Kaelen, a dark, stoic silhouette against the rising sun, moved towards Rhys. His heavy boot crunched on frost-hardened grass. The obsidian-pelted creature lay mangled nearby, a testament to Kaelen's brutal efficiency. “Rhys,” Kaelen’s voice, normally a low growl, held an unexpected urgency. He gestured with a bloodied hand toward the fallen beast. “Stay clear. It’s not done.” Rhys felt a prickle of unease. His senses, usually a quiet hum, now screamed a warning. A strange, sickly green luminescence began to emanate from the creature’s shattered head, swirling like marsh gas. A guttural groan tore from the headless form. Muscles under its dark fur convulsed. Rhys watched, horrified, as the creature’s body twitched, then lurched upward, defying its fatal injury. “Be careful!” Kaelen shouted, his stance shifting, sword already drawn. Rhys needed no further prompting. The beast, now a shambling mockery of life, lunged. Its movements were jerky, unnatural, driven by an unseen hunger. Rhys met the charge with a primal burst of kinetic energy, a push of earth-force from his feet. He drove a heavy boot into the creature’s chest. The impact shuddered through him. The undead body reeled, tumbling several meters across the frost-glazed ground, but it didn’t seem to slow. That sickly green light pulsed brighter from its ruined neck. “Physical force won’t fell it, Rhys!” Kaelen called out, grimacing as he dodged a clumsy swipe from the beast’s claw. “It’s a restless spirit, animated ash! You need flame or a spark of lightning!” Rhys nodded, his jaw tight. He thrust a hand forward, focusing on the embers that always lived beneath his skin. A tendril of heat blossomed, coiling around his fingers, eager to burst. But when he tried to *throw* it, to *command* it as Kaelen suggested, the flame flickered, then vanished with a wisp of smoke. He’d done this before, tried to force his power into an unfamiliar shape. It always died. Kaelen’s eyes widened, a dawning realization in their depths. A knowing grimace twisted his mouth. *He* was the one who had truly slain the beast yesterday. And he knew nothing of how to wield it with intent. The thought was sobering. “Don’t just let it bloom, Conduit,” Kaelen’s voice had taken on a new tone, sharper, more direct. “Shape it! Cast it!” Rhys remembered the smooth river stones he used to skip across the Sky-Shard streams, the way he’d learned to send them arcing with a flick of his wrist. He didn't *command* the water; he *knew* the water. He didn't *command* the flame; he *was* the ember. His hand trembled, not with fear, but with a surge of raw, untamed potential. A knot of fiery energy ignited above his palm, not like a lantern, but like a tightly wound coil of pure heat. He drew his arm back, mimicking the ancient, ingrained motion of throwing a stone. A silent, potent *thwip* cut the air. Flung by instinct, a blazing orb shot from his hand. It arced, a miniature sun, and slammed into the headless neck of the obsidian creature. The impact was not physical, but visceral. The green light erupted in a screech, a sound like grinding stone and splitting timber. The beast thrashed, rolling on the ground, trying to smother the fire. But this was no ordinary flame. It clung to the creature’s ethereal essence, burning brighter, feeding on the animating spirit itself. Rhys could feel the connection, a hungry, consuming link. This was *his* fire, primordial and unrelenting. He focused, his eyes narrowed, pouring more of his will, his inherent power, into the burning core. The creature’s shrieks grew weaker, more desperate. The sickly green light pulsed, then faded, flickering like a dying torch. Finally, with a last, keening wail that seemed to curdle the air, the spiritual residue ignited completely. The beast’s body, now just inert fur and bone, collapsed into a rapidly cooling pile of ash and dark matter. The morning air, momentarily filled with the acrid stench of burning spirit, grew still. Rhys let out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Kaelen, equally still, slowly lowered his sword. “Is it… truly over?” Rhys asked, his voice hoarse. “For now,” Kaelen replied, sheathing his blade. He walked to the smoldering remains. “Absorb its lingering essence. Else, it might rise again, or draw other hungry shades.” He gestured to the carcass. Rhys hesitated. Absorbing the energy of a living thing felt… invasive. But Kaelen's tone was firm. He knelt, extending a hand over the ash. He imagined breathing in, drawing a faint, shimmering vapor into his core. It wasn’t