Eight years. An eternity, yet a breath in the vastness Kaelen now understood. It was a frigid winter morn, his tenth year barely begun, when the world whispered its secrets to him. His mother, out with the flock, had left him alone, the cabin air thick with frost. A flickering thought of warmth, a stray wish, and the hearth’s dormant embers pulsed with sudden, vibrant light.
The fire bloomed. Not a crackle, but a low hum Kaelen felt in his bones.
He had stared. His breath hitched.
Soon, he perceived more. The faint, ceaseless currents forming the wooden spoon, the grain in the porridge, the very stones of their small dwelling. A silent language, a primordial hum beneath all things. With a focused mind, a gentle nudge of will, he could alter them.
Objects would levitate, defying gravity. A breeze, summoned from nothing, would stir the dust. Invisible barriers would shimmer into existence, then vanish.
“Look, Mama! The kindling… it’s floating!”
That evening, his mother returned, her face chapped by the wind. Kaelen, brimming with a child’s unfiltered wonder, demonstrated his newfound magic. The dry twigs danced in the air, spinning a silent reel.
Her eyes, usually warm and tired, hardened. No gasp of awe, no joyous cry. Only a deep, unsettling sigh. She reached out, her hand trembling, to pluck a twig from its airy dance. Her gaze, when it met his, held a resignation Kaelen had never witnessed.
‘Kaelen, we must make a promise. Promise me you will never use this… gift… carelessly. Never in front of others.’
‘Why?’ Kaelen’s brow furrowed. The power felt like a key to something magnificent, a new way to see the world. To suppress it felt wrong, a betrayal of its vibrant pulse.
His mother, for the first time, spoke of the world beyond their lonely peak. She warmed goat’s milk, its steam curling between them like a fragile confession.
‘Down below, in the great cities, live the Sky-Born.’
She described them as descendants of the Progenitors, beings of immense power who, in ancient times, were said to have shaped the world. The Sky-Born, she explained, inherited potent abilities, ruling the Aethelian Empire as both guardians and lords.
Among them, those born from the mingling of Sky-Born and mortal blood were called Wardens. Wardens, too, possessed fragmented abilities, but their power was diluted, their purpose often to serve. They were the muscle, the tools, the loyal dogs.
Kaelen’s father, she’d murmured, was a Warden. Kaelen had inherited his father’s latent gift. If discovered, Kaelen would be taken, forced into servitude, his quiet life shattered.
‘If the Sky-Born are shepherds, tending their vast flocks, then Wardens are their hunting hounds. Sometimes they are cherished, even beloved… but they can be sold, or sacrificed, when it suits their masters.’
The Sky-Born, despite their immense wealth and power, constantly vied for more. In their endless struggles, Wardens were often the first to be sent to the slaughter. A shepherd, she said, would never step into the wolf’s den themselves, but would gladly send their dog, safely throwing stones from afar.
Her face, etched with a desolate sorrow, was a mask Kaelen had never seen.
‘Kaelen, do you wish to stay with your Mama? To live here, always?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was small, suddenly afraid.
‘Then you must hide it. Hide this power. Or else, they will come. And you will never see me again.’
‘Okay, Mama! I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!’
And he had kept that promise. Even after his mother succumbed to the winter fever a few years later, leaving Kaelen alone on the Crimson Peaks, he remained. Herded the few remaining scruffy sheep. Studied the ancient texts she’d taught him to read, their cryptic symbols a solace. All while avoiding the whispers of the empire below, refusing to become another dog on a leash.
---
“Fools.”
Kaelen’s hand tightened on the latch as he pulled the cabin door shut. The wood groaned softly. Early morning, before the sun had fully crested the eastern peaks, the boorish men from the Foothills Hamlet had arrived. Their faces were red with feigned outrage, their accusations sharp.
