Cool night air clung to the tavern’s stone walls, carrying the scent of stale ale and simmering stew. Kaelen sat alone at a scarred table in the corner, a mug of watered-down cider untouched before him. He’d learned quickly that a few coppers, and a quiet demeanor, could unlock an surprising stream of gossip. His query was simple: bounty for the warped beasts that had stalked the outer districts.
Elara, a young woman with a sharp wit and quick smile, returned to his table. She’d a streak of flour on her cheek. “Turns out, you just need to visit the Citadel of Orders, love. Ask for a Veridian Scribe.” Her explanation for ‘Citadel’ and ‘Scribe’ was accompanied by a burst of laughter. “You truly are new to Aethel, aren’t you? Haven’t seen a face so fresh from the fringes in ages.”
She described the Citadel as the city’s heart, a sprawling administrative complex where the city-lord’s business was done. Scribes, she added, were the lord’s appointed record-keepers. Day had already bled into night, painting the high windows in hues of bruised purple. Kaelen decided a morning visit was best.
“Why the interest in warped beasts, anyway?” Elara leaned closer, her voice dropping. “You’re not one of those… warped hunters, are you?”
Kaelen tilted his head. “Warped hunters?”
“Those who believe slaying a warped beast will grant them the aether.” She rolled her eyes. “They think they can become magi.” A widespread superstition, she clarified, born of desperation. Ordinary folk, risking their lives for a whisper of power. Most considered them madmen, but their numbers swelled with each passing season of scarcity and fear.
A heavy hand landed on Kaelen’s shoulder. He flinched, not in fear, but in a sudden, sharp clarity of sensation—a brief intrusion of another’s crude life force against his own.
“Now, Elara. Not just superstition.” A man’s voice, rough as a grindstone. “I’ve seen it myself. With my own eyes.”
Kaelen turned. A man in his late thirties stood there, hair matted, beard unkempt. His clothes were patched leather, smelling faintly of sweat and something metallic. Yet, his eyes, beneath a brow furrowed with ancient worries, gleamed with an unnerving, unblinking clarity.
“Theron!” Elara gasped. “You’re alive? We thought the last hunt claimed you.”
“Never, girl. Not till I taste the aether myself.” He grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. Three other men, equally burly and worn, emerged from the shadows behind him, their heavy spears and blunted axes clattering against the floorboards. Warped hunters, undeniably.
Kaelen brushed the hand off his shoulder, a silent gesture. Theron blinked, taking a step back. “Apologies, lad. Got too eager.”
“No offense taken,” Kaelen replied, his voice low. “But what did you mean, earlier? About the aether?”
Theron’s grin widened, a predatory gleam. “Ah, another seeker of power, eh? Smart lad.” He gestured for Kaelen to listen. Magi, he explained, harvested the aether from fallen warped beasts, growing stronger. The same principle, he claimed, applied to common folk. Kill enough, absorb enough, and the aether would awaken within.
“We’ve slain three already!” One of Theron’s men, a giant of a man with a scarred face, boomed.
“Close to the breakthrough, we are,” another added, thumping his chest. Kaelen’s quiet mind reeled. Three warped beasts? The one he’d faced, a creature of distorted shadow and raw earth, could have torn a dozen armed men apart.
“Three beasts?” Kaelen asked, his gaze settling on Theron. “Has one of you… become a magus?”
Laughter erupted from the tavern’s patrons, a harsh, derisive sound. “Of course not, lad!” Theron bellowed, wiping a tear from his eye. “In this entire city, only four magi walk: the City-Lord and his three Dragon-Knights. If one of us had tasted the aether, we’d not be here, I assure you!”
“Nearly died a dozen times for those three,” the scarred man muttered, his laughter dying to a grimace.
Four magi in a city of tens of thousands. The scale of it settled heavily in Kaelen’s gut, a cold, hard stone of realization. He understood, then, the raw hunger in these men’s eyes, the desperate gamble they made.
Theron’s gaze fell to the small, worn leather pouch hanging from Kaelen’s belt. “You’re hunting too, you said? But your gear… seems light. Where’s your blade, lad?”
