A stillness, thick and heavy as unworked ore, settled between them. Rhys stood, hands clenched, the hum of his newly awakened power a dull tremor beneath his skin. Kaelen watched him, eyes holding a complex mix of reverence and concern. How did one apologize for a heritage, for a bloodline that now echoed with the very forces that shaped the earth, forces that the Spire-Cities had long sought to chain or forget? A legacy that might brand him a relic, a threat to the brass-and-steam future they championed. He wanted to speak, to offer some explanation, but what words could bridge the chasm of ancient conflicts and present revelations? To disavow the power felt like a lie; to claim it, an admission of guilt for wars he’d never fought. Rhys’s gaze dropped to the scarred metal floor, a knot tightening in his gut. Kaelen’s hand landed on his shoulder, a surprisingly gentle weight. “Don’t look like the world just ended, lad. You didn’t start the old feuds, did you?” Rhys flinched, a quick shake of his head his only reply. He didn’t trust his voice. The implications of Kaelen’s words, of his own existence, felt immense, crushing. “The past is a weight, aye, but not yours to carry alone. Young ones like us, we get tangled in their messes, keep washing blood with blood until there’s nothing left but dust. It’s the ordinary folk who pay, always.” Kaelen’s jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his rough features. “You regret it?” Rhys managed, the words a strained whisper. Kaelen raised a brow. “Regret what?” “Telling me to… to step out. If I heed your words, if I seek purpose, it might mean aligning with… with what I am. A Conduit of the old ways. And that could put you in danger, or the people you care for.” The power thrumming in his veins, raw and potent, felt less like a gift and more like a brand. He had seen Kaelen’s face when he’d faced down the undead horror. The man was a protector, a hunter of threats. Now, Rhys himself might be considered one, by some. Kaelen laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. “Danger? Lad, danger’s my steady companion. And as for you… I trust your core, Rhys. You saw a stranger, bleeding, broken, and offered what little you had. You even showed me… this.” Kaelen gestured vaguely, encompassing the lingering ash-scent, the residual tremor of primordial power. “If someone like you, with that kind of heart, steps into the light, perhaps you can mend what others broke. Stop the cycles of ash and root, for good.” Rhys shifted uncomfortably. Kaelen was overestimating him, wildly so. His actions had been simple: an innate drive to ease suffering, a quiet need for connection in a city that often felt isolating. He hadn’t wanted Kaelen to die, not after the shared silence, the flicker of understanding. Had Kaelen been cold, distant, Rhys wasn’t sure he would have lifted a finger. Lost in thought, staring at the scuffed metal, Rhys felt Kaelen’s hand pat his back. “Well, no need to scowl like the world’s end is nigh. You haven’t decided anything yet, have you? Haven't pledged allegiance to any ancient root or forgotten ash.” “No, not yet.” Truth be told, the idea of wandering, of following Kaelen’s path, held a peculiar appeal. Seeing the world beyond the layered metal skin of the Spire-Cities, feeling the untamed earth. It sounded freer than any life he’d known. And the revelations about his lineage, while not his fault, left a strange, prickling resistance to throwing himself headlong into any ancient faction, even one he ostensibly belonged to. “Regardless,” Rhys said, meeting Kaelen’s gaze, “I’ll stay until your wounds heal. I can… think then.” “Wounds? A few scrapes, nothing a little grit won’t fix!” Kaelen scoffed, but a slight tremor in his hand betrayed the pain he masked. --- Days blurred. Kaelen, despite his protestations, remained in the makeshift refuge, slowly mending. Rhys, in turn, became his student. His power, until now, had been raw instinct, a force he manifested without understanding. Now, Kaelen offered a framework, a language to speak of the untamed energies within him. “Raw power, what the scholars call ‘Primordial Source’,” Kaelen began, leaning against a crate, a rough bandage wrapped around his arm, “is often spoken of as the ‘Root of All Creation’.” “The Root of All Creation…” Rhys echoed, the phrase resonating with the very core of his being. “Aye, but don’t mistake it for omnipotence. To twist reality, to shape the world as you did with that… that thing,” Kaelen nodded towards the scorched patch where the beast had fallen, “it demands a price. A proportional expenditure of the Source. You’ve felt that drain, haven’t you?” Rhys nodded, remembering the sudden, profound exhaustion that followed his more potent displays. “What dictates that proportion?” Kaelen cleared his throat, holding up three fingers. “Three things, lad. Three primary factors that determine how much of the Source you draw. First, bloodline. Second, mastery. Third, causality.” Bloodline. Mastery. Causality. Rhys repeated them in his mind, feeling the weight of each word. “Bloodline,” Kaelen continued, lowering a finger. “That’s your birthright, the innate abilities passed down through generations. It’s why you can draw fire from the air, or shake the very ground beneath us, while a steel-worker from the Upper Spires might struggle to even spark an ember. For instance, you couldn’t simply mend my broken arm with a thought, could you?” Rhys tried to imagine it, picturing the bones reknitting, flesh closing. An alien concept. “No. I don’t think so.” His gifts were of shaping and rending, not of restoration. “Exactly. Other lineages, the ‘Veridian Healers’ from the old forest territories, they can stitch flesh and knit bone with ease. To them, healing is as natural as breathing. For you, it’d be a monumental drain, if not impossible. That’s bloodline.” Kaelen’s words brought a flicker of sorrow to Rhys. His own mother, frail and weary in her final days, perhaps she could have