The scent of stone and old parchment now filled his days, a constant reminder of the life he'd left behind. One year had passed since that parting, a year Emmet had spent among the scholars and laborers of this village, far from the grand halls where his fate had been determined. Here, he was merely a student—one who learned not because of destiny, but necessity.
But unlike the scholars who taught him, unlike the divinants who had failed to recognize his true nature, Emmet possessed something rare among Northerners: strength. Not the borrowed force of elemental divination nor the calculated precision of trained warriors—true, raw, undeniable strength. It had started when he was a child, the weight of tools and weapons feeling lighter in his hands than they should have. The Northerners were known for their endurance, their resilience, but none had ever been known for brute power. Emmet was an anomaly—a body forged for battle in a land where most fought with minds rather than muscle.
His mornings began with ink-stained fingers and weary eyes, tracing the theories of rune formation on brittle pages. The rune masters, wise and patient, guided him through the knowledge that had long been preserved in libraries untouched by divinants. Though the art was beyond his grasp, he memorized every line, every symbol, his mind sharp as a blade despite the quiet disappointment in the air. He'd catch Master Nolin, the head rune master, sighing almost imperceptibly as Emmet struggled to channel even a flicker of arcane energy.
The candlelight flickered against the worn pages of the manuscript, casting uneven shadows along the wooden desk where Emmet sat, unmoving. His fingers traced the etched symbols in the book before him, the ink fading from years of handling, yet the meaning remained intact—a map of knowledge woven across generations. Even if his hands failed to conjure runes, they could still understand them. Even if divination eluded him, its principles were not beyond his grasp.
Night after night, he pored over the texts given to him by the rune masters. If the weight of their expectations had ever burdened him, he never showed it. They had long since abandoned the hope that he would become a wielder of divinant tools, but in their eyes, he remained an unwavering student, an intellectual force unfazed by failure.
Among all the theories and crafts he studied—the intricate designs of runes, the binding power of sigils, the protective magic of talismans, and the complex agreements of contracts—Emmet found himself drawn to totems. He couldn't explain it, but he felt there was something inherently lacking in how they were understood and used, something he desperately wanted to explore. While he diligently learned the theories behind runes, sigils, talismans, and contracts, he was content to simply understand them. His lack of ability as a true elemental divinant meant he couldn't actually perform these feats, but his sharp mind allowed him to grasp their every principle.
By daylight, he continued his training. The guards no longer saw him as a mere scholar—it was his strength that intrigued them. He moved with an ease that made combat natural, his strikes carrying impact beyond what was expected of one his age. But it was not brute force alone that made Emmet formidable—it was his adaptability, the way he observed and dissected technique, the way he refused to let any lesson be wasted. His body was strong. His mind was sharper.
Yet his heart remained uncertain. Stoneville was not his dream. He knew that. Teaching rune theory was a path, but not his path. Becoming a city guard was a future, but not his future. But the Finder's Guild was a fantasy. It was not meant for those who lacked divinant talent. It was not meant for him. Still, he pushed forward—not for himself, but for his mother. She deserved security. If his fate was ordinary, so be it. Legends were not built from people like him. Or so he believed.
The thick scent of carved wood and dust lingered in the air as Master Nolin traced a finger over the surface of an unfinished totem. Its etchings were simple—lines and grooves meant to channel energy from the blessed crystals that powered them. Yet here, in Stoneville, they were nothing more than inert artifacts, useless until carried to the cities where divinants could awaken them.
"This is what you wish to master?" Nolin asked, his voice laced with quiet disbelief as he studied Emmet. "Totems are tools for the common folk. Any craftsman can make them for as long as they have the right material."
Emmet nodded, unwavering. "That's precisely why. If everyone ignores them, then nobody has considered what they could really become."
Nolin sighed, setting the totem down. "You're wasting potential, Emmet. The sovereigns confirmed your divinity—you are meant for more than this. You may be a late bloomer, but I assure you, your divinant abilities will manifest eventually."
But Emmet wasn't looking for reassurance. He had spent years waiting for something that never came. If he wasn't meant to wield divinant tools, then he would forge his own path, no matter how insignificant others believed it to be. "Tools don't matter unless the user understands them," Emmet said. "I refuse to believe that totems are useless."
Nolin exhaled through his nose, studying his student with an expression caught between disappointment and reluctant respect. "If you insist. I'll teach you their craft, but don't let this become your limit."
But Emmet had already made his decision. He would master totems. He would unravel them until he understood every rune, every engraving, every material that shaped them. If this was all he could wield, then so be it—he would make something of it.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Days passed. Emmet immersed himself in totem theory, learning how earth crystals shaped their function, how different engravings determined their effects, and how ancient craftsmen had perfected them before divinants existed. But they were still incomplete—without a divinant's blessing, they would never reach their full potential.
Then came the question: How had Stoneville forgotten its own history?
Resting on the hillside after a long day of theory and training, Emmet stared at the village stretched below him, its buildings clustered around its great totem—a towering monolith of stone, etched with markings too old for even Nolin to decipher. The rock stood like a silent guardian at the far edge of the village, worn by time and neglect. And yet, there was a contradiction—a passage in an old book he had read, something barely acknowledged among the records of divinant history. That totem had existed before the time of the Gods. It was said to have once protected the village, long before divination shaped the world. Yet now it was nothing but an empty structure.
Emmet scoffed, shaking his head. "You have this totem, yet you think small of totem mastery?" A thought took root. If a totem of this scale had once been active without a divinant's blessing, then something had powered it differently. Perhaps history had forgotten something. Perhaps he would be the one to remember.
