Eight years had carved their mark since the day earth had answered Kaelen’s silent call. He was ten, a quiet boy nestled in the desolate Mirelands. Winter's icy grip had tightened, drawing the warmth from the very stones of their small hovel. His mother, out with the hardy, stubborn sheep, would return with fingers gnawed raw by the cold.
Kaelen had only wanted to mend the crumbling wall near the hearth, to keep the wind's insidious whispers out. A thought, an insistent thrum beneath his skin, pulsed. The loose stones in the mortar seemed to tighten, to meld, obedient to a will he barely understood. It was a thrill, a secret fire in his blood.
He had shown his mother that evening, the way the pebbles danced, the faint tremor of the earth beneath his command. Her face, usually etched with a gentle resilience, fractured into something Kaelen had never seen. Despair, cold and heavy as a winter shroud, settled in her eyes. She hadn’t marveled. She hadn’t rejoiced.
“Kaelen, you must promise me,” her voice, a fragile whisper, broke the hearth's quiet crackle. “This… this must stay hidden. Never in front of others.”
“But why?” The question, small and confused, was a foreign sound on his lips. How could something so wondrous be wrong?
She warmed a cup of ewe's milk, its steam a pale ghost in the lamplight. For the first time, she spoke of the world below the blighted edge of the Mirelands, where the skeletal spires of Aethel clawed at the sky.
“Down there,” she said, her gaze distant, “live the Blood-Lords.”
According to her, these Blood-Lords were descendants of the Sky-Born, beings who long ago descended to save humanity. They wielded the Elder Blood, their magic a birthright, ruling Aethel as both protectors and tyrants.
Those born from mingled noble and human bloodlines became Wardens. Wardens, too, inherited magic, but their abilities were weaker, their role that of servants.
Kaelen’s mother revealed that he had inherited the power of a Warden from his long-lost father. If he ever descended to the city, cruel Blood-Lords would capture him, force him into servitude.
“If the Blood-Lords are shepherds,” she continued, her voice devoid of its usual warmth, “then Wardens are like the dogs they raise. Sometimes they might treat them like family, lavish them with affection. But they can also sell them off, sacrifice them whenever necessary.”
Blood-Lords, she explained, possessed everything yet constantly fought amongst themselves for more. In these conflicts, Wardens were often the first to fall.
Like a shepherd sending their dog to fight wolves while standing safely behind, tossing stones from a distance. Her face was a landscape of desolation Kaelen had never witnessed before.
“Kaelen,” she pleaded, her voice barely audible, “don’t you want to live with your mother for a long, long time?”
“Yes.” The word was barely a breath.
“Then you must hide that power. Otherwise, bad Blood-Lords will come. They will take you away. And you’ll never see me again.”
“Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!”
And so, eight years had passed since Kaelen, with youthful earnestness, made that solemn vow. Even after his mother succumbed to the wasting sickness, fading like the last ember of a hearth, Kaelen continued to live on the desolate slopes, tending their small flock. He avoided the distant city, refusing to become anyone’s shepherd dog.
---
“Fools.”
Kaelen slammed the hovel door shut. The sound echoed in the small space. Early that morning, before the first bruised light touched the horizon, a gaggle of village youths had come. They raged about Old Thane, found days ago, his body mauled by a blight-hound. They accused Kaelen, their words like jagged stones, claiming he had killed the elder and left him for bait. The scent of desperation and malice hung heavy in the air.
Signs of a blight-hound attack were clear to anyone with eyes, but their motives were transparent. They sought a scapegoat, a target for their fear and resentment. Kaelen had moved with a cold precision, a quiet fury, dispatching the loudmouths with measured blows. Their faces, twisted with spite, would remember the lesson.
He knew what would come next. When he next descended to the village for barter, they would try to cheat him, lower the value of his goods, or tamper with his exchanges. Kaelen would simply use his fists again, restoring a semblance of fairness. It was an annoying cycle, one he’d grown accustomed to.
Lost in thought for a brief moment, Kaelen heard a soft knock. Not the usual banging, but a polite, tentative rap. He let out a deep sigh before pulling the door open.
“Who is it now?” His voice was a low growl. “Do you have a death wish?”
Could their memories truly be so short? Had they forgotten the lesson he’d taught them just an hour ago?
However, the figure framed by the raw morning light was not one of the village youths. A man stood there, seemingly in his mid-forties, though dust coated his cloak, obscuring its true color. An awkward, weary smile creased his weathered face.
“Ah… my apologies, young friend.” The man’s voice was raspy, yet refined. “I’m traveling and was wondering if I could impose on you for a while. It seems I’ve come at a bad time.”
A traveler. Kaelen’s mind froze. In his eighteen years, he had never encountered such a person. Who would venture so far into the forgotten pockets of the Mirelands, away from Aethel’s crumbling walls? A strange curiosity, an unfamiliar warmth, stirred within him.
Kaelen, stiff for a moment, eventually stepped aside, making way for the man to enter.
“No, not at all. Please, come in. Some unpleasant people were here moments ago.” The formal tone, learned long ago from his mother for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When was the last time he had spoken like this? It must have been before he realized that everyone in the village, including Old Thane and the other elders, were nothing but schemers and cowards.
