A singular quiet filled the barrack’s space. Miners, driven by the overseer’s lash and the Deepstone Vein’s insatiable hunger, had not returned to the lodging quarters. Corin found the unexpected solitude a familiar balm, the empty room a small, temporary reprieve in the crushing immensity of the stone around him.
He woke without the usual drag of the waking world. No fatigue clung to his limbs, only a deep, quiescent energy that thrummed beneath his skin, an echo of the earth’s own slumbering heart. This was the quiet strength of his communion, a constant, underlying hum that had replaced the gnawing exhaustion of his past life.
Corin stretched, a slow, deliberate movement that spoke of deep-seated power barely contained. His senses, sharpened by the earth’s subtle currents, registered the harsh morning light filtering through the rock-hewn openings. It was a pale, scouring light, reflecting off the raw, crystalline surfaces of the Deepstone, almost as if the very air could flay the skin.
Days past, such intensity might have caused discomfort. Now, his body felt rooted, a silent monument, impervious. The awakening of his Stone-Brand had anchored him, weaving his essence deeper into the planet’s resilience.
He moved, a shadow among the barracks, the coarse-spun cloth of his clothes a whisper against his skin. Deepstone Vein, while a raw wound in the earth, pulsed with a rough, vital energy. It was a base, crucial to Aethelstone’s struggle against the Deep Earth’s encroachments. Caravans, laden with supplies and prospects, frequently paused here. Prospectors, hardened by the wastes, sought out equipment. Even adventuring parties, bound for the perilous deeper chasms, prepared their gear within its rock-strewn limits.
A rudimentary market had thus carved itself into the stone, a collection of stalls and crude shops clinging to the main thoroughfare.
‘Information first,’ Corin thought, his mind a quiet, unyielding forge. Whispers of Deepstone Vein’s inner workings had reached him, piecemeal and distorted. He trusted only what his own eyes confirmed, a lesson etched into his core by years of solitary survival. The truth of the earth, he knew, often lay hidden beneath layers of interpretation.
The market lay largely deserted in the early hours. Most miners, committed to the deep veins, carried days of rations with them. They delved, ate, and slept within the earth’s embrace, the descent and ascent a profound waste of precious time and effort.
Such a life. Miserable, perhaps, to those unaccustomed to stone’s unyielding embrace. Corin felt no pity, only a grim understanding. He, too, would face this choice, this slow descent into the earth’s maw, if he could not find a way to manifest his power openly, without peril.
Already, a hollowness settled in his stomach, a primal demand. His last proper meal felt like a memory from another epoch. That, at least, he could address.
He moved towards a scent that promised sustenance: the rich, savory tang of roasting meat. The source was a humble stall, tucked away amongst the more imposing supply shops, smoke curling lazily from a makeshift brazier.
An old man tended the flames, his form bowed but his movements surprisingly agile. Deep fissures lined his face, a testament to countless suns and the grinding dust of the wastes. A tangled beard, grey as weathered granite, framed a pair of spectacles, one lens cracked like a spiderweb. His age was a mystery, lost in the stone-faced wisdom of his gaze.
Corin settled on a rough-hewn stool, the ancient wood groaning softly under his weight. He looked at the sizzling skewers.
“What manner of beast is this?” Corin’s voice was a low rumble, worn smooth by disuse.
“Ah, wouldn’t do you good to know, son,” the old man rasped, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest. “Some things are best left unknown, eh?”
Corin offered a slight incline of his head. He had long abandoned the luxury of questioning his sustenance. Survival in the shifting lands of Aethelstone meant adapting, accepting what the earth offered, or what could be wrested from it. He took a skewer, the meat still sizzling, and bit into it. A deep, smoky flavor, rich with wildness.
The old man peered at Corin through his fractured lens, a keen, appraising gaze. “A new face, then? Just arrived yesterday, I reckon.”
“Yes,” Corin acknowledged, chewing slowly. “This tastes… good.”
“Yesterday, you say? Must be the one. The survivor. From the Chasm-Wyrm’s feast.” The old man’s words hung in the air, weighted with implication.
Corin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “News travels fast, even here.” His impossible survival remained a vulnerability, a beacon drawing unwanted attention.
“Fastest thing in Deepstone Vein is a rumor, boy,” the old man chuckled again, a sound like gravel shifting. “Faster than any sand-skiff. Faster than a prospector smelling gold. By sunrise tomorrow, every soul from the lowest vein-dweller to Overseer Roric himself will know your tale.” He paused, skewering another chunk of meat. “A greenhorn, untouched by the Deep Earth, yet somehow spat back out by a Wyrm. You’ll be a target, son. Pure as the untouched ore, and just as vulnerable.”
