Three days.
That's how long I've been working — barely sleeping, barely speaking. Just lines of chalk, endless diagrams, and a blur of tests that failed more often than they succeeded. But each failure was a breadcrumb. A signal. Proof that the system wasn't broken — just incomplete.
Now, for the first time, I have something that isn't a spell.
It's a template.
In the old world, we'd call this an interface — a structure that accepts variables and executes behaviors based on declared parameters. A skeletal engine waiting for commands.
I sit in the grove again, the stone platform nearly covered in my scrawls. Most of them erased, rewritten, iterated. But in the center is the clean version — a three-ring glyph array with modular sockets carved precisely to receive interchangeable components. The outer ring is purely structural: it anchors the system and defines execution scope. The middle handles modifiers. The core is the action itself.
Fire. Light. Lift. Project. Anything, really — provided the system accepts the input.
And now, for the first time, I won't cast a spell.
I'll run one.
Command: IgniteSimple()
Base ring initialized with stability glyphs.
Mid-layer accepts an Element: Fire modifier.
Core socket is bound to a function I've defined: "IgniteSimple."
No spoken incantation. Gesture-based trigger only.
Optional argument: Duration=3s.
I step forward, standing just outside the array.
One hand sweeps in a tight arc. My other moves horizontally, fast, like hitting return.
The glyphs react immediately.
A line of light travels the channels like a current along copper traces.
And then—
A soft ignition.
A sphere of flame, no larger than my palm, blooms above the center.
It hovers.
Doesn't flicker. Doesn't flicker out. Doesn't chain-react.
It just works.
My breath catches in my throat.
This isn't a spell the way they understand it. It's a callable function.A reusable, customizable behavior.
I wait.
Three seconds pass.
The orb of fire winks out exactly on time.
Success. Parameters respected. No anchor instability. Mid-layer modifier accepted and executed.
I exhale, a short sound that turns into a laugh despite myself.
It feels absurd. Beautiful. Terrifying.
It worked.
I pull out a new scroll — thicker parchment, meant for long-form scribing — and begin copying the array. Not the spell itself, but the structure. The skeleton.
At the top of the page, I scrawl the words:
PROTOGRIMOIRE 01 // FUNCTIONAL CORE
Then I begin writing notes. Like documentation. Like comments in code.
// All base rings must contain a completion glyph at opposing ends.
// Mid-layer modifiers must be balanced across element type and effect strength.
// Anchor glyph must not be recursive unless intentionally looped.
I'm building a library.
Not of spells.
But of methods.
A pattern others could follow. Reuse. Extend. Adapt.
And maybe… someday… share.
Just as I finish the last notation, the sky begins to change — clouds parting, light bleeding through like liquid gold. It strikes the edge of the platform and glances off the glyphs, making them glow softly.
I look at my work, exhausted but charged.
This isn't the end of the process.
It's the first version.
And like any first version… it's messy, untested, and dangerously misunderstood by everyone but the builder.
But it exists.
A living, logical spellbook.
One I'll keep refining.
One that might change the way this world casts magic — or tears it apart trying.