“If you’ll excuse me, then.”
Truthfully, if Kaelen wanted to keep his existence a secret, he should have sent the stranger away. But the promise of a moment’s peace, a true conversation, was a temptation he couldn't resist. It had been so long since he’d spoken without hostility, without the constant guard. Besides, if the man proved malicious, Kaelen was confident he could handle him.
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor have I. Join me.”
Kaelen seated the traveler at the rough-hewn table. He set out freshly churned ewe's milk, a wedge of hard cheese, porridge made from dried grains bartered from the village, a lump of rock salt, and strips of dried lamb jerky. Unless one was on the brink of starvation, guests deserved hospitality. It was another of his mother’s lessons, ensuring no guest dared harm their host.
“This is a poor place. I don’t have much to offer.”
“What are you talking about? This is a feast! Thank you for the meal.”
The man ate the food Kaelen had prepared with surprising enthusiasm, as though he hadn’t eaten in days. His words didn’t sound like empty pleasantries. Even while eating, the man displayed a quiet grace, a proper table manner Kaelen had never witnessed from the villagers.
He didn’t talk with his mouth full, and he slightly turned his head away when drinking. Polite gestures. Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar about Kaelen, for after taking a sip of the ewe’s milk, he offered a kind remark.
“You seem to know basic table manners. Your parents must have taught you well.”
“I learned from my mother.”
The traveler hesitated, sensing something in the omission of a father. After a brief pause, he continued.
“And… is your mother in the village? It doesn’t seem like you live together, judging by the house.” He must have noticed there was only one bed.
Kaelen nodded, his voice calm, devoid of the raw grief that once choked him. “She passed away from illness a few years ago.”
The traveler’s face briefly clouded with sorrow. He bowed his head, making a strange gesture with one hand—a solemn movement Kaelen had never seen.
“I offer my condolences. Having raised such a fine young man as yourself, she must surely dwell in the celestial palace with the Sky-Born.”
“I hope so as well.”
When he had first lost his mother, merely thinking of her had been enough to ruin his appetite, to make him weep all day long. To speak of it now, with a faint, almost imperceptible smile, was it a sign of growing into an adult? Or had the relentless passage of time dulled the sharp edges of her absence? Kaelen, feeling a sudden wave of gloom, forcibly changed the subject to distract himself.
“More importantly, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?”
“I happened to pass by a nearby settlement. I heard an old man saying a blight-hound had appeared in his village, and he was looking for a Warden to take care of it. After hearing his story, I decided to come and deal with it. I’m quite confident in combat.”
“Alone?”
A middle-aged man, not even in his prime, who looked like his back might give out any day, attempting to face a magical beast without so much as a weapon? Kaelen’s astonished expression drew an awkward smile from the traveler.
“I am a Warden. I served House Blackwood for sixty years. I can handle most blight-beasts just fine.”
At the mention of ‘Warden,’ Kaelen’s eyes widened, his body tensing instinctively. A being he had only heard about from his mother’s hushed stories, a servant of the Blood-Lords.
But his tension was short-lived. Kaelen soon noticed no hostility in the man’s gaze, only a quiet weariness. He gradually relaxed his stiffened body.
“Is something the matter?”
“It’s just… this is my first time meeting a Warden. But more than that, you don’t look like someone who’s worked for sixty years.”
“Wardens age more slowly and live longer than ordinary people. I am seventy-five this year. For a Warden, I’ve aged like this, but I’ve heard that powerful Blood-Lords can easily live over two or three hundred years.”
Hearing this for the first time, Kaelen was amazed. He carefully observed the man, someone of the same kind as himself. From outward appearances, it was hard to distinguish him from an ordinary person. If there was a difference, it was that he had a sturdy build and a healthy complexion, giving him a robust, unyielding look. He seemed… whole, despite his age.
In other words, just by looking at a Warden, one couldn’t tell they were a Warden. This was extremely important information.
It meant that even if Kaelen were to stand in the middle of a crowded Aethel market, as long as he refrained from using conspicuous magic, no one would be able to discern his true nature. Learning this made him feel as though one of the chains that had been tightly binding his chest had finally loosened.
“Being a Warden is truly incredible.”
“Incredible? Not at all! I think people like you are far more incredible. Living in such a rough place, where blight-beasts appear, without relying on magical powers? I couldn’t even imagine doing something like that.”
Contrary to what the man thought, this was the first time a blight-beast posing a serious threat to humans had appeared in the immediate area. At least, since Kaelen had been born. If that hadn’t been the case, no matter how extraordinary his mother was, she wouldn’t have been able to live here alone as a shepherd.
In truth, his mother, who raised her child on this desolate hill without any magical powers, was the one truly deserving of praise.
“Now that I think about it, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Lysander. Lysander of Blackwood—or rather, I suppose I should no longer call myself that. Just call me Lysander the Wanderer. And you are?”
“I am Kaelen. The sole shepherd of the Mirelands.”
“That’s a wonderful name.”
“You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a noble house. Does that mean you no longer do?”
“I officially ended my vassal contract a month ago. House Blackwood offered to take care of me until my dying breath if I wanted, but… I wanted to spend my later years traveling here and there. After all, I’ve been tied to a single house ever since I was hired at the age of fifteen.”