Old Man Thorne’s death a few days prior. The mauled remains, the clearly visible claw marks, the signs of a great, shadowy feline creature. Indisputable. Yet they snarled, insisting Kaelen had murdered the old man, offering him as bait to the beast. Absurd, yet their glares were venomous.
He knew their game. They sought an excuse. Perhaps to demand more of his scarce herbs in trade, to haggle down the price of his cured meats, or outright steal his winter stores. He’d seen it before, a cycle of petty grievances and manufactured drama.
Kaelen had dealt with them. A flash of speed, a precise strike to the jaw, and they stumbled back down the snowy path, nursing bruised egos and aching teeth. They would return, of course. With more bravado, more bluster. He would meet them again.
A deep sigh escaped him. The air in the cabin tasted of loneliness. He turned, the silence of the peaks pressing in. A sudden, heavy knock rattled the door frame. *Thud. Thud.* A different rhythm. Stronger, more deliberate.
Kaelen’s spine stiffened. Had they returned already? Their short memories were legendary.
He wrenched the door open, a growl catching in his throat. “Who is it? Do you seek a broken nose?”
Not the villagers. A man stood there. Mid-forties, perhaps, judging by the fine lines etched around his eyes, though his frame was lean, agile. A dusty, dark cloak, too fine for these parts, obscured much of his form. A polite, if somewhat awkward, smile touched his lips.
“Ah… my apologies, young one. I am but a traveler. Seeking a night’s shelter, perhaps. It seems I’ve chosen an inopportune moment.”
A traveler. On the Crimson Peaks? Kaelen stared. In his eighteen years, he had seen no one outside of the villagers. This desolate stretch of the Aethelian Empire was far from any established route. His mind, accustomed to the stark logic of survival, momentarily seized.
He stepped back from the door, a fractional hesitation. The man waited, patient. Kaelen motioned him inside. His voice, formal and stiff, surprised even himself.
“No, not at all. Please. Enter. Some unpleasant business, nothing more.” He hadn't used such courtesies since before he'd learned the true nature of the villagers. Before he understood their small cruelties. It felt strange on his tongue, a relic from a gentler past.
“My thanks.” The traveler stepped across the threshold, bringing with him the scent of cold wind and distant dust.
Keeping his identity hidden meant driving strangers away. But the cabin’s silence had become a suffocating weight. A brief, peaceful conversation, free of bartering and veiled threats, seemed an impossible luxury.
And if this man proved to be a threat? Kaelen’s subtle control over the currents of creation, even if hidden, offered a quiet confidence. He could protect himself.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Neither have I. Please, join me.”
Kaelen gestured to the small, sturdy table. He laid out their meager provisions: freshly churned goat cheese, a bowl of porridge from coarse grains he harvested himself, a pinch of precious rock salt, and thin slices of dried lamb jerky. His mother’s lessons on hospitality, ancient and rarely used, surfaced in his mind. Guests, treated well, rarely harbored ill intent.
“It’s little enough, for such a remote place.” Kaelen’s gaze was steady.
“Little? This is a feast! My sincere gratitude.” The man’s eyes widened, genuine pleasure radiating from him. He ate with an almost ravenous hunger, yet his movements were measured, polite. He didn’t speak with his mouth full, turning his head slightly when he drank the chilled goat’s milk. Manners Kaelen had never observed in the hamlet below.
Perhaps the traveler noticed Kaelen’s own quiet decorum. After a long sip, he smiled. “You possess fine table manners. Your parents must have taught you well.”
“My mother taught me.” Kaelen kept his voice even. No mention of his father. He watched the man’s expression shift, a flicker of understanding.
“And… is your mother in the Hamlet? This house… it seems too small for two.” The man’s eyes, subtle, had no doubt noted the single cot in the corner.
Kaelen nodded. “She passed from illness a few years past.” The words were uttered calmly, though a phantom ache stirred in his chest.
