Arcane magic is the oldest and simplest school of sorcery, and also the most dangerous. It is not a whisper or a prayer—it is a command. Those who walk the Arcane Path do not ask the world to change. They force it to.

Through incantation, gesture, and sigil, the practitioner imposes their will upon reality, reshaping matter, summoning flame, halting time. But such change is not free. The arcane is transactional, and the cost must be paid. The universe resists alteration—power must be drawn from somewhere, and that source is often finite, volatile, or alive.

Some mages carry arcane batteries: crystals etched with binding runes, metals soaked in stormlight, or remnants of dying stars. Others sacrifice heat, life, or even blood, tapping their own vitality to channel greater spells. As their hunger for power grows, so too does the temptation to tether themselves to darker wells—souls, leyline fractures, or forgotten entities best left buried.

In time, many arcane masters become marked: bodies scarred by misfired rituals, eyes that flicker like candleflame, voices that echo with layered tones. More than a few disappear entirely, drawn into realms of thought and shadow where the weave of reality thins.

Yet none can deny the might of arcane magic. It is the foundation of the great siege engines, the heart of skybound cities, and the tongue in which the stars were first challenged. To walk this path is to burn bright—and risk burning through.

Few who take the arcane path remain unscarred.

Fewer still walk it backward.

Divine magic is not summoned, shaped, or forged. It is received.

It flows from the will of the Valar and the Mía, a current of celestial truth that passes through chosen mortals like a river through a hollow reed. Those who wield it do not command, but channel—allowing the power of creation’s guardians to manifest briefly within the world of dust and blood.

To call it “magic” is, to some, a blasphemy. It is not artifice, but alignment. The divine practitioner bends no laws—they simply embody them. Their power comes not from understanding, but from devotion, trust, and service.

Clerics, priests, and druids most often walk this path. A cleric may bear the wrath of Mandos in a word of judgment, or the mercy of Nienna in a whispered prayer over the dying. A druid might not conjure the wind, but open herself to Yavanna’s breath, and the wind answers.

Divine magic is as much a burden as a blessing. Those who serve must guard against pride, for the power they wield is never their own. Should their faith falter, or their heart turn toward falsehood, the light will depart—and leave only emptiness behind.

It is said that those who walk in true harmony with a god may not only channel miracles, but shine with a portion of that god’s presence, becoming more than mortal, if only for a heartbeat.

For the gods are distant—but never deaf.

And those who open themselves may yet become the hands of heaven.

The School of Origin — “Speak the True Name, and the World Must Listen.”

Runic magic is not so much a school of sorcery as it is a reverent act of remembering. It is the oldest of the magics—not learned, but uncovered, drawn from the deep bones of the world, where the first songs still echo. Each rune is not a symbol or a glyph, but a syllable of the primal tongue, the original lyrics of creation.

To inscribe a rune is not to cast a spell—it is to speak what something was always meant to be. A blade etched with the rune of flame does not burn—it is fire given shape. A gate bound with the rune of silence does not merely mute sound—it becomes a place where sound was never meant to exist. The rune reshapes the object’s truth, altering not the moment, but the very essence of its being.

Such magic is slow, sacred, and absolute. There is no improvisation, no spontaneous incantation. Runes must be carved with precision, sung with resonance, and placed with purpose. A misplaced curve can unmake a weapon—or undo the runesmith entirely.

It is a magic of artisans and warriors, not scholars. Among mortals, it is practiced almost exclusively by the Iron Lords, who keep the old rites alive with hammer and blood, forging weapons and wards to fight the abominations Morgath left behind. Some say they do not craft with their hands alone, but with memory—channeling the echoes of the Sundering War into every mark they strike.

To work in runes is to walk in silence, surrounded by meaning too deep for words. Most who pass through a runic circle will never understand what they have witnessed. But the world remembers. The stone remembers. And when the runes awaken, they do not ask permission.

They simply declare:

“This is what you are.”

Eldritch magic is not drawn from the world—it is drawn from what is not.

Unlike all other sorceries that echo the Song of Creation, eldritch magic comes from the silence between notes—from the vast, uncaring void beyond stars, gods, and memory. It is a magic of nullification, corruption, and unraveling, whispered into being by things that were never meant to be named, and cannot be unlearned once known.

Where arcane spells force the world to bend, and runes remind it of its true nature, eldritch magic unthreads it, strand by strand. Light bends strangely around it. Time forgets its course. Even thoughts begin to lose cohesion in its presence, as if the fabric of reality recoils from the intrusion.

No natural soul can touch this power and remain whole. Those who walk the path of the eldritch are either desperate, broken, or terrifyingly curious—seekers who value knowledge above sanity, or those who wish to destroy rather than reshape. Many are mad before they begin. Most do not know they are being watched.

For eldritch power is never freely given. It infects, seeps, and twists. The deeper a practitioner draws, the less they resemble what they once were—first in thought, then in flesh. Eyes cloud with starlight, bones echo like empty halls, and dreams are no longer theirs alone.

Its symbols are fractal and recursive. Its rituals never end the same way twice. And its strength lies not in fire or force, but in doubt, decay, and dissonance.

Even the gods do not speak of this school.

Even the world forgets its name.

But the void remembers.

And it waits.