A stillness, heavier than the settled dust of centuries, pressed around Kaelen. He sat on a low, salvaged stone bench within one of the Warden’s quiet, functional chambers. Lysander, his gaunt frame now tended, watched him with an unsettling, patient gaze.
How did one address the revelation of an ancestry tied to Aethel’s greatest fear? Kaelen’s thoughts tangled. Should he apologize for blood he never chose? For power he’d only just acknowledged? A profound shame, an echo of that primal fear, stirred in his gut. Yet, denying the wellspring of his surging Aether, the current that had saved them both, felt like a lie. A hypocritical act, claiming only the convenient truths.
Seconds bled into minutes. A hand, surprisingly warm despite its calloused grip, settled on Kaelen’s shoulder.
“No need for that look, Kaelen,” Lysander murmured, his voice a low rasp. “This isn’t your war. The conflicts of ages past belong to the fallen. They must not shackle the living.”
Kaelen felt a prickle of defiance. He wanted to point out the Warden’s own etched lines of weariness, the shadows under his eyes. But words failed him. A slow nod was all he could manage.
“Generations carry grudges, yes,” Lysander continued. “But to fight with ghosts... that only spills more blood. The ordinary folk, the citizens of Aethel, they bear the true cost.” Even as he spoke, a bitter twist remained around his lips.
Quietly, Kaelen found his voice. “Do you... regret it? Urging me to step forward?”
His question hung in the air, weighted with unspoken consequence. If Kaelen truly embraced his burgeoning power, he would inevitably be drawn to the other Scions, those who shared his primordial lineage. Aethel’s protective order, the Wardens, had fought against such power for centuries. His path could lead him directly into opposition with Lysander’s sworn duty.
Lysander merely shook his head. “I saw your heart, Kaelen. Saw the kindness you showed a stranger, the desperation in your eyes when that Echo threatened innocents. You faced a terror that would break most. You didn't falter.”
He paused, a flicker of something ancient in his eyes. “If someone of your character, a true Scion, were to rise to power… perhaps you could mend the fractured legacy. Perhaps you could prevent Aethel from another war it cannot afford.”
Kaelen swallowed. The Warden overestimated him. He had simply acted on instinct, on a deeply ingrained sense of duty. He’d helped Lysander because he didn’t want another death on his conscience, especially not of someone who had offered a rare moment of connection. Had the Warden been cold, dismissive, Kaelen wasn't sure he would have lifted a finger.
Still lost in thought, Kaelen kept his gaze fixed on the worn floorstones. Lysander gave a soft chuckle. “Well, no need to bear the weight of the world just yet. You haven’t pledged yourself to any faction, have you?”
“Not yet.” Truthfully, the thought of wandering the blighted lands, learning from Lysander, seeking out the Warped, held a stronger pull than the gilded cages of any Aethelian House. He wasn't eager to be bound, and the scant tales of other Scions had left him with a vague, disquieting animosity.
“Either way, I’ll remain here until your own wounds are fully healed. We have time to consider.”
Lysander scoffed. “Wounds? Just a few minor scrapes, boy! Nothing a night of rest won’t mend.” A hearty laugh, surprisingly full, escaped him.
---
Days later, as Lysander's resilience mended the deep cuts and internal bruising from his struggle with the Gloom-Stalker, Kaelen began his formal lessons. His primordial ability had been raw, uncontrolled; now, he sought to understand its fundamental truths.
“The Aether,” Lysander began, gesturing to the air itself, which seemed to shimmer faintly around them in the dim chamber, “the very current of Aethel’s ancient heart, is often called the ‘Architect’s Hand’.”
“The Architect’s Hand,” Kaelen repeated, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
“Yet it is no true omnipotence. To shape reality, to command the Aether, requires a price – a proportional expenditure of its current. You felt it, against the Echo. That draining sensation.”
Kaelen nodded, remembering the sudden, sharp depletion within him after he had shattered the monstrous form.
“What determines that price? That proportionate energy?”
That question had plagued Kaelen since his first subconscious use of his power. He’d simply pushed, and sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.
Lysander cleared his throat, holding up three gnarled fingers. “The difficulty of wielding Aether is determined by three core factors. First, bloodline. Second, mastery. Third, causality.”
Bloodline, mastery, causality. Kaelen committed them to memory, the words echoing with forgotten power.
“Bloodline is simple enough,” Lysander explained. “It’s the innate gift, the genetic predisposition. Why you, a Scion, could shatter that Echo, while I, a Warden, could only wound it. It’s why a true Healer, from the Guilds in the Western Wards, can mend shattered bones with a touch, or purge blight from flesh. For someone of a different lineage, such feats are nigh impossible. Imagine trying to call forth living flame from the earth, as some Pyromancers do. Your own gifts might allow you to shape stone, or command shadow, but fire would remain elusive without immense effort, if at all.”
Kaelen’s thoughts drifted to his mother. If such a power, a true Healer’s touch, had been his… he quickly banished the thought. Regret was a weight he could not afford to carry.
“Then, mastery?” he pressed.
