Sir Alaric, who had watched Kaelen shatter the construct’s crystalline head with a single, raw burst of energy, now moved closer. His gait was uneven, one hand pressed to the wound above his brow, eyes never leaving Kaelen. A faint tremor ran through Alaric’s frame, not from pain, but from something deeper, a disquiet Kaelen couldn't quite place. Assisting the knight had been a gamble. Should Alaric, once he returned to his Imperial post, mention the peculiar talent of a simple shepherd boy on the Sylvan Bluffs, Kaelen’s quiet life would shatter. The Archons, with their cold, industrial logic, did not tolerate unsanctioned power. He would be taken, studied, perhaps worse. Yet, a deeper instinct, a sense of innate fairness, had compelled Kaelen to act. Alaric, despite his superior station, had shown courtesy, treating Kaelen as a host, not a peasant. “Are you… unharmed?” Alaric’s voice was strained, but his gaze remained fixed beyond Kaelen. No words were needed for the unspoken warning. The headless Arcane Construct, a husk of gears and shattered crystal, suddenly lurched. It rose on rusted joints, body swaying. Where its head had been, a pulsating, sickly green radiance began to churn, coalescing into an ethereal imitation of its former self. “Beware!” Alaric bellowed, his voice raw with urgency. Kaelen reacted, a raw impulse guiding his limbs. A powerful kick connected with the reanimated construct’s midsection. The metal frame groaned, skidding across the dry earth for several meters before thudding against a gnarled juniper bush. It righted itself, the pale green light throbbing, seemingly untouched. “Echoes,” Alaric gasped, hand gripping Kaelen’s arm. “They cannot be felled by brute force!” Kaelen’s breath hitched. “How then?” “Primal fire, or a potent surge of lightning!” Understanding dawned. Kaelen instinctively reached out, focusing on the embers of the primal energy that still resonated within him. He willed flame to erupt, a searing wave to consume the construct. But the nascent heat, which had once felt so ready to ignite, flickered weakly in his palm, then vanished like smoke. Alaric watched, a grim certainty hardening his features. He had witnessed Kaelen’s power; the raw, unrefined burst that had shattered the construct’s head. Now he understood. Kaelen was a conduit, yes, but an untaught one, ignorant of even the most basic principles of shaping primal energy. “Do not merely conjure it,” Alaric urged, voice low. “Form it, then release it! A focused expulsion!” Alaric’s words were a flicker of insight. He knew that for most nascent conduits, the ability to control and project primal energy required years of rigorous discipline. Yet, Kaelen, without a single lesson, might be capable of something extraordinary. Kaelen closed his eyes, drawing a deep, shaky breath. He reached inward, past the hum of the world, to the churning chaos beneath. He found the raw heat there, the spark of fire. He didn’t try to ‘cast’ it, but rather to ‘throw’ it, a motion ingrained from countless hours slinging stones at stray wolves. His hand snapped forward, an invisible sling. A torrent of raw, crackling flame erupted from his palm, not an inferno, but a searing, condensed missile. It shot across the space, a brilliant, incandescent spear of light. [—KSSHHH—] The arcane fire struck the reanimated construct, clinging to the pale green aura like a hungry parasite. A keening shriek, not of metal but of tortured energy, rent the air. The construct thrashed, its rusted joints grinding against the earth, attempting to extinguish the unholy blaze. But Kaelen’s fire, born of instinct and primal force, was tenacious. It fed on the ambient energy animating the construct, burning brighter, consuming its very essence. Kaelen poured his focus into the connection, a thread of primal power linking him to the burning construct. He willed the flames to persist, to consume, to purify. Sweat beaded on his brow, a primal exhaustion creeping into his bones. After what felt like an eternity, but was perhaps only thirty seconds, the reanimated construct let out a final, agonizing wail. The pale green radiance imploded, sucking the surrounding air with it. The metal frame of the construct, now truly inert, collapsed into a heap of twisted steel and fractured crystal, devoid of any lingering light. Both Kaelen and Sir Alaric released a simultaneous breath, the tension leaving their bodies in a rush. “Is it truly done?” Kaelen whispered, his throat dry. “For now, yes,” Alaric affirmed, pushing himself upright. “Absorb the lingering essence. Unless you desire another encounter with a reanimated Echo.” Absorbing the primal energy was simpler than Kaelen had anticipated. He extended a hand towards