My first artifact came not from creation, but from discovery.
It was a ring — or rather, the shell of one. Cracked along the edge, its glyphs faded by time. But it pulsed with stored mana, as if it had once belonged to someone powerful… and forgetful.
I held it, and something passed between us. Not knowledge, but echo. The artifact did not remember its master, only the command to protect.
I reforged it using the mana lines embedded within my own Codex. A technique not taught, but intuited — as if the Codex itself was guiding my hand, or remembering for me.
When I placed it on my finger, I felt a hum in the Vault: the Codex's new wing, shaped by stored objects. A sanctum built of shelves and mana threads.
I have stored three tools so far. One glows when a lie is spoken. Another hums when danger nears. The third… has not spoken yet.
They are not weapons. They are memories with weight.
Each time I store an artifact, I give mana a glimpse of its history. And in return, I glimpse the world as it was before I arrived.