They say a blade remembers.
Long after the hand that wielded it fades, the weapon endures—scarred, glowing, humming with echoes. Its story isn't told through words. It's carved. Etched into its very frame by the desperate, the hopeful, the damned.
These carvings are called runes.
To the untrained, they are simple markings—geometry lost to time. But to those who know… they are prayers. Tragedies. Wounds.
A single rune grants the impossible: speed beyond the body's limits, strength beyond the realm of mortals, flame that obeys a name, lightning that listens for command.
Yet nothing comes free.
Every rune burns itself into the soul of its bearer—irrevocable. Once engraved, it cannot be removed. It cannot be taken back.
It is a promise.
And a curse.
The weapon remembers not only the battles it has fought—but the person who chose to carry it.
The tremble in the engraver's hand.
The defiance in the chant.
The moment power became necessity.
A rune is not simply a tool.
It is identity.
It is legacy.
It is pain, shaped into permanence.