The forge he built floated in the void, anchored by thought and mory. Tools forged from starlight and stone hovered around him, each glowing with the remnants of trials past. The Heartroot lood nearby, vast and silent, a titan of bark and space watching without judgnt.
Argolaith had begun.
And he would not stop.
The first hundred years of the second trial were filled with brilliance.
He created new runes—sigils that harmonized with music, that activated through breath, that responded to a person's intent rather than speech. He carved them into enchanted plates, wove them into illusions, embedded them into ancient alloys he slted himself from elents collected during his long walk between worlds.
They lit up the void with patterns and pulses that would have made any other realm fall silent in awe.
But when he held up his creations, the Heartroot did not stir.
Not in rejection.
Not in approval.
Because others had already walked this road before.
The runes, for all their beauty, had been carved by the spirit-scribes of the fourth astral war, lost before Morgoth's first stone ever rose.
He sighed, and began again.
He shifted from runes to tools.
He crafted a whetstone that could sharpen emotions, not just blades.
He built a lantern that did not banish shadow, but invited it to sit and share its stories.
He forged a ring that held not power—but perspective. A wearer would see every decision they made reflected in the faces of those it would impact.
They were perfect.
And still… they were echoes.
He once saw sothing similar on the 542nd world. The lantern. A child had made one, carved from obsidian and sorrow.
Failure.
Ti passed.
Centuries.
Four hundred years.
Then six hundred.
Then a thousand.
Argolaith no longer asured it by days, but by what he failed to make.
He made machines that harvested sound to feed plants. He created fabrics woven from forgotten nas that changed color based on a person's regrets.
He invented gas, languages, even tastes that had never touched any tongue on Morgoth.
But always—sowhere, soone, in so other realm—had already touched that dream before him.
And so, the Heartroot remained silent.
Argolaith no longer wept when his creations dissolved.
He had learned not to cry when fire crackled and ate away years of effort.
Because now, he understood.
This trial wasn't just about creation.
It was about honesty.
About looking past brilliance.
Past the temptation to impress.
And asking the one question that cut deeper than any sword:
"What have I not yet said that only I can say?"
He sat again at the edge of the forge, arms resting on his knees, gazing up at the tree that still held back its judgnt.
His storage ring—once filled with trophies and gifts—now carried thousands of failed attempts.
Creations no one else had seen.
Artifacts that never lived long enough to matter.
And yet… he held onto them.
Because one day, sothing would spark again.
And this ti, it would not be drawn from mory.
Or theory.
Or inspiration.
But from within.
Argolaith sat beneath the Heartroot's arching roots, fingers caked in stardust and ash.
He no longer rembered how many years had passed.
Only that he had built, and failed, and built again.
Each attempt sharpened him—not like a blade, but like a sculptor's hand. Softer. Surer. More willing to let go.
And still, the second trial remained unfinished.
He exhaled slowly, watching the forges flicker in the distance.
His thoughts drifted to Morgoth.
To Kaelred.
To Malakar.
To the world he'd once walked on trembling legs.
How long has it been there?
Decades? Centuries?
The uncertainty pressed on him like fog. A creeping doubt he hadn't let himself voice.
Until the Heartroot stirred.
Its voice, always vast and deep, ca gently this ti—like a branch brushing his shoulder.
"You wonder how long it has been since you last stood beneath your sky."
Argolaith said nothing, but his heart answered.
Yes.
"Ti within this place was once tied to the flow of the outer realm."
"But after the first trial ended, I severed the stream."
"Morgoth does not age. It does not pass. Not while you walk this path."
The breath left his chest all at once.
His eyes widened.
"You an…"
"They are not waiting."
"They are still."
The tears that welled in Argolaith's eyes weren't of sorrow—but of relief.
He had not been forgotten.
He had not missed his return.
The friends he had left behind would see him again. Just as he was.
With new resolve, he stood.
And returned to the forge.
This ti, he built from silence.
From thought.
Not mory.
Not theory.
Not brilliance.
But inquiry.
He began shaping a small orb—barely larger than his palm. Smooth. Matte black. Inert to magic. It floated when placed on a surface, hovered without effort.
He carved no runes.
Cast no spells.
Instead, it responded to presence.
When soone ca near, it would echo the emotional resonance of that individual. Not their mood. Not their magic.
But their unspoken truth.
When he placed his hand near it, it remained still.
When he placed it near a shard of one of his failed creations—
The orb trembled.
When he placed it beside his rune-woven blade gifted from the second world—
The orb humd softly.
It did not explain.
It simply reflected.
Argolaith had no na for it.
But he knew—this was new.
He had never seen anything like it.
And neither had any realm he had touched.
He brought it before the Heartroot.
Placed it gently on the voidstone plinth that served as altar and judge.
The Heartroot pulsed once.
Long.
Quiet.
Then spoke.
"It is new."
Argolaith smiled.
But the voice continued.
"But it is not yet useful."
The orb, for all its originality, did not aid. Did not heal. Did not uplift.
It simply existed.
A reflection of depth, but not a tool of change.
A spark.
Not a fla.
Argolaith bowed his head and placed the orb into his storage ring.
He was not angry.
Not defeated.
He whispered to it:
"You're the first real thing I've made."
And he would make sothing greater still.
Because now, he knew he could.
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