Days bled into each other, each dawn finding Kael deeper in the jagged valleys surrounding Rockholm. He hunted the creatures marked on his list – Skitterwasps with their venomous stingers, burrowing Rock-Voles that chewed through granite, and the occasional Gritwing Scavenger that ventured too close to the ground. Each capture, each slain beast, was a strange lesson. Touching a fallen creature, Kael would focus his Echo-Sight. He didn’t absorb their life, not like some whispered legends, but he felt the residual earth-magic within them, a faint pulse that connected them to the bedrock. With each primeval beast, the pulse was stronger, a deeper thrum that resonated within his own bones. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible strengthening, like a river slowly carving a deeper channel in stone. A quiet thrill settled in his gut. He noticed a pattern. The raw power within the weaker creatures offered diminishing returns. To grow stronger, to truly awaken the Lithomancy, he would need to seek out larger, older primeval beasts. Such a hunt would exhaust an area quickly, a harsh truth whispered by the wind through the peaks. Some smaller creatures, like the Stubborn Stone-Grubs that clung to cliff faces, he captured alive. Their earth-magic was too faint to register, but their forms were distinct, perfect for a bounty. He secured two of them in a coarse sack, their chitinous shells clicking softly. Returning to the Warden's Keep, the same official from before, a man named Haskan, eyed Kael with a flicker of disdain. Haskan’s gaze swept over the sack. “More refuse, mountain boy?” His voice was a grating rasp. Kael set the sack on the worn counter. “Two Stone-Grubs. Unharmed, as per the bounty list.” Haskan poked the sack with a quill. “Hmm. Not worth much. Five pieces of silver each.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “You expect ten silver for these?” Kael met his gaze, unflinching. The air in the keep felt stale, heavy with unyielding rock and ancient dust. “The list specifies.” Haskan huffed, pulling a small pouch from beneath the counter. He dropped ten silver coins onto the wood with a clatter. They glinted dully under the dim lantern light. Kael scooped them up, the weight cool in his palm. His jaw remained set. Earning coin this way was a stark contrast to bartering pelts in his home valley. It was a simpler, more direct exchange. Back at the Stone Kettle Inn, the aroma of roasting meat and simmering herbs warmed the air. Kael approached the counter. Tressa, the innkeeper’s daughter, wiped it down with a damp cloth, her smile brightening as she saw him. “Welcome back, Kael. Another hunt well done?” Her voice was like smooth river stone. Kael nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “A steady day.” He had enough coin now, more than he had seen in months. His usual fare of coarse bread and thin broth felt inadequate after days of exertion. “What’s your best stew tonight?” he asked, a rare indulgence. Tressa’s eyes widened. “The Crag-Boar stew! Slow-cooked with root vegetables, served with hearth-baked bread. It takes a while, but it’s worth it.” “I’ll have it.” Kael settled into a corner booth, tracing patterns on the scarred tabletop as he waited. The stew arrived, a thick, steaming bowl brimming with chunks of savory meat and soft vegetables. A generous slice of dark, crusty bread accompanied it. Kael picked up the spoon, its metal cool against his fingers. He had rarely tasted such rich flavors. The tender boar, spiced with herbs he didn’t recognize, dissolved on his tongue, a deep, earthy warmth spreading through him. He tore off a piece of the bread, its crust firm, its interior soft and fragrant. He dipped it into the thick broth, savoring each bite. It was a feast, a far cry from the dry jerky and cold gruel of the peaks. For a time, the weariness of the hunt, the chill of the Craglands, receded. He ate until the bowl was scraped clean, a quiet satisfaction settling over him. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Tressa asked later, clearing his bowl. “You cleaned that plate better than anyone I’ve seen!” Her laughter was light. Kael simply nodded, a faint flush on his cheeks. He hadn’t realized food could be more than just sustenance. This was a new world, offering sensations he’d never known. Over the next three days, Kael continued his hunts. He ventured further, using his Echo-Sight not just to perceive, but to discriminate. The constant flutter of mundane echoes—the scuttling of beetles, the rustle of dry leaves, the chitter of common field mice—no longer overwhelmed him. He learned to filter, to focus on the deeper, more resonant thrum of primeval life. It was like learning to hear a specific frequency amidst a chorus of sounds. The earth itself seemed to hum with these ancient pulses, and Kael found he could pick out the distinct rhythm of a slumbering cave bear or the frantic beat of a fleeing rock-lizard. He tracked their movements through stone and soil, an invisible thread connecting him to their primal essence. His efforts yielded a dozen more bounties, slowly filling his pouch with silver and a few shining gold pieces. --- One evening, returning to the inn, Kael found two of the Crag Stalkers, the burly men who had scoffed at his weapon, waiting for him near the stairs. Their faces were grim, their eyes hard. “Well, well,” the taller one, Jorn, sneered, blocking Kael’s path. “Looks like the mountain rat’s been digging up some shiny bits.” The shorter one, Grok, cracked his knuckles, a menacing sound. “We heard you’ve made good coin. Share some with your fellow hunters.” Kael felt the cold thrum of warning from the stone beneath his boots. He remained still, his gaze steady on Jorn. “I earned my coin.” Jorn lunged, a calloused hand reaching for Kael’s pouch. Kael moved with the swift, silent grace of a mountain cat. He sidestepped the grab, his foot sweeping low. Jorn’s feet tangled, and he stumbled backward, crashing into Grok. Both men tumbled down the short flight of stairs with a grunt, landing in a heap. A few patrons looked up from their drinks, then quickly looked away. No one intervened. After a moment, the two men scrambled to their feet, glaring, but the suddenness of their fall had broken their aggression. They exchanged a look, then retreated, muttering curses. Soon after, Roric, the leader