“Proficiency,” Lysander clarified. “A wizard finds it easier to perform tasks they are familiar with, skills they practice. A Warden who regularly practices with their greatsword might find it easier to imbue that blade with elemental force, or even conjure a spectral edge. One who spends hours swimming the undercurrents of the lower canals might find it easier to manipulate water.”
“My habit,” Kaelen mused, “of shaping stone and shadow, of throwing hardened earth like stones… does that fall here?”
“Astute,” Lysander acknowledged, a rare smile touching his lips. “Precisely. Had you merely willed a vague burst of force, it would not have carried the same speed or impact. Your instinctive familiarity makes it easier, more efficient.” Kaelen found understanding in that. His raw, untamed power had always found expression through familiar motions, through the acts of protection or defiance he knew.
Lysander’s brow furrowed. “The third, causality, is the most crucial, and the most arcane. I confess, even I grasp only fragments. Simply put, more 'natural' events occur with less effort.”
The Warden stroked his chin, searching for the right words. “Imagine trying to use your Aether to simply kill me, right here.”
“My head would likely throb, and nothing else,” Kaelen said, remembering his past struggles against creatures far weaker than the Gloom-Stalker, before he instinctively added a physical component to his magic.
“Exactly. A lack of causality. No proper 'cause' for the desired outcome, or the task itself is too vast. Both applied to you then.”
“I think I grasp the idea of cause.”
“Explain it.”
“To kill you,” Kaelen elaborated, “I couldn’t just wish for it. I’d need to provide a cause. Shaping a shard of earth and launching it at your throat, for example. Creating and launching the shard is more ‘natural’ than merely willing your death.” He had intuited this during his desperate fight against the Echo, focusing his intent through concrete action.
Lysander clapped his hands, a dry sound. “Exceptional. You possess the mind of a scholar, Kaelen, not merely a conduit of raw force. Forming a proper cause can drastically reduce Aether consumption.”
“But why then could I easily fell common, blighted wolves with a mere thought, yet struggle so deeply with the Warped Echo? It resisted my direct will.”
Lysander leaned forward. “Creatures possessing Aether, even trace amounts like the Warped, develop an innate resistance. It’s proportional to their own inherent strength. However, if you wield an already formed spell – a hurled stone, a solidified shadow – you bypass much of that resistance. The magic acts as a physical force, rather than a direct assault on their own essence. If the disparity is too great, it can still fail, but that’s another matter entirely.” He explained how Kaelen’s crushing shadow had shattered the Echo, while Lysander’s less structured wards had barely scraped it.
After a long while of detailed explanations, a dull ache settled behind Kaelen’s eyes. He pressed his temples with his thumbs.
“Aether isn’t simple,” he admitted.
“A true Scion,” Lysander said, his gaze distant, “isn’t just a vessel of power. Understanding its principles, knowing your limits, and making use of all the world around you are equally vital.”
Kaelen closed his eyes, replaying the lessons. One question remained, a quiet hum in the back of his mind.
“Do the Scions, my… lineage… do we have any specific magic?” Lysander had mentioned a heightened sense of intuition, an unnatural resilience, but nothing that felt like a *spell*.
Lysander nodded. “Indeed. Scions excel in Concealment and Tracking. Have you ever attempted either?”
“Tracking, a few times,” Kaelen confirmed. He’d instinctively used it to sense his mother’s presence, to locate wandering beasts. Even to find Lysander himself, after the Warden had been struck down by the Echo. “Concealment? Never had a need to hide on the outskirts.”
“Try it,” Lysander urged. “Many who channel Aether can conjure basic invisibility, a shimmering distortion. But the highest form of Concealment, the total removal from all perception, is unique to your bloodline.”
Kaelen focused. He didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to be heard. Didn’t want his scent to carry through the recycled air of the Warden’s post.
A cold drain began in his core, the Aether rushing outwards. He looked down at his hands, his boots. Nothing seemed to change. He still stood there, visible.
“Did it work?” he whispered, his voice thin.
Lysander stared blankly at the space Kaelen had occupied. His eyes were unfocused, sweeping past Kaelen’s form as if seeing empty air. “It worked. I see nothing. Are you still there?”
Kaelen rose from the bench, slowly walking around the small room. He tried stamping his foot, snapping his fingers. Lysander remained fixed, his gaze vacant, unhearing. He moved Kaelen’s arm through the space where the boy had been. Nothing.
Confirming the effect, Kaelen let the surge of Aether subside. Lysander’s eyes snapped back into focus, locking onto Kaelen’s form. A deep sigh escaped him, a release of tension Kaelen hadn't realized he was holding.
“It’s been decades since I witnessed that ability,” Lysander rasped, a tremor in his voice. “Terrifying, still. During the Scion Wars, Aethel’s legions prayed for dawn to break. Come morning, entire barracks would be found, every soldier’s throat slit.”
“That… that seems profoundly unfair.” Kaelen felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The healing touch he’d once longed for paled against this. How could one fight an enemy they couldn’t even perceive?
Lysander shook his head. “No ability is invincible. Not truly.”
---