Silas’s memories often tasted of ash and raw earth, a sharp, metallic tang clinging to the edges of his mind. Eight years had passed since the stones first whispered to him, since the deep tremor of the world itself seemed to respond to his unspoken will. He was ten then, a boy whose hands found comfort in rough stone and ancient timber, whose gaze lingered on the patterns of frost-etched windows. Mother had left him to tend the cabin while she took the goats to graze, the air biting with winter’s chill. Just a spark, he’d thought, watching the embers die in the hearth. A small thought, a simple wish for warmth. Flames, violent and hungry, had erupted from the cold grate, licking at the sooty stones. The cabin air shimmered, the scent of burning cedar filling his lungs. Fear, cold and sharp, had seized him. But beneath it, a strange, exhilarating pulse. He’d learned quickly, fingers trembling, how the world bent to his unspoken command. The firewood, piled neatly, would float. A gust of wind, biting and raw, could spring from nowhere. Even the very air, thick and still, could be coaxed into an invisible barrier. Mother had returned that evening, her face chapped by the wind, the low bleating of the goats echoing behind her. Silas, a whirlwind of childish excitement, had made a chunk of hearth-stone hover, spinning slowly in the lamplight. Her reaction was not the marvel he’d expected. A profound resignation settled over her features, a weariness that seemed to age her bones. She reached out, her hand calloused, to gently push the stone back to the floor. “Silas,” she’d said, her voice a low murmur, “we must make a promise. This… this power. You must never use it carelessly. Never in front of others.” A pout tightened his lips. “Why, Mother? It’s part of me.” Later, as the sheep’s milk warmed, she spoke of the world beyond their quiet retreat in the Sunderpeaks. Of Veridia, the grand, decaying city-state, a place he knew only through her sparse words. “Below the Crags, there are the Archons,” she explained, her gaze distant. The Archons, she said, were the direct descendants of the Ascendants, those who had forged Veridia from dust and magic. They commanded primal elemental power, ruling as both protectors and tyrants. Then there were the Sentinels. Born of diluted bloodlines, children of Archons and common folk, they too possessed the ember-spark, though fainter. They were not rulers, but servants, instruments of the Archon’s will. Mother’s words, usually a steady current, had trembled like a leaf caught in a gale when she spoke of them. “Your father,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “he was a Sentinel. That spark you feel, that raw earth-fire in your blood… it comes from him.” She painted a grim picture: a Sentinel, caught and bound, forced into servitude, a weapon to be wielded in the endless squabbles of the Archon houses. Sentinels were valued, yes, but could be cast aside, even sacrificed, like a shepherd’s dog sent to fight a wolf while the shepherd watches from afar. Desolation etched itself onto her face, a grief Silas had never witnessed. “Silas, do you want to live with Mother, here, for a long, long time?” “Yes.” His voice was small, tight with a sudden, dawning fear. “Then you must hide it. Else, they will come. And you will never see me again.” “I promise, Mother. I promise!” And he had kept that promise. Eight years later, even after her cough had deepened into a sickness that stole her breath, leaving him alone amidst the Sunderpeaks, he held firm. He tended the goats, lived off the land, and avoided Veridia’s reach, lest he become another of their Sentinels, another shepherd’s dog. --- A dull thud against the cabin door startled Silas from his quiet work. He was shaping a piece of sandstone, coaxing it into a smoother, more even block. His knuckles were raw, his muscles a familiar ache. “Fools,” he muttered, a low growl escaping his throat. It was just after dawn, the sun barely a smear of bruised purple above the eastern peaks. The village youths, emboldened by numbers and cheap grain ale, had come earlier, accusing him of Old Man Grem’s death. They claimed he’d lured the old man to the ridge, then thrown him to the Corrupted Stalker. As if the deep claw marks, the ravaged corpse, weren’t clear enough signs of the beast’s hunger. Fists had flown, his earth-hardened knuckles meeting soft, panicked flesh. They’d scattered like frightened mice. Another rap, heavier this time, vibrated through the old timber. Silas let out a slow, deliberate breath, rising from his stool. His fingers flexed, the phantom warmth of latent fire thrumming beneath his skin. Had their memory truly been so short? He flung the door open, his voice low and dangerous. “Who in the blazes has a death wish this morning?” A man stood there, not one of the village youths. He was cloaked in dust-stained wool, his face etched with the lines of time, a hesitant smile touching his lips. Mid-forties, perhaps, with eyes that held a surprising depth. “My apologies, young friend,” the stranger began, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I am a traveler. I sought a night’s respite, but it seems I’ve chosen an… inopportune moment.” A traveler. Silas felt a strange pang. In eighteen years, he’d never seen a soul wander this far into the Crags. His usual wariness remained, a coil of muscle tensing in his gut, but a flicker of something else—a rare, fragile curiosity—also stirred. He stepped aside, the movement stiff. “Not at all. Come in. Some