Magic is not chaos, but harmony, and all workings of the Art seek their counterweight. For every flame called, there is smoke and ash; for every wound mended, a scar remains upon the Weave. This is the balance that holds the world steady.

To deny balance is to invite collapse. Consider the sorcerer who healed a village of plague but grew frail and broken himself. Consider the conjurer who called a hundred soldiers from the ether, only to see his homeland wither in famine as the Weave reclaimed its due.

Thus, the Balance is not cruelty, but justice. It reminds us that all gifts carry weight, and that no spell is free of consequence. Wise mages measure the scales before they cast, lest their own craft tip the world against them.

So it is written: he who forgets the Balance shall find himself undone by the very world he sought to command.

Magic is born not of words nor gestures, but of will. Sigils, chants, and formulae are vessels only; it is the clarity of the mage’s purpose that fills them with life.

A fire cast in anger spreads uncontrolled. The same fire, guided by steady will, may strike with precision enough to burn but a single candlewick. Thus, intent shapes not only power, but form, range, and outcome.

Yet intent is treacherous. The heart that wavers breeds flawed magic; the mind that falters conjures ruin. In this way, intent is both the source of mastery and the herald of failure.

So it is written: as the mage, so the magic; as the heart, so the spell.

From nothing, nothing comes. The Art cannot conjure from the void, for magic is no thief of creation. Each working must draw from some well: the caster’s body, the living earth, the celestial spheres, or the distant planes.

The abjurer bleeds his own stamina to shield others. The necromancer borrows flame from souls not his own. The evoker channels the storm’s fury, but the storm must first exist.

To forget Conservation is to court debt. The mage who overreaches finds his strength spent, his spirit hollow, his body consumed. There are those who sought to draw endlessly from Draethor’s abyss, and now their names are spoken only in curses, for their flesh was claimed in payment.

So it is written: he who spends beyond his means shall pay the debt in blood or soul.

Every path of magic has its bounds, and no mortal hand may break them without ruin. A ward may shield a man but not a mountain; an enchantment may sway a mind, but not rewrite its soul. These limits are threads woven into the fabric of existence.

To test them is to tear the Weave. A conjurer who calls beyond his capacity summons not an ally but a terror unbound. An alchemist who exceeds his formula awakens rot and mutation. Even the gods themselves, it is said, bind their hands within such measures.

Thus, the wise mage learns not only what he can do, but what he must never attempt. For a law broken is not only a spell undone—it is a scar carved upon reality itself.

So it is written: a ward stretched too far shall shatter, and a spell forced too long will turn upon its caster.

What is bound to the soul is bound to the whole. A fragment may carry the essence of the greater, and through such links, magic may reach across distance and time.

A lock of hair may bind a curse to its owner. A treasured relic may allow enchantment of its bearer. Even the land itself remembers its stewards, so that fields may be blessed by their touch, or cursed by their neglect.

Contagion is the root of both healing and harm. It allows the physician’s touch to mend unseen wounds, and it permits the assassin’s spell to strike across leagues. It is a Law most dangerous, for it is both boon and bane alike.

So it is written: beware what you leave behind, for all that is yours may be used against you.

All magic is an echo of greater realms. The caster does not invent but channels, and each path resounds with a plane of being.

Illusion resounds with the shifting veils of mind and dream. Divination resounds with the stars and the eternal song of fate. Necromancy resounds with Draethor, the infernal plane where shadows feed on souls.

These resonances are both strength and peril. To call upon them is to draw not only power but attention. The diviner gazes into the stars, but the stars gaze back. The necromancer stirs Draethor, and Draethor stirs in return.

Thus, every mage must know not only what he calls, but from whence he calls it.

So it is written: every art bears its answering chord, and to sound it is to be answered in turn.

The measure of cost is equal to the measure of power. A minor working may ask a drop of sweat; a great one may demand years of life or the surrender of the soul itself.

The alchemist who transmutes lead into gold drains his vigor, and though he may hold the wealth in his hand, his body withers. The conjurer who summons a great demon does not go unpaid; the price is carved into his soul before the pact is even sealed.

Equivalence is the balance of scales eternal. To seek power without cost is folly; to pay too great a price for too small a gain is ruin. Thus, mastery of the Art lies not in denial of the price, but in wisdom to know when to pay it.

So it is written: the greater the working, the greater the sacrifice.

The Art is fleeting, for magic is ever in motion. Spells are ripples cast upon the river of the world, and left unanchored, they fade as all ripples must.

An illusion lingers only as long as the eye is fooled. An enchantment endures only as long as the will holds. A transmutation decays, the object returning to its true form in time.

Only by rite, anchor, or divine blessing may a spell defy this Law. A soul may be bound into steel, a ward carved into stone, a curse etched into blood. Yet even such bindings demand vigilance, for all things strain against chains eternal.

So it is written: all things return to their nature, unless chained by art beyond mortal measure.

As the mage shapes the Art, so the Art shapes the mage. The pyromancer sears not only his foes but his own soul; the necromancer carries the chill of death in his flesh; the illusionist forgets what is real, for he lives too long among lies.

This is not punishment, but truth. To channel power is to invite it inward, to let it etch itself upon the caster. One cannot call upon lightning without carrying its scars, nor weave shadows without becoming shadowed.

Thus, every mage must choose their path with care, for in the end, their chosen art becomes their mirror. What they love, they will become. What they wield, they will embody.

So it is written: in the end, the mage becomes the mirror of the magic they love most.

"These Nine Laws are the pillars of the Weave. They are neither king’s decree nor sage’s invention, but eternal truths set into the foundation of creation. Let no mage claim ignorance of them, for the Codex bears witness, and the world itself will judge the transgressor."