Kaelen pressed a palm against the crumbling wall of his dwelling. Dust motes danced in the last slivers of twilight piercing the broken window. With a soft exhale, he urged the deep-seated earth within his blood. The mortar around his hand shivered, tiny fragments of stone knitting themselves together, cracks closing with an almost imperceptible groan. Eight years had honed this quiet command. His nascent magic, a part of him since the unsettling awakening, felt both alien and intimately familiar. He understood its whispers better now. First, a focused will. A searing desire, quiet and fierce, to see change wrought. Second, a directed thought. The sharper the intent, the less his inner reserves were taxed. A murmured word could guide the power, but silence worked too, albeit with a greater drain. Finally, a stark limitation. The grander the aspiration, the heavier the cost, or outright impossibility. The bounds of 'difficulty' remained a constant enigma. Sometimes, a delicate task, like coaxing a dormant seed to sprout in the barren soil outside his door, consumed an infuriating amount of his essence. Yet, a simple thrust of will could cleave a small boulder into precise pieces, almost effortlessly. He’d learned to dread the subtle shifts in the wildwood, the way a faint tremor in the ground could mean danger, while pushing the same force to crumble a decaying relic of the Ancients left him gasping. He remembered the warped beast from days past. A creature of raw, corrupted sinew and bone. He’d aimed a shard of sharpened earth, propelled by a silent command, and it had pierced its skull with chilling precision. The beast fell, blood pooling into the scorched earth. That single, decisive blow had cost him little. He knew he could have repeated the feat many times over. Yet, in that same fight, trying to simply *slow* the creature's charge, a far less destructive act, had proven almost futile. Kaelen finished mending the wall, the patched stone now subtly darker, firmer than its surroundings. A low scent, acrid and metallic, drifted on the cooling air. It was a familiar tang, sharp and primal. 'Gloom-Stalker.' He knew that scent. The bitter tang of dark hide, the musky undertone of feral hunger. Not long after, a silhouette emerged against the bruised twilight horizon. Lysander, the Warden, walked with an unhurried grace, a heavy, dark form slung over his shoulder. A dead Gloom-Stalker. "Evening, Kaelen," Lysander called, his voice calm, carrying easily across the desolate grounds. "Mind if I trouble you for a fire and a corner tonight? This beast makes for fair recompense." A Gloom-Stalker was no small feat. Its hide, thick and dark, was prized, and its sinews could be rendered into surprisingly potent oils. More than enough to earn a night's shelter. Kaelen nodded, a faint tremor of unease settling in his gut. "Few of these roam so close to the Redoubt," Kaelen observed, his voice a low rumble. "How far did you range?" In his own quiet patrols, Kaelen had driven most of the smaller warped creatures further into the wilderness. The immediate outskirts of his home were usually quiet. "Found this one skulking near the Ashborne Wastes," Lysander replied, his strides long and even. "A half-day's trek, perhaps." The Ashborne Wastes. A realm of crumbling, dust-choked ruins and warped flora, far beyond the broken palisades of Aethel, a place few dared approach. Kaelen felt a prickle of caution. This Warden was more capable than he let on. --- Soon, a small fire crackled in Kaelen's hearth, its flickering light casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The scent of roasted Gloom-Stalker meat, surprisingly lean, mingled with the earthy aroma of dried herbs. Lysander gazed up at the sparse, star-dusted sky visible through the roof's cracks. "The sky out here... it feels vast, untamed." "My mother said this was once a high place," Kaelen murmured, turning the skewered meat over the coals. "Before Aethel rose. Just short of the deepest Wastes." "Beyond those Wastes, the Barrens stretch, an unbroken desolation," Lysander said, his tone pensive. "Even a Lord Warden would struggle to traverse its heart without grievous cost." Kaelen remembered his mother's stories, whispered in the gloom, of the Blood-Lords: cruel masters, possessors of monstrous power. "I've heard the Lords of Blood are akin to elder spirits, their powers beyond reckoning. Surely, they could simply stride across any desolation?" "Not all, Kaelen," Lysander corrected softly. "The true Elder Blood-Lords, the heads of the ancient houses... they might shatter a low ridge with a sigh, yes. But even their might has limits." Lysander recounted a tale he'd once witnessed, an Elder Warden of House Veridian, calming a seething rift in the very ground with a gesture, sealing it with a whisper of frost and earth. A faint flush rose to Kaelen's neck. Sometimes, in the quiet solitude, he allowed a foolish thought to bloom—that his own burgeoning power, so unlike anything he'd seen, might rival those distant, legendary figures. Hearing Lysander's calm words, the stark reality crushed that nascent pride. His own abilities, while growing, were but a shadow compared to such grand displays. "Tell me," Lysander ventured, breaking the thoughtful silence. "Does it not grow... quiet, living out here alone?" "It does," Kaelen admitted, the word a rasp. He turned the meat again. "But I have grown accustomed to the silence." "Perhaps," Lysander suggested, a hint of a smile in his voice, "a young woman from Aethel might find solace in this quiet. Bring her here." Kaelen grunted, a short, humorless sound. "Who would willingly choose exile on these forgotten grounds, to share a life of solitude?" "Surely, there are those within the Redoubt," Lysander mused, "who would see beyond the broken walls, to the man within. You are not without... a