Kael felt the silence stretch, thin and brittle as sun-baked clay. Keorn's words, spoken under the wide, star-dusted canopy, echoed like a falling rock in a canyon.
He couldn't meet the old hunter’s gaze, fixed instead on the uneven rock floor. He traced a crack in the stone, searching for patterns.
Apologize? For blood not chosen? For a birthright he barely understood, one that hummed with a power both terrifying and alluring within him?
But the earth-song, the deep flow that surged when he reached for the stone, was proof. It was his. It was *them*.
A calloused hand clamped onto Kael's shoulder, a grip solid as ancient granite. Keorn’s touch was steady, reassuring.
“No need for that look, lad. You weren't at the Ashfall, were you? No hand in that bitterness.” Keorn's voice rumbled, though a shadow still clung to his eyes, a flicker of memory.
Kael shook his head, a slight tremor running through him.
“Past pains belong to past folk,” Keorn continued. “Washing blood with more blood, it only churns the dust thicker. The folk who suffer are always the same, clinging to what little soil they have.”
A quiet question escaped Kael, thin as a desert wind.
“Do you regret it? Telling me to come down the mesa?”
He thought of the Deep Kin, the ancient Stone-Wielders Keorn spoke of, the very lineage now stirring in his bones. To fully embrace his power would mean aligning with them, a faction perhaps hostile to Keorn's Sky-Seers.
Keorn scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound that chased a small lizard into the shadows.
“Regret? Never. I saw you, lad. A spirit that offers solace to a stranger, that hides a mighty truth to offer help. If someone like you—a true Mesa Lord—could guide the Deep Kin, perhaps the rifts could mend. Perhaps the plateau could find peace again.”
Kael felt a flush creep up his neck. He hardly thought of himself as a mender of worlds. He’d helped Keorn because the man had shown him kindness, because his silent life on the mesa had left him hungry for connection. He hadn't wanted to see that spark extinguished.
Keorn saw the doubt in Kael's eyes, waved a hand dismissively.
“No need to furrow your brow like a crumbling cliff. You haven’t sworn allegiance to any clan, have you? Not yet.”
“No.” Wandering, charting the forgotten paths of the plateau, felt far more natural. Learning, exploring, rather than being bound to some ancient quarrel.
“Good. Stay here then. My bones need a few days to knit. We’ll talk more when my wounds are just whispers of memory.”
“Wounds? You speak as if a canyon-stalker chewed your arm clean off! Just a few scrapes, old man!” Keorn laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the rock walls, chasing away some of the heavy air.
---
While Keorn recuperated, Kael seized the chance to understand the deep flow that coursed through him.
He'd wielded it by instinct, a primal scream of will. Now, he sought its quiet language.
“The deep flow, the very lifeblood of the land,” Keorn began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “some call it ‘The Land’s Whisper’.”
“The Land’s Whisper,” Kael repeated, tasting the words on his tongue.
“Not truly a whisper, though it can be subtle. It has a cost. Every touch, every shift of stone, every ember sparked from nothing, demands a toll. You felt it, drawing the fire, absorbing that creature's essence.”
Kael nodded, remembering the hollow ache, the drain that followed those immense exertions.
“What decides the toll?”
Keorn held up three gnarled fingers, steady as ancient pillars.
“Three things shape the difficulty. Lineage. Skill. And the way of things.”
Lineage. Skill. The way of things. Kael etched the words onto his mind, like symbols carved into a mesa wall.
“Lineage,” Keorn explained, lowering a finger, “that’s what you’re born with. The Deep Kin, for instance, you can feel the stone, speak to the earth, like breathing. Others, they might wrestle the air, or coax the meager desert water.”
“Healing,” Kael murmured, a bitter taste rising. “Could I heal you?”
Keorn shook his head. “A Sky-Seer from the eastern plains, they might sing healing into shattered bones with a touch. For you, to mend a wound like mine, it would drain you dry for naught but a faint tingling. Your strength lies in the earth, not the spirit-mend.”
Kael thought of his mother, wasting away. If he had this power then... No. Useless regrets were like dust motes, clinging, but ultimately empty.
“Skill, then?” Kael asked, pushing the past aside.
“Proficiency,” Keorn clarified. “A warrior skilled with a spear might find it easier to summon a spear of hardened rock. A desert runner, to flow through sand as if it were water. It’s what you know, what your body and spirit are accustomed to.”
“Like how I throw fire, like throwing stones?” Kael asked, remembering his instinctive motion against the canyon-stalker.