Kaelen reached into his pocket. He pulled out a simple slingshot, carved from dark, cured hide, its pouch soft and supple from countless uses. Its string, twisted from sinew, was taut and strong. He waited for the mockery, the dismissive jeers.
Instead, the warped hunters leaned in. “That’s a good piece, that is,” the scarred man grunted, admiring the craftsmanship. “For slinging stones, eh?”
“Takes skill, that does,” Theron added, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the worn leather. “What kind of stones you favor?”
“Egg-sized, mostly,” Kaelen murmured.
“Enough to crack the skull of a fox-bane, or a rabbit-rotter,” the smallest of the hunters chimed in, nodding sagely. Their words clicked into place. These men hunted the lesser warped, creatures born of mundane animals, transformed but still vulnerable to a well-placed stone. Not the apex predators, the corrupted monsters Kaelen sought.
“Say,” Theron said, his eyes now calculating. “We could use another marksman. Care to join our next expedition?”
“No,” Kaelen replied, a quiet finality in his tone. He had no desire to reveal his burgeoning power, nor did their meager quarries align with his own grim hunt. The chasm between their goals was vast.
Theron merely shrugged, a flicker of disappointment in his gaze. “Pity. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.” He turned to rejoin his men, their raucous voices filling the tavern once more.
---.
Later, upstairs in his small, creaking room, Kaelen lay on a straw mattress, listening. The tavern below was still alive with the hunters’ talk. Their voices, muffled by the rough floorboards, drifted up to him.
“Theron, why bother with that scrawny runt? He’d be more trouble than he’s worth.” That was the scarred man’s voice, thick with contempt.
“One good hit, he’d shatter like old crockery.” Another added, a sneer clear in his tone.
They had been so welcoming moments ago. Kaelen sighed. He’d seen this two-faced nature before, in the isolated hamlets, in the cold, suspicious eyes of distant travelers. He felt no sting, only a quiet understanding. *That’s just how people are.*
Theron’s voice cut through the others, a rumbling growl. “Quiet, you dolts. He reminded me of myself, once. Wandering the waste with naught but a slingshot and a prayer. Wouldn’t last a week, a lad like that, without some guidance.”
“You’re too soft, hyungnim,” one said, though the tone was fond.
“Who says I’m not?” Theron retorted. Kaelen closed his eyes. The world, indeed, was a knot of kindness and cruelty, woven together in bewildering patterns.
---.
Morning arrived, gray and unforgiving. Kaelen ate his portion of hard bread and thin gruel, then ventured into the city. Aethel, even in its decay, pulsed with a relentless, weary life. Merchants hawked their wares beneath crumbling archways. Beggars huddled in the shadows of forgotten monuments. The air smelled of woodsmoke, refuse, and distant rain.
He found the Citadel of Orders at the city’s heart, a monolith of scarred granite and dark iron, its upper spires touching the low-hanging clouds. The courtyard buzzed with activity: farmers disputing land claims, families seeking aid, guardsmen marching in grim procession. Kaelen navigated the throng, his quiet presence like a ghost amidst the clamor, until he located the proper entrance.
The Veridian Scribe, a sallow-faced man with perpetually narrowed eyes, barely glanced up from his ledger. “Next. State your business.”
Kaelen stepped forward. “I seek information on bounties. For warped beasts.”
The scribe looked him up and down, a flicker of disdain in his gaze. He saw a youth, plainly dressed, lacking the martial bearing of a knight or the refined robes of a scholar. Kaelen could have revealed his true nature, unfurled a whisper of primordial power. The scribe would have fallen to his knees, certainly. But Kaelen had no desire for such fanfare. To be recognized as a magus, even a nascent one, meant obligation. He’d be bound to the lord’s service, or paraded as a curiosity, his purpose derailed. His quiet hunt was his own.
“Don’t touch it,” the scribe grunted, pushing a heavy vellum scroll across the counter with a long, bony finger. “Just read.”
