Eight years had passed since the winter when a tremor had first run through Rhys Kilian. He’d been barely ten, huddled near the sputtering hearth, watching the embers die. An ache had settled in his small chest, a craving for warmth, for the vibrant lick of flame. Just as the thought solidified, the dying coals erupted, a sudden bloom of crimson and gold that singed the air and painted the cabin walls with dancing light. It hadn't taken long for Rhys to understand. Just a thought, a surge of instinct, and the world shifted. A weathered wooden bucket, heavy with river water, would lift from the floor, suspended by an unseen current. A gust of wind, sharp with mountain cold, would swirl through the cramped space, though no window was open. Even the very earth beneath his feet would hum, a faint vibration that promised unyielding strength. His hands, he found, could conjure the rough, unpolished stone of an invisible barrier. “Ma, look! The kindling is floating!” That evening, Rhys had practically buzzed with the secret, displaying his strange new powers as his mother returned from tending the shaggon-flocks, their scruffy herding dog trotting at her heels. She carried the scent of cold air and damp wool, her face etched with the day’s weariness. Her reaction wasn't awe. No wonder. No joy. A sigh, heavy and deep, escaped her lips as she reached out, a calloused hand gently pulling the airborne wood back to the hearth. Her eyes, usually so bright, held a hollow resignation. “Rhys, we need to make a promise. Never use this. Never, not in front of anyone.” “Why?” He pouted, a flicker of defiance in his young eyes. Always a quiet, obedient child, he couldn't comprehend silencing something so utterly captivating, so uniquely his. She warmed a tin cup of spiced leaf-tea, the steam curling between them. For the first time, she spoke of the world that lay far below their remote perch on the Scoria Peaks, a world of brass-bound towers and endless steam, the Spire-Cities of Veridia. “Down in the city’s highest reaches, Rhys, live the Spire-Lords.” These Spire-Lords, she explained, were the descendants of ancient power, their lineage supposedly blessed by the city’s foundational magics. They ruled Veridia as both saviors and sovereigns, their will absolute. Among them, those born from the mixing of Spire-Lord blood and common stock were called the Ash-Touched. They, too, possessed echoes of primordial power, but their abilities were considered lesser, their station one of servitude. Rhys, she warned, was Ash-Touched, like his father, a man he’d never known. If he ever descended the peaks, the Spire-Lords would find him, break him, and bind him to their will. “Think of it, Rhys. The Spire-Lords are the city’s grand architects, commanding every design. We Ash-Touched are the foundations, invisible and buried, meant to bear their weight until we crack.” Everything in the Spire-Cities belonged to the Lords, yet they still squabbled for more, their petty conflicts often settled with the lives of the Ash-Touched. They were cogs in a machine, easily replaced, easily sacrificed. As she spoke, a desolation Rhys had never seen before settled upon her features, pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Rhys, you want to stay with your Ma, don’t you? For a long, long time?” “Yes.” “Then you must hide this power. Or they’ll come. They’ll take you away, and you’ll never see me again.” “Okay, I promise! I won’t use it for anyone!” Eight years later, Rhys still kept that promise. His mother had fallen ill and died, her body returning to the harsh, beloved earth of the Scoria Peaks. Rhys continued to live alone in their small, rough cabin, tending the few shaggons he owned, avoiding the distant glow of the Spire-Cities and the nobles who might one day seek him out. He refused to become their foundation, their cog, their sacrificed tool. --- “Fools.” Rhys let the heavy timber door swing shut with a hollow thud. Early that morning, before the first slivers of light touched the peaks, the younger men from the settlement had come. Jarik, the old trapper, had died days ago. His body, ravaged and torn, clearly the work of a Scoria-Beast – an Ash-Weaver, judging by the molten claw marks on the rocks. Yet, they had spat accusations, claiming Rhys had somehow led the beast to Jarik, had offered the old man as bait. It wasn't hard to discern their motives. They wanted an excuse, a way to chip away at his isolation, his self-sufficiency, to remind him he was an outsider. A means to justify unfair bartering in the tiny trade-post that served as their only connection to the lower tiers of Veridia. Rhys had sent them packing, a few well-aimed shoves and a growl in his voice more potent than any spell. He expected the next market day to be a struggle, the prices for his shaggon wool and cured meat suddenly devalued. When it happened, a firm word, perhaps a quick, intimidating display of strength, would remind them of their place. It was a tedious, predictable cycle. Lost in thought, staring at the faint brass glow of the distant city on the horizon, a sudden hammering erupted from the door. *Bang, bang, bang*. Rhys let out a long, slow breath, a plume of vapor in the cold air. He hauled the door open, a snarl already forming. “Who now? Have you all forgotten the sting of a quick lesson?” His anger dissolved, replaced by a momentary bewilderment. The man standing on his stoop was not one of the familiar, scowling faces from the settlement. Mid-to-late forties, perhaps, cloaked in dust-stained travel-weave. An awkward smile stretched across his face, revealing a worn, kind expression. “Ah… my apologies, young friend. I’m merely a traveler, hoping to impose for a brief respite. It seems I’ve chosen a poor moment.” A traveler. Rhys, in his eighteen years, had never encountered one. He froze, mind reeling. Someone