Corin fixed his gaze on the old man. His own eyes, usually as still as a mountain lake, held a depth that could crack stone. The old man, however, seemed unfazed, meeting the silent intensity with a knowing glint.
“Be wary, boy. This isn’t a refuge. Deepstone Vein takes more than it gives. Doesn’t matter if you fled from a titan’s shadow or a tax collector. It chews everyone up, eventually.”
“I didn’t come for refuge,” Corin stated, his voice flat. “I came to earn what I need.”
“Earn, eh?” A sardonic twist pulled at the old man’s lips. He gestured with his free hand, a gnarled finger pointing past Corin, towards a stack of implements nearby. “No pickaxe. No leather-hardened boots. Not the gear of a man looking to earn a living in the veins. Not the disposition, either.”
Corin’s brow furrowed, a faint tremor running through the deep earth beneath the city, unnoticed by any but him. The old man’s perception cut too close. He changed the subject.
“You’ve seen many cycles here, then?”
“Since the first vein was breached,” the old man affirmed, pride flickering in his ancient eyes. “An old stone-hand, you could say. Witnessed every sun-cycle since this place was little more than a prospector’s dream.” He waved a hand towards the interior of his shack, a cramped space overflowing with forgotten relics.
Dust-choked shelves held piles of discarded tools, tarnished trinkets, and unidentifiable fragments of metal and stone. A graveyard of aspirations.
“This… this is what’s left of them. The ones who came like you. Held on for as long as they could.” The old man’s voice dropped, a low, resonant drone. “They resist the veins. Every breath. When their coin runs out, they sell. First the worthless, then the precious. Until there’s nothing but the dust in their pockets. Only then do they surrender to the Deep Earth. It’s the ritual.”
“Valuables go to Skyreach, or the bigger settlements. What’s left, what’s useless… that stays here. Traces of the desperate. Heh.” The old man’s laugh was brittle, humorless. His gaze settled on Corin, a silent judgment that suggested Corin’s own trajectory might be no different.
Corin’s appetite withered, the taste of the rich meat turning to ash in his mouth. The truth of Deepstone Vein, stark and unyielding, settled over him like a fresh layer of dust.
He forced down the remaining morsels, the act a hollow defiance, then stood. “The price for this… ten sols?” His voice was low, incredulous. A single skewer. A tenth of a Stone-shard.
Currency in Aethelstone was measured in Stone-shards, tiny fragments of the earth’s crystallized power, each roughly a kilo. A single sol, a thousandth of a shard, was a significant sum. Such blatant profiteering felt like a blow, even to Corin’s stoic nature.
The old man merely shrugged, his eyes crinkling. He had seen this reaction countless times.
“Everything is precious here, boy. The water. The food. Even the rock you stand on. That’s why everything sells for its true worth. Its worth *here*.”
“What if I refuse payment?” Corin asked, his voice calm, but the ground beneath them shifted almost imperceptibly, a ripple of controlled power.
“Heh. There’s a good reason an old coot like me has kept his stall and his skin in this god-forsaken place for so long, son.”
From the surrounding, seemingly empty stalls, faces began to turn. Hard eyes, glinting like scattered ore, fixed on Corin. Not a single word was exchanged, but the message was clear. The old man wasn’t alone.
Corin understood. The old man was a lynchpin, the heart of this crude market. His longevity here was a testament to more than just wit; it spoke of influence, of silent alliances woven into the very fabric of Deepstone Vein. To defy him would be to defy the market itself. No other shop would trade. Isolation would be absolute.
‘Damn this place,’ Corin thought, a rare flicker of frustration crossing his face. ‘Caught in a shallow trap.’
“Your wits work, at least,” the old man observed, a faint, almost pitying smile. “Some just thrash.”
“I have no coin for such… extravagance.” Corin’s hand went to his belt, where the small, precious Stone-shard lay hidden.
“Then you have something else. A Stone-shard, perhaps?” The old man’s gaze sharpened, piercing, as if he could see through Corin’s coarse tunic. “Hand it over. I’ll give you a fair price. A Deepstone fair price.”
Corin hesitated. This fragment, his last vestige of true power, was not meant for such a petty transaction. It was a fragment of his very being, a link to the profound energies he commanded. To yield it for a skewer of dubious meat felt like a profound defeat.
“Kid,” the old man’s voice lowered, a conspiratorial rasp. “The rumor that you possess a Stone-shard will spread through Deepstone Vein faster than any Chasm-Wyrm’s breath. Within the hour. Do you truly believe you can hold onto that treasure then? With all the eyes that will turn to you?”