of the Crag Stalkers, approached Kael. His usual gruff demeanor was replaced by a sheepish stoop. Roric scratched at his grizzled beard, avoiding Kael’s eyes. “Kael. My apologies for Jorn and Grok. They… they meant no real harm. Just desperate. I’ll speak with them.” His voice was low, laced with genuine regret. Kael nodded. “They are struggling?” Roric sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Aye. Things are tight. Harder than usual to find anything worth the risk.” He leaned against the rough-hewn pillar, his gaze distant. “We came to Rockholm hoping for a fresh start, a chance to awaken the old blood. Like the legends say, hunting primeval beasts, it can stir something in a man.” He explained how his group, once small-time enforcers in a lowland town, had heard the whispers of awakened powers. They’d abandoned their old lives, trekking for years through the Craglands, chasing rumors of primal beasts. It was a hard life, often fruitless. Most days, they barely earned enough for their keep, taking odd jobs when the hunting failed. “Been two years,” Roric muttered, eyes on the floor. “Caught three beasts in all that time. Small ones. No awakening.” He shook his head. “The officials here, they see us as little more than beggars, or worse. Just another mouth to feed, another potential trouble-maker.” Kael listened, his own silent journey echoing Roric’s desperate hope. The stories of Lithomancy were rare, almost forgotten, yet they drew men to the raw edges of the world. “Honestly,” Roric continued, his voice heavy, “another few days, and we’ll be out on the road again. Can’t afford the rooms. This small town… not enough work to keep us here.” He straightened. “But don’t worry, Kael. We won’t be asking for coin. Not after the trouble my men caused.” Kael reached into his pouch, pulling out a handful of silver coins. He placed them on the table between them. “For the kindness you showed,” he said simply. Roric had, however gruffly, offered Kael a place with his group when Kael first arrived. It was a small gesture, but Kael remembered it. Roric stared at the silver, then at Kael, his eyes wide with surprise. “Why? This is too much, Kael. We can’t just take this.” “Consider it payment for information,” Kael said. “Tell me what you know. About other towns. About the beasts you’ve avoided. Anything useful.” He sought more than just food and coin now. He sought knowledge. Roric’s face lit up. “That, I can do!” For the next hour, Roric spoke, sketching rough lines on a piece of parchment that was more smudges than map. He pointed out treacherous passes, valleys known for rare flora, and the locations of other scattered settlements – Stonehaven, a logging camp; Ashfall, a bleak mining town; and Dire Peak, a fortified stronghold further north. He spoke of beasts he’d encountered, the ones to hunt, and the ones to flee. He recounted rumors of ancient ruins hidden beneath the earth, places where old magic still lingered. “And in Dire Peak,” Roric said, tracing a spot on his crude map, “there are the Archives of the Deep Stone. They say it holds… thousands of old texts. Scrolls. Maps. Only those with marked blood, or a deep connection to the earth’s veins, can enter.” His eyes held a flicker of reverence, a longing for knowledge he might never attain. Kael’s heart gave a strange lurch. Thousands of books. He knew how to read, taught by his mother in the quiet hours, but books had been a luxury, a whisper of a distant world. His mother often spoke of knowledge lost, of stories trapped in forgotten pages. This was a hunger Kael hadn’t recognized in himself until now: a yearning to understand the world beyond his mountains, to learn more about his own strange connection to the earth. “Is this enough?” Kael asked, gesturing to the silver. Roric clutched the coins. “More than enough, Kael. More than enough.” His gaze was grateful. Kael planned to leave Rockholm the next morning. Roric’s information gave him a new direction, a purpose beyond simply surviving. --- The following afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the western peaks, casting long, sharp shadows, Kael embarked on one last hunt before his departure. He was tracking a faint tremor, the kind that spoke of something ancient and deep. Instead, he stumbled upon Grok, one of Roric’s men. Grok lay crumpled against a rock, a dark stain spreading across his stomach. His breath came in ragged gasps, blood bubbling at his lips. His eyes were wide, glassy with shock and pain. “What happened?” Kael knelt, the familiar scent of earth and blood filling his nostrils. “Rabbit… beast… monster…” Grok’s voice was a barely audible whisper, his finger trembling as it pointed further into the narrow ravine. “Roric… over there.” Kael followed the direction of Grok’s gaze. A few paces away, Roric lay sprawled, his face frozen in a rictus of terror and disbelief. His eyes stared, unblinking, at the bruised sky. Nearby, Jorn’s body was a gruesome tableau, torn in half, flesh and bone scattered amidst the jagged stones. Then, a flash of white amidst the red. A creature, no larger than a fox, its fur stained crimson, turned its head. Its eyes were twin points of burning ruby. Its incisors, long and curved like obsidian daggers, protruded from its mouth, almost scraping the ground. Its hind legs were grotesquely muscled, twitching with coiled power. A Shard-tooth Hare. It spotted Kael. With a guttural snarl, it launched itself forward, a blur of white and red. Its speed was terrifying, a bolt of pure, predatory fury. “Ugh!” Kael threw himself to the side, rolling over coarse scree. The hare shot past where he had been, slamming into a thick-trunked gnarled pine. A sickening crack echoed through the ravine. The tree didn’t merely dent; it split cleanly, its upper half toppling with a groan. The hare’s incisors had sliced through the wood like paper. Kael scrambled to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs. This was no ordinary beast. This was a primal terror. His hand went to his slingshot, fingers closing around the smooth river stone already nestled in the pouch. But as the hare turned, its red eyes fixed on him, Kael felt the earth beneath him respond, a deep, resonant thrum of warning. This time, he would not just throw a stone. This time, he would call upon the mountains themselves.

Stone Blood and Shard-tooth