They never speak of what comes after.
After the engraving.
After the body fails.
After the name fades.
Only the weapon remains.
And the rune.
Still glowing.
Still humming.
Still waiting.
Some say the rune carries the final breath of its creator—etched into the steel like a memory that refuses to die. Others say it holds everything—every loss, every failure, every moment they thought, "This will save me."
They're both right.
Because in the end, the runes do not record strength.
They record insecurity.
Love.
Pain.
Hope.
Each stroke of the chisel is a confession:
I am not enough.
But maybe this—this—will make me whole.
They carve not to become gods.
But to survive a world that felt as if gods abandoned.
So yes—
Runes grant power.
But that power comes from suffering.
From the way a hand trembles as it finishes the mark.
From the chant that breaks halfway through, yet still continues.
From the soul that burns itself into metal, because there's no other way left.
Runes aren't just power.
They're legacy.
They're memory.
They're identity.
And when all else fades—
They remain.
Just like the stories of those who dared to carve them.