certain presence." Kaelen offered a strained smile. He remembered the children of the village, years ago, before his mother's passing and the unspoken chasm that opened between him and the Redoubt’s folk. Girls who once followed him, giggling. But that time had passed. They understood the truth now. To bind oneself to Kaelen was to embrace a life shunned, a life on the desolate edges of Aethel. "Such encounters are rare," Kaelen said, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames. "Few travel this far beyond the gates." Lysander only hummed in agreement. A companionable silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant cries of night creatures. Kaelen finally spoke again, the words tasting like ash. "Why do you toil so?" Lysander tilted his head. "Toil?" "The Redoubt's folk," Kaelen clarified. "They offered you a paltry sum for lodging, treated you with suspicion. Your strength, Warden, is clear. You could demand comfort, command respect within the city. Instead, you hunt warped things for ungrateful people. Why?" He’d seen the wary glances, the closed doors. The villagers of Aethel had made it clear Lysander, despite his official title, was merely a passing inconvenience. If Kaelen possessed such power, he would have taken what he pleased and departed. "They are lost souls, Kaelen." Lysander’s voice was gentle, devoid of judgment. "Lost?" "Living each day in fear, nestled within the crumbling shell of Aethel, yet unprotected by true knowledge or strength beyond their walls," Lysander explained, his eyes reflective. "Out beyond these gates, the warped creatures multiply. It is the core of a Warden's pledge, inherited from ancient times, to stand between the blighted world and the common folk. Even if I no longer serve a specific house, the oath remains." This perspective clashed starkly with his mother’s teachings. She spoke of Wardens and Blood-Lords as chains, as exploiters, their power used to dominate, not to protect. Kaelen's brow furrowed. Lysander, noticing his confusion, offered a faint, knowing smile. He pushed a bowl of steaming meat broth closer to Kaelen. "Not every Warden sees it as I do. Just as there are countless stars, there are countless paths for those who wield true power." --- Morning light, pale and cool, filtered into Kaelen's dwelling. He moved through his chores with a quiet efficiency, his mind still replaying Lysander’s words. 'Pledge… inherited from ancient times.' The concept felt heavy. A Warden, not merely a fist of the Blood-Lords, but a shield for the powerless. It didn't make him yearn to kneel before a noble house, but it softened the hardened edges of his prejudice. Perhaps not all power was wielded for selfish ends. Perhaps, somewhere, even a Blood-Lord might remember such a 'pledge.' A more immediate problem nudged at him. He needed to tell Lysander about the corrupted maw, the one he'd struck down days ago. Its corpse, tossed into a deep fissure, was undoubtedly rotting. But he couldn't simply announce his actions. To retrieve the decaying remains and present them would reveal his involvement, his hidden abilities. Anyone searching for a magic-wielder in the desolate lands around Aethel would immediately suspect him. Kaelen sighed. With a subtle surge of earth magic, the debris and dust accumulated in his living space simply lifted, settling neatly into a corner where he could later dispose of it. The dwelling, small and simple, was now meticulously clean. He had a moment. He considered searching for Lysander. The Warden had mentioned patrolling closer to the settlement today, checking the broken perimeter. There was a chance Kaelen could intercept him, discreetly. Kaelen closed his eyes, extending his awareness. His primordial magic wasn't just about moving earth or shaping shadow; it was about connection, intuition. He tapped into the subtle vibrations of the earth, the faintest currents of life energy that hummed beneath the world. He sought a specific signature, the grounded presence of the Warden. His perception flared. The immediate surroundings sharpened, the individual grains of sand, the distant rustle of dry weeds. Then, it expanded, sweeping outwards. He felt the vast, complex network of roots beneath the soil, the frantic scurry of burrowing creatures, the slow thrum of distant water. All this information, immense and overwhelming, filtered through his intent, searching only for the specific resonance of a living, thinking person. 'Lysander.' A jolt. A sudden, sharp discordance. He snapped his head towards the west. Through his heightened senses, he perceived Lysander. The Warden moved with a labored gait, his form marred by fresh wounds, blood blossoming darkly on his shoulder and brow. Opposite him, a grotesquely re-animated husk writhed. It was the corrupted maw, the beast Kaelen had killed days ago. Its decayed frame roared, a soundless scream that vibrated through the very ground. --- 'Who would leave such a thing…?' Lysander clenched his teeth, his gaze fixed on the monstrous echo. When creatures of the warped wilderness died, their corrupt magic often clung to them, a desperate hold on existence. This lingering essence could bind their shattered forms, forcing a grotesque, temporary re-animation: a Warped Echo. It was why any Warden knew to dispel or absorb the lingering energies of a fallen beast. But whoever had struck down this maw had either been ignorant of the danger, or deliberately abandoned the corpse. Given the gaping wound in its head, a clean, precise hole, the original kill suggested a practiced hand, likely one wielding subtle magic of projection. [***Rrrraaaagghh—!***] The maw’s rotting throat rent the air with a shriek of defiance, a chilling echo of death. Its corrupted magic pulsated, a raw, toxic aura. "To the blight with you!" Lysander roared, drawing his heavy blade.

Ashborne Echoes