A decade past, when the biting winds of the Gutter had scraped Ren’s eleventh year, the Chasm’s Echo had first stirred within him. Not a gentle awakening, but a violent rending. His mother had been away, bartering salvaged metal with the scavengers of the lower strata. Alone in their cramped alcove, a chill had wormed through the worn rock. Ren had yearned for warmth, a flickering ember from the stubborn hearth. A tremor ran through the crude stone and soot. Then, without warning, the hearth’s base buckled inward, twisting earth and rock into a grotesque parody of its former self. A raw, guttural energy pulsed, searing the air. Ren recoiled, a child’s shriek caught in his throat. Soon after, he realized the power answered to him. A dark, hungry hum beneath his skin. He could ripple the air, shatter loose rocks, even warp the faint light filtering from the world above. Each act felt like pulling a string taut, a vibration from the Chasm itself. “Mother, look!” That evening, his mother returned, a weary silhouette against the dwindling light. Ren, flushed with a child’s bewildered triumph, gestured. A piece of sharpened shale, a tool for scaling, quivered then snapped, the edges grinding to powder. No pride lit her eyes. Her face, etched with the canyon’s harshness, simply settled into a mask of defeat. She moved to gather the scattered dust, a desolate sigh escaping her lips. ‘Ren, we must promise. Promise me, you will never use this power. Not carelessly. Never in front of anyone.’ ‘Why?’ He had always been a quiet, obedient boy. Now, a strange, rebellious spark flickered. This power, terrifying as it was, sang to a buried part of him. She warmed a thin broth over the mended hearth. For the first time, she spoke of the world beyond their low-slung dwelling, the colossal City of Spires. ‘Far above us, carved into the upper cliffs, live the Spires.’ Her voice, usually even, held a brittle edge. Spires were the descendants of the First Architects, those who had mastered the canyon’s dangers. They held dominion, their power rooted in ancient rituals, their word law. Among them, some were born with a connection to the Chasm, much like Ren. These ‘Echo-touched,’ she explained, were not sovereigns. They were tools. Bound to the Spire Houses, their inherent strength milked, their wills bent. They were sent to quell Chasm-spawn, to enforce the Spires’ decree, or worse, to fight the petty wars of rival Houses. ‘Spires are like the master sculptors of the canyon,’ she whispered, her eyes distant. ‘The Echo-touched are their chisels. Sometimes they might polish them, admire their craft. But they can also break them, discard them, or drive them into stone until they shatter.’ Spires possessed everything, yet endless avarice fueled their conflicts. In these shadowed battles, Echo-touched were the expendable. Like a master sending his prized chisel to chip away at a stubborn vein, never risking his own hand. Her face, usually so guarded, now showed a depth of fear Ren had never witnessed. A fear that made his own stomach churn. ‘Ren, don’t you want to stay with Mother? Always?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you must hide it. Else, the Spires will take you. And you will never see me again.’ ‘Okay, I promise! I won’t use it for anyone to see!’ Ten years had passed since that promise. Years that bled into each other like water through sand. His mother, weakened by the dust-choked air and the unending struggle, had succumbed to a lung-wasting cough. Ren had buried her under a pile of carefully placed stones, watching the sun set over the distant, glittering Spires. He lived on, alone in the alcove, herding nothing but his own bitter memories. He avoided contact with the Spires, refusing to become their hollowed vessel. *** “Fools.” Ren slammed the heavy metal slab that served as his door. Early this morning, before the distant Spires caught the first light, the young, emboldened men from the nearest scavenger camp had come. They accused him of Eldrin’s death, claiming Ren had lured the old man to the Chasm’s edge, a sacrifice to its dark creatures. The mangled remains of Eldrin’s pack-lizard, torn as if by something immense, spoke clearly of a Chasm-spawn. Yet, they snarled, their eyes narrowed with suspicion, their fear turning to malice. Ren had simply looked at them. Then, with a quiet, efficient brutality, he had sent them sprawling. No Echo. Just muscle and the cold clarity of a man who lived on the edge. He knew their game. They would use this to haggle down his scavenged goods, or tamper with the sparse supplies he bartered for. If that happened, Ren would simply break a few more teeth. It was a cycle, predictable and tiresome. Absorbed in the familiar irritation, Ren almost missed the sharp, deliberate rap against his door. *Thump-thump*. He let out a slow, measured breath. What fresh idiocy was this? Had their broken noses not taught them enough? He pulled open the slab, a low growl forming in his throat. “Who now? Testing your luck?” Beyond the opening stood not one of the camp’s hotheads, but a man. Middle-aged, perhaps in his late forties, cloaked in dust-stained fabric. He offered a slight, awkward smile. “Ah… my apologies, young one. A traveler, seeking shelter. It seems I’ve come at an… inopportune moment.” A traveler. Ren’s mind stalled. In his twenty-one years, he had seen