened his shoulders, meeting the elder's gaze. He took a steadying breath. "Teacher," he began, his voice raspy but clear. "I am a Frost-Rune Scribe."
The words hung in the quiet hall.
A brilliant light sparked in Elara's eyes, a flash of pure, unadulterated pride and recognition. It was a name she had not heard spoken aloud since she was a child, a name that was a legacy. The light vanished as quickly as it came, extinguished by a shadow of profound sorrow. Her expression clouded over, her shoulders slumped, and the joy was replaced by a familiar, haunting grief.
Alph saw the shift. The initial flash of pride was unmistakable, but the swift descent into sadness that followed was a confirmation of a grim truth. The fate of the Frost-Rure Scribes was not a happy one.
Hemlock, too, was taken aback. His ancient face, usually a mask of stoic composure, registered a flicker of shock. His gaze became distant, lost in a memory of a time long past, of a different Scribe, of a tragedy he had been powerless to prevent. The reminiscence lasted only a moment before his expression hardened into one of resolve. He turned to Elara, his voice a low, somber rumble that filled the quiet hall.
"The boy needs to know, Elara. Now more than ever. He has a right to his past."
Alph watched them, his own expression carefully neutral. He had anticipated this moment, prepared for it since he found the letter. A part of him, however, was still surprised. He expected half-truths, a carefully curated story meant to protect him. He never expected a full confession. The lawyer in his soul prepared his case. He would listen. He would weigh their words against the faded ink of his father's final testament, the single piece of evidence he held close to his heart.
He would see how much of the truth they were truly willing to give him.