Codex
Arcanum — or, the twelve schools of magic —

Imbues an object with a hidden virtue — strength, swiftness, luminance, ill-fortune — without changing its form. A blade may be sharp by craft, but enchanted, it remembers to remain sharp.

Alters what a thing fundamentally is — lead to silver, flesh to bark, river to road. Where enchantment whispers to the object, transmutation overwrites its first letter.

Grants autonomous action to objects that were never alive — a broom that sweeps without hand, a watchman of bronze, a letter that delivers itself. The animator borrows no soul; she leaves a small intention behind.

Summons the great elements — flame, wind, frost, thunder — out of the air itself. The most dramatic of the schools, and the easiest to misjudge. Evokers do not bargain with fire; they introduce it.

Protects and restores. The abjurer raises wards against the storm, dispels what ought not to be there, and stitches what has been torn — flesh, oath, or stone alike. The quietest school, and the one most worth keeping near.

Moves objects directly by act of will, with neither hand nor tool. A subtle school in skilled use — turning a key, deflecting an arrow, holding a falling friend aloft — and a brutal one when made loud.

Pulls into being objects and creatures of pure magical fabric — a sword that fades by dawn, a steed of light, a roof against rain. What the conjurer makes is never permanent, but for the hour it lasts, it is wholly real.

Calls beings already-existing across great distance — beasts of the deeper wood, spirits of named place, persons answering a written sigil. Summoning does not create. It pulls a thread, and waits to see who walks down it.

Forges binding agreements between beings — between mortal and mortal, mortal and elder spirit, even spirit and spirit. The terms are absolute. The breach is always known. Pacters are rarely loved, but they are very often kept on retainer.

Touches mind to mind. Reads surface thoughts, projects images, carries whole conversations across rooms or kingdoms in perfect silence. Skilled telepaths can sense the shape of a lie before its speaker has finished telling it.

Builds what is not there — sights, sounds, scents, the feel of warm hands. An illusion convinces the senses, but not the world: it leaves no footprints, no warmth, no body when the dawn comes.

The forbidden school — though never quite forbidden enough. Delirium loosens the threads holding sense together: time stutters, geometry slips, the floor remembers being a sea. Mastery is rare, because the school does not always know which mind it is supposed to be teaching.