merchants, scavengers, hermits. Never a true traveler. Someone with no fixed purpose, no defined allegiance. Someone leisurely enough to wander the perilous Gutter. Ren, stiff for a moment, stepped aside. “No, not at all. Enter. Just… some unpleasantness.” The formal cadence, taught by his mother for interactions with strangers, felt like a foreign tongue. When was the last time he’d used it? Before he’d learned every face in the camps held avarice or suspicion, before he’d understood the brutal truths of their world. “If you would be so kind.” Truthfully, to maintain his isolated existence, he should have driven the man away. But a deeper, unacknowledged hunger gnawed. It had been so long since he’d spoken without hostility. A brief, peaceful conversation, even with a stranger, held an unexpected appeal. And besides, if this traveler harbored ill intent, Ren had no doubt he could handle it. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Nor I. Join me.” Ren indicated a rough-hewn stone bench by the small table. He laid out a thin gruel made from dried roots, a sliver of preserved fungus, and a small pouch of dehydrated canyon-berries. A poor offering, but the best he had. Hospitality, his mother had taught him, was a shield against ill will. “A meager offering for a guest.” “Meager? This is a feast! My thanks for the meal.” The man ate with genuine enthusiasm, as if starved. Despite his hunger, he observed a quiet decorum Ren rarely saw. No chewing with an open mouth, a slight turn of the head when sipping water from the communal flask. Perhaps he noticed a similar quality in Ren. After a moment, the traveler offered a kind observation. “You possess good manners. Your parents taught you well.” “My mother.” Something in Ren’s tone, or the lack of mention of a father, made the traveler hesitate. “And… is your mother in a nearby camp? You do not seem to share this dwelling.” His gaze subtly swept the alcove, noting the single sleeping mat. Ren nodded. “She passed some years ago, from illness.” The traveler’s face briefly clouded. He bowed his head, making a gesture Ren did not recognize – a quick press of the palm to his chest, then outward. “My deepest condolences. Having raised such a fine young man, she surely rests with the Ancestors.” “I hope so.” Once, merely thinking of her had been enough to bring tears, to steal his appetite. Now, he could speak of it, a faint smile touching his lips. Had he grown into an adult, or had time simply dulled the keen edge of grief? A sudden, heavy wave of gloom settled. Ren forcibly changed the subject. “What brings you to such a remote part of the Gutter, sir?” “I passed through a scavenging post further down. They spoke of a new Chasm-spawn, harassing their routes. An old man pleaded for someone capable to deal with it. I decided to investigate. I am… confident in such matters.” “Alone?” A middle-aged man, with the lean strength of a long trek, yet no visible weapon, intended to face a Chasm-spawn? Ren’s astonishment drew another awkward smile from the traveler. “I am Echo-touched. I served House Varesh for sixty years. Most Chasm-spawn present little challenge.” The word ‘Echo-touched’ made Ren’s muscles tense, a primal jolt through his spine. A being he had only heard of in his mother’s fearful whispers, the bound servants of the Spires. His tension quickly dissipated. No malice resided in the man’s steady gaze. Ren gradually relaxed. “Is something amiss?” “It’s just… my first time meeting an Echo-touched. But more than that, you don’t look like someone who has worked for sixty years.” “Echo-touched age differently. Longer. I am seventy-five cycles old. For one such as myself, I’ve aged like this. But the High Spires, those who draw deeply from the Chasm’s heart, can live for centuries.” This new information stunned Ren. He studied the man, this kindred spirit. Outwardly, the traveler was unremarkable. A sturdy frame, a healthy glow from the endless trek. Nothing to betray his nature. This was vital. It meant Ren could stand in the bustling lower markets, or even beneath the shadow of the Spires themselves, and so long as he suppressed the visible manifestations of his power, no one would ever know. A weight, a chain he hadn't realized he wore, seemed to loosen within his chest. “To be Echo-touched is… incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all! I find your life far more so. To survive in this harsh Gutter, where Chasm-spawn appear, without reliance on a deep connection to the Echo? I could not imagine it.” The man misunderstood. This was the first Chasm-spawn to seriously threaten human life in Ren’s memory. If such dangers were common, his mother, un-touched, could never have survived here. It was *she*, raising a child in this desolate alcove, who deserved the praise. “Now that I think on it, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Kaelen. Kaelen of Varesh – though I suppose that is no longer my title. Call me Kaelen the Unbound. And you?” “Ren. Ren Vayne. Solitary dweller of this lower stratum.” “A good name, Ren Vayne.” “You said you ‘served’ a Spire House. No longer?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. House Varesh offered me a lifetime of comfort, but… I wished to spend my later years seeing what lies beyond. I was bound to one House since I was found and brought to their halls at fifteen.”

Echoes of Ash and Stone