unpleasantness earlier, nothing more.” The formal words, taught by Mother for elders and strangers, felt foreign on his tongue. When had he last spoken them? “My thanks.” The man stepped over the threshold, bringing with him the scent of distant roads and unfamiliar herbs. Truthfully, a part of Silas screamed to send the man away, to preserve his isolation. Yet, the longing for a peaceful conversation, one untainted by the village’s petty grievances, was a deeper current. And if the man harbored ill intent, Silas knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones, he could handle it. “Have you eaten?” Silas asked, moving to the small hearth. “Not yet.” “Nor have I. Join me.” He led the man to the rough-hewn table, setting out what little he had: fresh goat’s milk, a wedge of aged cheese, a meager portion of oat gruel, and a few strips of dried ibex meat. Mother had taught him that even in poverty, a host’s generosity was paramount. A well-fed guest was less likely to harbor ill will. “It’s little,” Silas murmured, gesturing to the spread. “Little?” The man’s smile widened, genuine and unforced. “This is a feast. My sincerest gratitude.” The traveler ate with a quiet reverence that surprised Silas. He chewed slowly, never speaking with a full mouth, turning his head slightly when he drank. Manners. Silas hadn't seen such refinement in anyone from the villages below. Perhaps the man noticed something similar in Silas, for after a sip of milk, he offered, “You carry yourself well, young one. Your parents raised you with care.” “My mother taught me.” The words were flat, devoid of emotion, a practiced neutrality. The man paused, sensing the unspoken absence of a father. “And… is your mother in the village? This house…” He glanced around, taking in the single cot, the sparse furnishings. “She passed some years ago,” Silas offered, his voice flat, a well-worn stone. “From illness.” The traveler’s expression softened. He bowed his head, then made a peculiar gesture, a slow sweep of the hand across his chest, a motion Silas had never witnessed. “My deepest condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she surely dwells with the Ascendants now.” “I hope so.” A chill touched Silas’s heart, not from the mountain air, but from a deeper, colder place. Once, the mere thought of her absence had been enough to unravel him. Now, he could speak of it, even smile faintly. Had time dulled the sharp edges of his grief, or had he simply become a different man? He changed the subject abruptly. “Tell me, sir, what brings a traveler so far into the Crags?” “I happened upon a trading outpost near the Veridian road,” the man explained. “Heard tales of a Corrupted Stalker plaguing the settlements, preying on livestock, even the old and infirm. Thought I might offer my services. I’m quite capable in such matters.” “Alone?” A man of forty, perhaps, looking more like a merchant than a fighter, facing a beast of the wilds without a weapon in sight. Silas couldn't hide his astonishment. The traveler’s smile was knowing. “I am Kaelen. A Sentinel, or was. I served House Valerius for sixty years. These corrupted creatures are hardly a match.” The word, spoken so casually, sent a jolt through Silas. Sentinel. The servant of the Archons, the very beings his mother had warned him against. A primal fear, a warning etched into his very bone, flared. But Kaelen’s gaze held no malice. His eyes were steady, weary but kind. Slowly, Silas felt the tension drain from his shoulders. “Something the matter?” Kaelen asked softly. “It’s just… my first time meeting a Sentinel,” Silas replied, choosing his words carefully. “And… sixty years? You don’t look it.” “Ah.” Kaelen chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Those with the Ember-Blood, even diluted, age slower than common folk. I am seventy-five years. Archons, with their potent lineage, can live two, three centuries, I’ve heard.” Silas watched him, truly watched him now, his mind reeling. A man of seventy-five, yet appearing so vital, so physically sound. If this Kaelen could walk amongst others, his power hidden beneath a common façade, then so too could Silas. It was a revelation, a sudden opening in the suffocating cage he’d built for himself. A wave of profound relief, like the thaw after a long winter, washed over Silas. One of the heavy chains binding his heart had simply… loosened. “Incredible,” Silas breathed, the word a whisper. “Incredible?” Kaelen scoffed good-naturedly. “No, young one. People like you, who carve a life in these rough lands, facing raw nature without the Ember-Blood’s gifts? That is truly incredible. I couldn’t imagine it.” Contrary to Kaelen’s assumption, this Corrupted Stalker was the first true threat to humans in the Crags in Silas’s lifetime. If the land truly teemed with such creatures, Mother, for all her strength, would never have risked raising a child here. “Now that I think on it,” Kaelen continued, “I didn’t properly introduce myself. Kaelen. Kaelen of Valerius once, but no longer. Just Kaelen the Wanderer. And you, young one?” “Silas. Of the Crags.” “A good, solid name.” Kaelen took a final sip of milk. “You asked about ‘served House Valerius.’ Does that mean you’re no longer bound?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month past. They offered me ease in my twilight years, but…” Kaelen shrugged, his gaze drifting to the frost-dusted peaks. “I wished to see the world. I’d been tied to that house since I was hired at the age of fifteen.”

Stones and Strangers