a conscious spell, but an instinct, a deep, ancient current. An ethereal emerald mist, the lingering echoes of the beast’s animated ash, lifted from the remains and flowed into his open palm. A chilling sensation washed over him. It wasn’t cold, but a deep, resonant *presence*, settling deep within his roots. It filled an empty space he hadn't known existed. A thrilling, eerie pleasure unfurled in his chest, making his entire body shiver with a power that wasn't wholly his own, yet was now irrevocably part of him. He stood, feeling lighter, yet more grounded than before. His senses sharpened, the world around him vibrating with new resonance. “Your first time… absorbing power?” Kaelen’s voice was laced with disbelief. His eyes, usually assessing, now held a rare flicker of awe. “Yes.” Rhys managed, still processing the strange, exhilarating sensation. “Unbelievable.” Kaelen shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. “Most Conduits spend years training for such a feat, or feel its slow growth. Your innate power, Rhys… it’s a force even the Spire-Lords would covet.” Kaelen’s posture subtly shifted, a respectful formality now coloring his bearing. “I’ve been… disrespectful, young Conduit. My apologies. Which Spire-House do you hail from?” Rhys felt a flush crawl up his neck. The sudden politeness, the weight of the new title, felt alien. He saw the gash on Kaelen’s brow, a deep scratch from the creature’s initial attack. “My House is a shepherd’s hut, Kaelen. Let’s tend to that wound first.” — Kaelen winced, a low groan escaping his lips, as Rhys gently dabbed a poultice of crushed Silverleaf and Ashroot onto the gash above his eyebrow. Rhys’s hands moved with practiced ease, tearing strips of clean linen into bandages, wrapping them carefully around Kaelen's head. He knew the healing arts of the mountain folk, but even with his abilities, mending another's flesh was a draining effort. A deep wound like Kaelen's would consume nearly all his available energy. “My apologies, young Conduit,” Kaelen spoke, his voice muffled by the bandage. “To think I made one of your caliber perform such a task.” Rhys tied off the last knot. His gaze, usually placid, sharpened. “I’ve told you. I’m just Rhys. A shepherd from the Crags. My lineage is only the dust on my boots, not some grand Spire-House.” He held Kaelen’s stare, a quiet intensity in his eyes that made the older man look away first. Kaelen chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Alright, alright, shepherd. No need for that look.” He paused, taking a slow sip from the earthenware mug of goat’s milk Rhys offered him. “But why, then, does a Conduit of such raw power find himself among the ash-hooved flocks? No disrespect to the shepherds, but your path seems… grander.” The question was a mirror of Rhys's own from yesterday. But unlike Kaelen, Rhys couldn't speak of his life with pride. “It’s a long story,” he murmured, staring into the milky depths of his own mug. He began to speak of his childhood, of his mother’s hushed warnings. She had spoken of his abilities as both a blessing and a curse. Stories of Conduits, once revered, then feared, then *harnessed* by the Spire-Lords. Their power chained, their lives dictated, forced to serve the endless feuds and industrial ambitions of Veridia’s elite. *Stay hidden, Rhys,* she had always said. *Blend into the quiet places. The Spire-Cities will devour you.* Kaelen listened, his expression growing somber. When Rhys finished, the older man simply nodded. “Your mother was wise.” Rhys blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He’d expected Kaelen, an Enforcer of the Spire-Cities, to dismiss his mother’s fears as ignorant paranoia, to paint the world beyond the Crags as a place of order and progress, not a maw. “Many cycles ago,” Kaelen began, his voice distant, his eyes fixed on a point beyond the hut’s opening, “My own contingent, the Argent Wardens, clashed with the Obsidian Legion in the Brass Wastes. Three thousand strong we rode. Nine hundred returned, their shields broken, their spirits hollowed.” A tremor ran through Kaelen’s gaunt frame. “The truly unfortunate part… every soul I called kin, every friend I had, they were among the fallen. My wife, my son, my battle-brothers. Only I was spared.” Kaelen's face was a mask of etched sorrow, a complex emotion Rhys couldn't fully comprehend. He could only glimpse the depth of that grief, guessing it might be as profound as his own loss, perhaps even deeper. A long silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken pain. Then, Kaelen visibly shook himself, a grim determination replacing the sorrow. “Your mother spoke true about the fleeting lives in the Spire-Cities. A knight’s oath is often a death sentence. But on one point, she was mistaken: your talent, Rhys, it far exceeds a mere Enforcer’s.” “Does it?” Rhys asked, skepticism clouding his voice. He still felt like the same shepherd, despite the strange power humming within him. “I’ll admit, in my current state, it’s humbling to say,” Kaelen continued, a ghost of a wry smile. “But I’m a seasoned Enforcer. That creature, even in its undead state, would have claimed my life eventually. You, a shepherd, felled it with a single, untaught strike, then burned its restless spirit away. And you did it without ever formally embracing your power.” He took another slow sip of goat’s milk. “That level of elemental mastery… it marks you as a true Conduit. Not merely from a minor bloodline, but one of the ancient, powerful ones.” Rhys found it hard to believe. Years of his mother’s warnings, of believing his power was something to hide, clung to him like a second skin. Or perhaps Kaelen was simply overestimating him. “My mother said my father was a simple Enforcer,” Rhys mused, recalling a faint, distant memory. “Could she have been mistaken?” “Exceptions exist,” Kaelen affirmed. “Just as short parents can birth tall children. Sometimes, a primordial Conduit emerges from an Enforcer’s line, or a Spire-Lord’s child proves lacking. Rare, but not unheard of.” Rhys thought of old gossip from the Ash Crags, whispered stories of villagers whose children bore an uncanny resemblance to passing merchants or hearty lumberjacks. He pushed the thought away. “For that reason, I believe it would be better for you to descend from these Crags.” Kaelen’s voice was firm now, his eyes intense. “Why?” Rhys asked, a faint tremor in his own voice. “Because humanity needs true Conduits. We need more than warring Spire-Lords and their brass-clad legions. Veridia has forgotten its true place. The Glimmerkin, the Grime-Crawlers, the Sky-Weavers—the ancient, non-human races, pushed aside by the gods in forgotten ages—they still lurk. They watch. They wait for our squabbles to weaken us. And meanwhile, the Spire-Lords squander their power on petty rivalries. A strong, virtuous Conduit like you is desperately needed, even if it’s just one more.” Non-human races. Rhys had only heard them in his mother’s oldest tales, fantastical myths about a world before the Spire-Cities. They felt as unreal as the gods themselves. Yet, Kaelen spoke of them as a tangible, pressing threat. “Besides,” Kaelen added, a softer note entering his voice, “It’s a shame to see such raw talent wasted here. You’re not truly content as a shepherd, are you, Rhys?” He recalled Rhys's evasiveness yesterday when asked about his work. Rhys was silent for a long moment. He gazed at the distant, shimmering haze of the Spire-Cities on the horizon, a golden promise and a terrible threat. A quiet sigh escaped him. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Your mother’s fears were understandable,” Kaelen continued, seeing Rhys’s acknowledgment. “But largely unfounded, for one like you. Ordinary Enforcers face constant peril. But even the great Spire-Houses show a certain respect to powerful Conduits. And someone with your innate strength? They would seek to guide, not to chain.” “So I wouldn’t be… forced into service?” Rhys asked, the old, ingrained fear still gripping him. “As with all things in this world, Rhys,” Kaelen said, his expression grim, “there are no absolute guarantees.” A torrent of thoughts crashed through Rhys’s mind. A part of him yearned to believe Kaelen’s words, to embrace the purpose his power seemed to demand. But his mother’s warnings, the lifelong fear of the Spire-Lords, refused to vanish entirely. These conflicting emotions wrestled within him, creating a heavy, uncomfortable tension. Kaelen, seeing the storm brewing behind Rhys’s quiet eyes, waited. He sat patiently on the low cot, wrapped in bandages, allowing Rhys the space to wrestle with his decision. Minutes stretched, then tens of minutes. Finally, Rhys spoke, his voice low, barely a whisper. “What truly waits for me, then… beyond the Crags?” Kaelen smiled, a genuine, hopeful smile that transformed his battle-worn face. “That, Rhys,” he said, his voice imbued with conviction, “depends on what you truly desire. Wealth, fame, power… or perhaps purpose, truth, and a family you choose for yourself.”

Ashen Spirit, Burning Choice