“Exactly. If you’d merely willed a flame to burst, it wouldn’t have struck with such force, such speed. You shaped it with familiar motion.”
Kael felt a flicker of pride. He understood this. It made sense of the chaos of his early power.
Keorn’s brow furrowed, a deep canyon etched between his eyes. He leaned forward, his voice serious.
“The third, ‘the way of things’—that’s the trickiest. Even I only glimpse its edges. It’s about what’s natural, what fits the grain of reality.”
He stroked his chin, lost in thought, then turned back to Kael. His gaze was sharp, probing.
“Say you wanted to kill me, just with the deep flow, no gesture, no rock, no fire. What happens?”
“Your head might hum, maybe twitch,” Kael said, recalling the creature’s brief, futile resistance before the fire.
“Precisely. No cause. No connection. The deep flow needs a path, a reason. It's easier to crumble a loose rock than to conjure one from nothing. Easier to heat existing stone than to create fire in empty air. Even fire needs air to breathe, fuel to burn.”
Kael considered. “So, to kill you, it wouldn't be enough to just wish it. I’d need to throw a rock, or ignite a blaze, or crack the ground beneath you. Those are ‘natural’ paths for the deep flow to follow.”
Keorn clapped, a sharp report in the quiet chamber. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight.
“Spot on! You weave thought like the desert wind shapes sandstone. A well-chosen cause, a natural path, cuts the toll significantly. Why strain to summon a stone when there's one at your feet you can command?”
“But why then,” Kael asked, thinking of the smaller desert creatures, “can I turn a rattler to dust, or wither a thorn-hare, but the canyon-stalker needed fire, needed a direct strike?”
“Creatures of the deep flow, even the weak ones, carry a resistance. Like calloused skin against a whip. The greater the flow in them, the harder it is to touch them directly. But a formed effect—a flung rock, a burst of flame—that bypasses much of that shield. It's already real, already moving, before it strikes.”
Keorn explained how his own attempts to bind the canyon-stalker had faltered, while Kael’s fire, already a formed force, had found its mark. Direct influence on a strong practitioner, he said, was nearly impossible.
Kael pressed his thumbs to his temples, the sheer complexity of it settling in, a heavy weight behind his eyes.
“This deep flow... it’s not as simple as I thought.”
“A true Mesa Lord isn't just a vessel for power,” Keorn affirmed. “It’s knowing its language, understanding its currents, using the world as your partner, not just a tool.”
Kael closed his eyes, reviewing the lessons. One thing still puzzled him.
“The Deep Kin,” he asked, opening his eyes, “what are their specific strengths? Beyond speaking with stone?”
Keorn nodded. “Concealment. Tracking. Have you ever tried to walk unseen?”
Kael shook his head. “Tracking, yes. For game. For you, that night. But never concealment. Why hide, on a lonely mesa?”
“Try it now. Focus. No sound. No scent. No sight. Feel the land accept you, become one with the rock and air.”
Kael closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath of dry air. He willed himself to vanish. Not to fade, but to be... overlooked. Unnoticed. Like a shadow among shadows, a stone among stones.
The deep flow within him churned, a river seeking to be a mirage. Energy drained rapidly, a silent siphon.
He opened his eyes. Nothing looked different. He still stood there, a solid figure in the small chamber.
“Did it work?” he whispered, his own voice seeming too loud, out of place.
Keorn stared straight past him, eyes unfocused, scanning the empty air where Kael had been a moment before. A strange, strained quality tightened Keorn's jaw.
“Worked perfectly, lad. Where did you go? Still in the room?” Keorn’s voice was an odd, flat monotone.
Kael took a step, then another, circling Keorn. He stomped lightly. Snapped his fingers. Keorn didn’t react, his gaze locked on the void Kael had occupied.
When Kael eased the flow, allowing himself to return to perception, Keorn’s eyes snapped into focus, a gasp escaping him. He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if a great weight had been lifted.
“Still chilling,” Keorn muttered, shaking his head. “The stories don’t lie. During the Ashfall Wars, the Sky-Seers prayed for eternal daylight. Too many mornings, entire camps found their sentries gone, their sleeping soldiers silently culled. The Deep Kin were ghosts in the night.”
“That’s... not fair,” Kael breathed, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Such power, such absolute, terrifying command over perception. It overshadowed any thought of healing, of gentle earth-shaping.
Keorn gave a wry smile. “Nothing is truly unfair in war, lad. And nothing is invincible.”