The document was dense with names and descriptions. Locations, size, habits, and the reward for each creature. Weaker beasts required live capture, their subtle warpings often indistinguishable from mundane animals until examined by a scholar. More dangerous ones, however, could be slain. Their corpses, the scroll instructed, must be returned.
“A word of warning, drifter.” The scribe’s voice was sharper now, his eyes fixed on Kaelen. “Even if you kill a warped beast by accident, you bring the carcass back. Every piece. The knights disperse their aether, lest it fester. Abandon a warped corpse and face the gallows. City law.”
Kaelen felt a chill. He knew the horrors of unattended warped matter, the way the residual aether could corrupt the very fabric of life, drawing shadows and animating death. He nodded, the warning settling deep within him.
“Some of these creatures seem… beyond the capabilities of an ordinary person,” Kaelen observed, pointing to a description of a beast that preyed on infants. “Do the knights not hunt them?”
The scribe snorted, an incredulous sound. “The knights? Do you think they have time for common vermin? Their duty is order, defense of the wall. These… lesser threats? That’s for drifters like you, boy. Or the desperate fools who call themselves ‘hunters’.”
Kaelen looked back at the scroll, his fingers tightening on the rough paper.
***
**Obsidian Rook**
*A raven-like creature, its feathers honed into blades of blackened obsidian. It can deflect projectiles with its wings and attacks by dropping razor-sharp plumes from the sky. Known to target outlying farms, preying on small children and livestock, leaving little but scattered bone…*
***
If magi were meant to be the bulwark against the encroaching blight, why did such horrors persist? Why did the elite, those touched by the aether, so readily abandon their duty to the desperate? A bitter taste filled Kaelen’s mouth. He turned, leaving the bustling Citadel behind, heading toward the frayed edges of Aethel.
The city’s buildings thinned, giving way to barren fields and then the skeletal remains of what was once a sprawling forest. Twisted trees reached like arthritic fingers towards the leaden sky. This was the edge, the boundary between Aethel’s decaying order and the wilderness warped by an ancient, unseen force. This was where his hunt truly began.
*Let’s start.*
Kaelen scanned the desolate landscape, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic. No one else was near. He closed his eyes, recalling the Obsidian Rook’s description. A creature of shadow, a harbinger of death.
“Warped Echoes.” He whispered the incantation, a ripple of primal power unfurling from his core. He sought to extend his senses, to feel the aberrant pulse of a corrupted life form, to draw its essence to him.
Hundreds of sounds erupted, a cacophony of rustling feathers, sharp caws, the distant flutter of countless wings. The air thrummed with a thousand mundane vibrations. He gasped, his mind reeling from the sudden, overwhelming deluge of information. Too many ordinary ravens, too many mundane creatures flitting in the periphery. His control, still nascent, was instantly overloaded.
“Ugh.” He cut the connection, the world snapping back into sharp, silent focus. His temples throbbed.
*Ineffective. This crude method won’t work.*
How to filter, to sift through the noise and pinpoint the single, corrupted entity? He tried again, focusing his intent: *Only a creature that carries the taint of the warp. Only one touched by raw, dark aether.* But the spell flickered, stubbornly refusing to activate. The sheer presence of residual aether in the air, in the very earth, was too pervasive, too diffused. His magic wasn’t precise enough yet.
Next, he refined his thought: *A creature that has tasted human flesh.* This time, the echo pulsed, but in too many directions, a scattershot of dark vibrations. Scavengers, he realized. Many mundane carrion birds would have picked at the remains of the Rook’s victims. His intent was too broad, his focus too unrefined.
Kaelen opened his eyes, a quiet frustration settling in his chest. His inherent abilities were powerful, yes, but untrained, undisciplined. He still had so much to learn, so much to understand before he could truly harness the primordial currents that surged within him. The hunt for the Obsidian Rook would demand more than simple power; it would demand cunning, patience, and a deeper connection to the subtle language of the warped world.
He would find another way.
His gaze hardened, sweeping across the desolate horizon. The task ahead was immense, but a quiet defiance stirred within him. He was Kaelen, and the deep, forgotten magic of the world coursed through his veins. He would not fail. Not when children suffered.
---