leisurely enough to wander these forgotten peaks, so far from the city’s tiered roads? He stepped aside, hand sweeping an invitation into the small, warm cabin. “No, not at all. Come in. Merely some unpleasant local folk, departed moments ago.” The formal tone, a relic of his mother's teachings for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When had he last used such words? Before he realized the villagers, Jarik included, were all petty and small-minded. It had been a very long time. “If you’ll excuse the intrusion, then.” His gut screamed at him to turn the stranger away, to maintain his careful anonymity. But a deeper, quieter part of him yearned. It had been years since he’d spoken to anyone without an underlying current of resentment or distrust. A peaceful conversation, however brief, felt like a desperate need. Besides, if this traveler proved to be ill-intentioned, Rhys knew he could handle him. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Neither have I. Join me.” Rhys ushered the man to the rough-hewn table, laying out what little he had: a pitcher of freshly churned shaggon’s milk, a wedge of brined cheese, coarse porridge made from dried grain, a lump of rock salt, and strips of cured shaggon jerky. His mother’s words echoed: *treat a guest with honor, even if you have little, and they will not seek to harm you.* “It’s a poor offering, I’m afraid.” “What nonsense. This is a feast! My thanks for your kindness.” The words weren't empty. The man ate with a ravenous hunger, as if days had passed since his last meal. Yet, even in his eagerness, he moved with a quiet decorum Rhys had never witnessed among the boorish villagers. He didn't speak with his mouth full, he averted his gaze slightly when drinking. Small, refined gestures. Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar in Rhys, for after a long sip of the creamy milk, he offered a kind observation. “You possess good manners, young man. Your parents must have taught you well.” “My mother taught me.” The traveler paused, catching the omission of a father, then continued gently. “And… is your mother in the settlement? This cabin seems to hold only one.” He must have noted the single sleeping pallet. Rhys nodded, his voice steady. “She passed from illness, a few years back.” The traveler’s face clouded with brief sorrow. He bowed his head, making a peculiar, almost arcane gesture with one hand – a symbol Rhys had never seen. “My condolences. Having raised such a fine young man, she surely rests with the ancestors in the Celestial Spire.” “I hope so.” When she had first died, the mere thought of her had stolen his appetite, brought him to tears for days. To speak of her now, even with a hint of melancholy, felt… easier. Had he grown into an adult? Or had the relentless march of time merely dulled the sharp edge of grief? Rhys, feeling a familiar gloom descend, forced a change of subject, seeking distraction. “More importantly, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?” “I passed through a nearby lower-tier settlement, heard an old man lamenting the appearance of a Scoria-Beast, and asking for a Conduit to deal with it. My travels brought me this way, and I felt I could offer aid. I am… quite capable in a skirmish.” “Alone?” A man in his middle years, his frame not quite as lean as Rhys’s own, his back perhaps prone to aches, claiming he could face an Ash-Weaver without so much as a proper coil-rifle? Rhys’s astonished expression drew a soft chuckle from the traveler. “I am an Ash-Touched. I served House Valerius for sixty years. Most beasts are no match for me.” *Ash-Touched*. The word, a phantom from his mother’s warnings, sent a jolt through Rhys. A being he had only heard about in hushed, fearful tones – a servant of the Spire-Lords. But the tension quickly dissipated. The man’s gaze held no malice, only a quiet warmth. Rhys slowly relaxed. “Is something wrong?” “Only… this is my first time meeting an Ash-Touched. And… you don’t look as if you’ve lived sixty years of service.” “We Conduits age more slowly, live longer than common folk. I am seventy-five this year. For an Ash-Touched, I am old, yes, but I’ve heard powerful Spire-Lords can easily live two or three centuries.” Rhys stared, amazed. Seventy-five. He studied the man across from him, a fellow conduit of primordial power. Outwardly, Kaelen was indistinguishable from any healthy, middle-aged man. A sturdy build, a clear complexion. Just by looking, one couldn’t tell. This was vital. It meant that Rhys, too, could walk unnoticed among the throngs of the Spire-Cities, as long as he kept his power hidden. A knot in his chest, a chain he hadn't known was there, suddenly loosened. “Being Ash-Touched… it’s truly incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all! I find folk like you far more so. To live in these harsh peaks, where beasts roam, without any primordial power? I could not imagine it.” Kaelen was mistaken. In truth, this was the first time a threat like the Ash-Weaver had appeared since Rhys was born. His mother, without magic, would never have been able to raise him here otherwise. She, who carved a life from these desolate rocks, was the one truly deserving of such praise. “Now that I think on it, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Kaelen. Kaelen of Valerius – though perhaps that name no longer suits. Call me Kaelen the Wanderer. And you are?” “Rhys. Sole guardian of the Scoria Peaks.” “A fine name, Rhys.” “You mentioned you ‘served’ a House. Does that mean you no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. House Valerius offered to care for me until my final breath, but… I wished to spend my later years in freedom, traveling the forgotten paths. After all, I’ve been bound to a single House since I was hired at the age of fifteen.”

A Wanderer at the Scoria Peaks