the lifeless construct, picturing an invisible mist, a phantom breath, being drawn into him. Immediately, a cool, almost frigid sensation ghosted over his skin. A faint emerald mist, the same hue as the construct’s animating force, began to waft from the shattered metal, swirling and then seeping into Kaelen’s outstretched hand. It coursed through his veins, a thrilling yet eerie pleasure that made his entire body shiver. Something foreign, yet undeniably potent, settled deep within him, making him feel subtly stronger, more… alive. “Is this truly your first time absorbing primal energy?” Alaric asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “Yes.” Kaelen’s reply was a strained whisper. “Unbelievable.” Alaric knew that primal aptitude typically developed slowly after a conduit’s initial awakening. Significant growth usually only occurred through deliberate training or by absorbing the residual essence of other powerful arcane sources. The raw might Kaelen had displayed, without any prior absorption, suggested an innate capacity beyond anything Alaric had ever witnessed. Such potential, Alaric understood, was directly proportional to one’s inherent primal energy reserves. Kaelen’s reserves must be staggering. Alaric cleared his throat, his posture stiffening, a newfound deference entering his bearing. “I have been… remiss, young master. May I inquire after your house? Your lineage?” Kaelen recoiled internally from the sudden shift in Alaric’s demeanor. He couldn’t articulate why, but the knight’s sudden formality, his bowing to Kaelen, felt wrong. It made his skin crawl. “Let us tend to your wound first,” Kaelen said, sidestepping the question. “Then we can speak.” Alaric’s brow continued to bleed, a slow, steady seep of crimson staining his pale skin where the construct’s claw had grazed him. --- Alaric grunted softly as Kaelen dabbed a poultice of crushed hemlock and comfrey leaves onto the wound. Kaelen then expertly wrapped a strip of clean linen around Alaric’s head, knotting it firmly. His small, isolated home, provisioned for the usual scrapes and minor injuries of a shepherd, held a modest store of medicinal herbs and bandages. He wished he could simply mend the flesh with primal energy, as he had instinctively repaired his own minor cuts in the past. But healing another person, he knew from past, fleeting attempts, demanded an exorbitant toll. Even stitching Alaric’s torn scalp would likely exhaust his entire reserve of nascent power. “My apologies, young master,” Alaric murmured, voice tight. “To think I forced a distinguished individual such as yourself to such a task.” “I’ve told you,” Kaelen insisted, a sharp edge entering his voice. “I am not ‘distinguished.’ I am a shepherd. I don’t even know my father’s name.” He held Alaric’s gaze, trying to convey the depth of his discomfort with the sudden, imposed respect. After a brief, silent standoff, Alaric gave a faint sigh, shaking his head in amused surrender. “Alright, alright. Cease that piercing stare.” A small, involuntary laugh escaped Kaelen. The tension eased slightly. “But why,” Alaric continued, a genuine curiosity in his tone, “does someone of your demonstrable power, a conduit of such raw potential, toil as a shepherd? No disrespect to the profession, but it seems… ill-fitting.” The question mirrored Kaelen’s own from yesterday, when he’d wondered what a knight of Alaric’s caliber was doing in these remote bluffs. Kaelen couldn’t answer with the same quiet pride Alaric had shown for his duty. He felt no pride in shepherding; only a pervasive sense of obligation. “It’s a long story.” Kaelen began to speak, his voice flat, recounting his childhood. The strange, unsettling awakenings of his ability. His mother’s fervent warnings about the Archons, the Imperial Guard, the ruthless nobility, and the dangers lurking beyond the bluffs, waiting to consume those with 'unnatural' gifts. Alaric listened, his expression growing somber. When Kaelen finished, the knight nodded slowly. “Your mother was a wise woman.” “You believe so?” Kaelen’s eyebrows arched slightly, surprised. He had expected Alaric, a proud Imperial knight, to scoff at his mother’s fears, to dismiss the world beyond the bluffs as less menacing than her stories suggested. “Twenty years ago,” Alaric began, his gaze distant, clouded by memory, “the House Valerius, to whom I pledged my blade, marched to war against the mighty House Kaledon. Of our three thousand knights, over nine hundred perished.” “Nearly a third,” Kaelen murmured, a hollow ache forming in his chest. “Worse still, every soul I called friend, my beloved wife, my son… all were among that third. I alone remained.” Alaric’s face was etched with a complex sorrow, a grief