The wind pressed against his back as Emmet crouched beside a scattered pile of pebbles, fingers brushing over their rough surfaces. His mind spun, weaving together everything he knew—every lesson he had memorized, every principle that had refused to work for him.
Totems didn't follow the usual divinant rules. They weren't fueled by elemental affinity alone. They were built, crafted, dependent on physical materials and external activation. But the ancient totem—the towering monolith of Stoneville—was different. It had no traces of divinant craftsmanship. No earth crystal sockets. No engravings meant for activation. Nothing in its structure resembled the totems he had studied. So how had it once worked?
Emmet exhaled, gripping a pebble between his fingers as he considered the puzzle. But then, his thoughts strayed—not toward theory, but memory. The bandits. That skirmish outside the village. The way his body had moved, not with fear, but precision. The moment he had thrown pebbles infused with something—something undeniably real. He remembered the flicker of energy, the faint tremor beneath his fingertips before the small stones had launched forward, striking with unnatural force. It had surprised him then, a strange, fleeting power.
A fluke? A subconscious reaction? That was what frustrated him most—he had never been able to replicate it intentionally. He picked up another pebble and turned toward a small fruit tree nearby, eyes narrowing. If there was any truth to this ability, then he needed to test it. He set up a few fallen fruits in a row along the base of the tree, marking the targets in his mind. He picked up a pebble, rolling it between his fingers.
"Pebble one. Time to test you out." His grip tightened. Focus. He recalled the battle. The moment of instinct. The flicker of something beyond normal force. The pebble left his fingers. It struck the fruit—but with no energy behind it.
Emmet exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. No, this wasn't random. It had to be something tangible. Something logical. He picked up another pebble, adjusting his grip. What had triggered it before? Emotion? No. He wasn't someone who acted on feeling alone. He had been calm, focused—even while fighting for survival. Intellect. That was what drove him. He never blindly accepted theories; he tested them, refined them, sought truth rather than miracles. If divination truly lived in him, then it had to be tied to something rational.
And so, he crafted a theory.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat. Emmet exhaled, rolling his shoulders, the stiffness from training settling deep into his muscles. The stale scent of exertion clung to his skin, sharp and undeniable. He frowned slightly. He reeked. A mix of dust and sweat from hours of drills with the guards—it was enough to remind him that while he excelled at combat training, his body paid for it afterward. He had pushed himself harder than usual today, perhaps to silence the frustrations creeping into his thoughts. Enough. He needed to clean off.
He made his way toward the river, the movement almost instinctive—cool water had become his simple relief after long days of practice. As he stepped in, letting the crisp current lap against his skin, the tension in his muscles eased. The scent of sweat faded, carried away by the rushing stream. But his mind remained restless. Theories. Endless theories. That was the essence of his existence. Learning, challenging, dismantling what others accepted without question.
As the water ran over his arms, he let himself sink into thought. The books. His master's teachings. They were valuable, yes—but incomplete. Stoneville had been preserving knowledge, not improving it. The rune masters were not practitioners; they were record keepers, passing down tradition without ever testing it. Their intent was noble—ensuring that the art of divinant tools remained alive—but it was stagnant.
Was that what made him different? Was that why none of their teachings worked for him? He rubbed water against his face, exhaling slowly. He wasn't rejecting their lessons—but he was seeing their limits. He had spent years trying to fit into the mold they had given him, following theories exactly as they were written. But what if the original authors had been wrong? What if divination had never been about rigid methods? What if it was something more?
The sun hung lower, its golden light dancing along the surface of the river. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a realization stirred—not yet complete, not yet understood, but waiting. He took one last deep breath before stepping out of the water, letting his thoughts settle. For now, this was enough. But soon, he would prove them all wrong.
The river's cool embrace dulled the ache in Emmet's muscles, but his mind remained sharp. As he scrubbed away the sweat and dust of the day's training, his thoughts churned, dissecting the knowledge he had spent years absorbing. Something was wrong with what he had been taught. Not entirely—but incomplete.
The rune masters were record-keepers, preserving tradition without questioning its limits. They relied on written formulas, structured techniques, and rigid methods that had been passed down for generations—but none had ever tested them. They never asked if those methods could be wrong.
Emmet sighed, rubbing water over his face as his mind continued to unravel the puzzle of the great totem. The symbol carved into its shadow—what was it? Everyone assumed totems relied on earth crystals and divinant blessings, yet this ancient one lacked both. By all logic, it should have never functioned to begin with. Yet it had. How?
And then, as water streamed down his shoulders, it clicked.
Theory: The Stone's Memory. Divination wasn't about forcing energy into an object—it was about convincing it to remember its power. The symbol on the totem wasn't a rune—it was a question. For centuries, mages had tried to activate magic, assuming it had to be infused externally. But what if the energy was already there—just asleep? Totems weren't blank slates waiting to be filled. They were living echoes of the land's own memory.
Emmet paused, staring down at the rippling water beneath him. The river curved along the valley in the exact way the symbol had been etched into stone. Not a rune, but a reflection—something naturally formed, not artificially created. It resembled:
-
The winding path of a river.
-
The cracked surface of dried lakebeds.
-
The twisted roots of ancient trees.
Maybe, to unlock the totem, he didn't need divinant energy at all. Maybe he needed to match the symbol's origin—the way the land itself had shaped it.
His breath steadied as he stood, letting the water drip from his skin. He didn't fully understand it yet. But he was close.