Corin knew the source of that rumor. The old man himself. He clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching. He had weathered the silent hostility of the Deep Earth, survived the lash of the Chasm-Wyrm. But the insidious greed of humankind, especially in a place like this, was a different kind of predator.
Compared to the old man, who had mastered this grim ecosystem, Corin felt like a fledgling, new to the surface of this new world. He had no leverage. His secret power, meant for shaping mountains, was useless in this petty, venal exchange.
With a sigh that seemed to draw up air from the deepest fissures, Corin reached into his tunic. He pulled forth a small, irregular shard of solidified earth-power, its internal luminescence a faint, cold glow against the harsh Deepstone light.
The old man’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine avarice. “Ah! That size… worth about a hundred sols, here.”
“It would fetch three times that in Skyreach,” Corin countered, his voice flat.
“But this isn’t Skyreach, is it, boy?” The old man’s grin widened, revealing missing teeth.
Corin felt the urge to strike the old man, to unleash a fraction of the earth’s fury. But the consequences. A solitary force, he could command the earth, but not the political currents of a human settlement. The old man, for all his decrepitude, had forged his own formidable defenses here.
“A treasure without the strength to protect it is just bait, boy. Heh.”
Corin relented, the weight of the moment pressing down like an ancient stratum. He had come to this forsaken place for this very shard, and now it was stripped of its worth by an old man in a meat stall. His efforts, his impossible journey, felt like dust.
He handed over the Stone-shard. It felt like giving away a piece of himself.
“Heh. Don’t look so grim, boy. I’m not a monster. Not entirely. I won’t fleece a fresh face to the bone.” The old man, with surprising dexterity, cut off a small sliver of the shard, then handed Corin ninety sols, crude metal discs. “Keep these safe. Deepstone Vein has more than its share of nimble fingers.”
“A wolf warning a lamb of wolves,” Corin muttered, pocketing the sols with a grimace. He still felt robbed.
“As a gesture for our first transaction,” the old man offered, gesturing towards the cluttered interior of his shop, “choose anything from that pile. On the house.”
“That junk?” Corin scoffed, a rare display of disdain. He knew the old man’s words about the worthless items. There would be nothing of value.
“If you don’t want it…”
Corin walked into the shop. A stubborn part of him refused to simply walk away empty-handed. He had been swindled, reduced. He would at least claim *something*.
He rummaged through the debris, a silent, almost geological patience guiding his hands. Fragments of broken tools, petrified wood, rusted metal. Each item told a silent tale of dashed hopes.
“Nothing but scrap here,” Corin observed. “What am I meant to take?”
The old man watched, a faint smile playing on his lips. Most newcomers, stripped bare by Deepstone Vein’s harsh realities, would show despair. Corin merely grumbled, a simmering determination underlying his stoic facade. There was an unyielding core to him, a bedrock resilience.
This place wore everything down. People, ambition, stone itself. Yet Corin, despite his quiet demeanor, exuded an intense, living energy. He was an anomaly in this worn-out world, a fresh vein in petrified rock.
As Corin sifted through the junk, his fingers closed around something. He pulled it free.
It was a small hourglass, crafted from dark, volcanic glass, filled with fine, silvery sand. One half of the glass was subtly fractured, a hairline spiderweb across its surface, but the object itself felt solid, enduring.
“This,” Corin said, holding it out. “Why is this here?”
“No one ever wanted it,” the old man replied, a shrug. “A caravan brought it in, years ago. Useless bauble. Who needs to measure time when every moment is an eternity in the veins?”
An hourglass. A relic from a different age, a different understanding of time. In this world of colossal, petrified titans and shifting mountains, where geological epochs moved with agonizing slowness, such a device held little practical value. It was merely a decoration, fit for the lofty dwellings of Skyreach, not the dusty rock-halls of Deepstone Vein.
“Perhaps choose something else?”
“No.” Corin’s gaze lingered on the fragile, enduring glass. “There is nothing more intact than this.”
He turned, the small hourglass clutched in his hand. He stepped out of the old man’s stall.
“Heh. Come back again, boy,” the old man called after him.
“I expect we shall,” Corin replied, his voice devoid of warmth.
“An unfortunate thought,” Corin muttered, walking away, the silver sand of the hourglass a tiny, silent river in his palm. He looked back once, pausing. “Old man Gideon Stonecrust,” Corin said, the name a stone dropped into a deep well. “Let us not meet again.”
He turned and walked towards the stark, unyielding stone of the Deepstone Vein, the small hourglass a subtle weight in his hand, a counterpoint to the geological immensity that lay beneath his power.