been spared, if such a lineage had touched their family. A meaningless regret, he knew, but the thought still chafed. “And mastery?” Rhys prompted, shaking off the melancholy. “Proficiency,” Kaelen clarified. “The more familiar you are with a task, the less Source it takes. A smith, accustomed to shaping molten metal, might find it easier to conjure a blade of pure heat, or to imbue a tool with strength. A high-climber, at home on sheer walls, might find themselves manipulating wind currents with uncanny ease.” Rhys considered. “Like how I throw flame as if I’m flinging stones?” Kaelen’s grin was quick and genuine. “Smart lad. Precisely. You don’t think about the ‘spell’; you think about the *act* of throwing. If you tried to ‘cast’ a firebolt in some academic way, it wouldn’t have half the speed or impact.” Rhys understood. His instinctive actions weren’t random; they were manifestations of a deeply ingrained mastery, honed by years of unthinking practice. Kaelen’s brow furrowed, his expression turning serious. “Now, the third. Causality. This is the knotty one, the hardest to grasp. Even I only understand its edges. Simply put: the more ‘natural’ an event seems, the easier it is to bring about.” He rubbed his chin, searching for the right words. “Say you wanted to… snuff me out. With raw Source. What do you think would happen?” “My head would probably ache, and you’d just stand there,” Rhys said, recalling the frustrating resistance he’d met when first trying to simply *will* the undead beast to collapse. “Precisely. A lack of causality. No cause, or too vast a leap in difficulty for the raw energy alone. In your case against that creature, it was both.” “I think I understand the ‘cause’ part.” “Explain it, then.” “If I wanted to… to stop you, it wouldn’t be enough to just send Source and wish you gone. I’d need to create a cause. Like manifesting a stone from the earth and hurling it, or calling forth a burst of searing heat to engulf you. It’s more ‘natural’ to fling a stone than to just… unmake someone.” Kaelen slapped his thigh, a sound like a small thunderclap. “Spot on, lad! A scholar’s mind, you have. Giving the Source a tangible conduit, a natural path, that’s how you reduce its cost. You create a link, a reason for the outcome.” Rhys pondered this. “But why then, could I manipulate a wild dog, or even a lone guard in the lower city, with just a thought, but not that… creature?” “Creatures that wield or channel Source, like that undead thing, or even the tamed Mages in the Upper Spires, they develop a natural resistance to raw Source. It’s proportional to their own power. But a focused, completed action – a bolt of flame, a shard of earth – that bypasses much of that resistance. The magic is already *done*, already shaped, before it makes contact. Of course, if the power gap is too wide, even a shaped spell might fail, but that’s a different story.” Kaelen explained that this was why Rhys’s intuitive burst of flame had seared the undead beast even as Kaelen’s own carefully constructed spell had faltered. Direct mental influence on another powerful Conduit was, he implied, practically impossible. A headache began to throb behind Rhys’s eyes. He pressed his thumbs to his temples. “It’s… more complicated than just feeling it.” “A true Conduit isn’t just a well of power,” Kaelen affirmed. “It’s someone who understands the currents, who knows their own limits, and can read the world around them as if it were an open scroll.” Rhys closed his eyes, replaying Kaelen’s words, picturing bloodline, mastery, causality. He realized he had one more question. “The Conduits of my… lineage. What were their innate gifts, beyond what I’ve shown?” Kaelen had spoken of his deep connection to the ground, to the primal earth, but what else? Kaelen nodded. “The ‘Root-bound’ – your lineage – excelled in blending with their environment. Concealment and Tracing. Have you ever tried either?” “Tracing, a few times,” Rhys admitted. He had used it to find stray animals in the city’s outskirts, to follow forgotten paths. It had even led him to Kaelen, bleeding and broken. “Concealment, no. Never had a need.” “Try it now. Most can conjure a simple illusion of invisibility, but true concealment, removing yourself from all senses – sight, sound, even the subtle tremor of life – that’s a mark of the Root-bound. A complete assimilation.” Rhys focused. He pictured himself merging with the dusty air, sinking into the silence of the room, becoming one with the faint scent of metal and damp stone. He didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to be heard. Didn’t want even the echo of his presence to stir the air. Source within him rushed, a hungry torrent. A cold shiver ran through him, yet his skin remained warm. He looked down. Nothing seemed to change. His hands remained visible, solid. “Did it… work?” he murmured. Kaelen’s gaze remained fixed on the empty space where Rhys had stood, eyes unfocused. “You still there, lad? I can’t… I can’t see you.” Rhys stood, took a slow step. Kaelen’s eyes didn't track him. Another step. Rhys stomped lightly on the floor. Nothing. He snapped his fingers inches from Kaelen’s ear. No reaction. He released the drain on his Source, feeling the rush recede. Kaelen’s eyes snapped to his, sharp and intense. Kaelen let out a long, ragged breath, tension bleeding from him. “By the forge… I haven’t seen that since the old histories. During the Great Reclaiming, the Root-bound would move like ghosts through the Spire-Cities’ nascent foundations. Patrols would vanish without a trace, sentries found themselves encased in living stone, their voices unheard as they were absorbed into the very walls. Terrifying, it was.” Rhys felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Source. “That… that seems unfair.” It felt far more potent, more insidious, than simple healing. To fight something you couldn’t even perceive. Kaelen shook his head. “Not invincible, lad. Never invincible.”

Echoes of Root and Ash