Kaelen couldn’t begin to comprehend. He could only guess at its depth, imagining it rivaling the raw wound of losing his own mother. After a long silence, Alaric’s expression brightened, a subtle shift in his demeanor. He pivoted the conversation. “Your mother’s fears were understandable. But she was mistaken in one crucial aspect: your talent far eclipses that of a mere knight.” “Does it?” Kaelen asked, doubt lacing his tone. “It is humbling to admit, given my current state, but I am a knight of considerable experience. Yet, you effortlessly bested a construct that would have strained my every fiber, and you did so without any formal training in primal energy absorption.” Alaric paused, taking a slow sip of the goat’s milk Kaelen had offered earlier. “That level of innate ability,” Alaric declared, “places you among the Dominion’s nobility, not merely as a minor lord, but potentially within the highest echelons.” The words felt unreal to Kaelen. Years of his mother’s stern assessments, her insistence that his gift was merely that of a strong knight, had ingrained a different truth. Perhaps Alaric was simply overestimating him. “My mother said my father was a knight,” Kaelen mused, a new question stirring. “Could she have… misinformed me?” “Exceptions always arise,” Alaric replied, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just as not all children of tall parents reach similar heights. Occasionally, a conduit of true noble-tier power is born to common folk, or a noble house produces a lesser talent. These instances are rare, but they do occur.” Kaelen thought of the carpenter’s family in the nearby hamlet. The stout carpenter and his equally stout wife had a firstborn as short as they were, but their second son had grown to an impressive height… though that son also bore a striking resemblance to the burly woodcutter. “For this reason,” Alaric continued, drawing Kaelen back, “I believe it would serve you well to leave these bluffs.” “Why?” “Because humanity requires more conduits, more strong individuals. The Dominion, for all its steel and steam, has not yet mastered this world. Arcane aberrations, and the forgotten races, pushed to the fringes in ancient times, await their chance to rise again. Meanwhile, the noble houses squabble amongst themselves. A conduit of your power and evident virtue is desperately needed, even if you are but one more.” Forgotten races… Kaelen had only heard whispers of such beings in the old fables his mother sometimes told. To him, they were as fanciful as the old gods or demons, ethereal beings of myth. Yet, in the world beyond the bluffs, they were considered a tangible, encroaching threat. “Moreover,” Alaric added, his gaze direct, “it is a waste for a young man of your abilities to languish here. You are not truly content, are you, living solely as a shepherd?” Alaric’s words were sharp, piercing through Kaelen’s carefully constructed indifference. He remembered his evasiveness when asked about his life’s purpose earlier. After a long, quiet moment, Kaelen gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. “Your mother’s fears, while rooted in experience, are largely exaggerated for someone of your caliber,” Alaric stated. “Ordinary knights might face risks, yes, but even the great houses extend a certain measure of respect to fellow conduits, particularly those of significant power. And you, Kaelen? Your raw strength is undeniable.” “So I wouldn’t be… forced into service, against my will?” Kaelen asked, the question laced with a lifetime of instilled caution. “Absolute guarantees are a rarity in this world,” Alaric admitted, a flicker of pragmatism in his eyes. “But your potential is a shield, Kaelen. A potent one.” A torrent of conflicting thoughts churned within Kaelen. A part of him yearned to trust Alaric’s assurances, to embrace the possibilities of a larger world. Yet, the ingrained fear of the Archons, the rapacious nobility, and the unknown dangers, refused to dissipate entirely. The conflicting emotions warred within him, creating a heavy, internal stillness. Alaric, despite his wounds and the discomfort, sat patiently on the simple cot, quietly awaiting Kaelen’s decision. The only sound was the rustle of the wind outside the small cabin, carrying the faint scent of pine. Several long minutes passed before Kaelen finally spoke, his voice low, barely audible above the wind. “What could I… gain, if I were to leave?” Reading the quiet determination in Kaelen’s words, the nascent resolve to venture into the vast, unknown world, Alaric smiled. “That, Kaelen, depends entirely on what you desire. Wealth, renown, power… or perhaps kinship, purpose, and the chance to forge your own destiny.”

Echoes of the Bluffs