The traveler’s face softened. He inclined his head, then made a gesture Kaelen had never seen – a hand pressed to his heart, then extended, palm open. “My deepest condolences. Having raised such a fine young man, she surely dwells amongst the celestial host, walking with the Progenitors themselves.”
“I hope so.” Once, the mere thought of her absence would bring a choking sorrow, spoiling his appetite, blurring his days. Now, he could speak of it, even smile faintly. Was it the resilience of adulthood, or had time truly dulled the sharp edges of grief?
Kaelen, feeling a sudden, unwelcome wave of melancholy, changed the subject. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a forgotten corner of the empire?”
“I passed through a city in the lowlands. Heard tales of an old man, a beast of shadow, appearing in a remote village, seeking a skilled hand. My journey felt… called. I am quite capable in such matters.”
“Alone?” Kaelen couldn’t hide his surprise. This middle-aged man, with no visible weapons, to face a creature capable of tearing a man apart? His posture, while robust, did not suggest a seasoned hunter.
The traveler offered a wry smile. “I am a Warden. I served House Vespera for sixty years. Most beasts are no challenge.”
The word ‘Warden’ snapped Kaelen’s attention. His body stiffened, a primal tension. The beings his mother had warned him about. Servants of the Sky-Born.
Then he looked at the man. Varus. No hostility in his gaze, only a calm strength. The tension gradually ebbed. His muscles relaxed, though a quiet hum, a subtle perception of the currents around Varus, pulsed in Kaelen’s awareness.
“Is something amiss?” Varus asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“It’s simply… my first encounter with a Warden. But more than that… you do not appear to have worked for sixty years.”
“Wardens age slowly, live longer than common folk. I am seventy-five cycles this year. My kind endure. The truly potent Sky-Born, I’ve heard, can live for two or three centuries.”
Kaelen’s eyes widened. Seventy-five. The man before him looked barely a decade older than his own mother had been. He studied Varus with new intensity, this man of a similar kind. Outwardly, indistinguishable from any healthy, aging man. A sturdy build, a weathered but clear complexion. No grand auras, no visible magical sigils.
This was vital. It meant Kaelen could walk amongst the great cities, blend into the teeming millions, without his true nature being immediately discernible. As long as he refrained from overt displays of his power, he would remain unseen.
A fragile chain, wrapped tight around his heart for so long, seemed to loosen, its links giving way with a faint, hopeful clatter.
“Being a Warden… it truly is incredible.” Kaelen breathed the words, a quiet awe in his tone.
Varus chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Incredible? I would say the same of you. To live here, in such a wild place, facing beasts without your gifts… I cannot fathom such fortitude.”
He didn’t know. This was the first time a beast of such magnitude had graced the Crimson Peaks since Kaelen’s birth. Had it been common, his mother, for all her quiet strength, could never have survived, let alone raised a child. His mother, who had no gifts, no hidden power, was the truly incredible one.
“Now that I think on it, I never introduced myself properly. My name is Varus. Varus of Vespera, though I no longer hold that distinction. Simply Varus the Wanderer. And you, young man?”
“Kaelen. The solitary scholar of the Crimson Peaks.”
“A wonderful name.” Varus’s smile was warm.
“You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a noble house. You no longer do?” Kaelen asked, the new information buzzing in his mind, unlocking possibilities.
“My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. House Vespera offered to see me through my remaining years, in comfort, but… I craved the open road. I’d been tied to that house since I joined them at the age of fifteen.”
Kaelen imagined a lifetime bound to one place, one family. He understood the craving for freedom. The currents of creation, even in their silent flow, pulsed with a desire to expand, to experience.
“So, you truly wander? With no master?”
“Indeed. A free man. Though, the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. Old reflexes remain.” Varus’s eyes held a distant, knowing look, as if recalling forgotten skirmishes. “The old man in the Foothills Hamlet, he spoke of a shadow-cat. A beast of the northern wastes, perhaps. Rare this far south, and dangerous.”
“It was. I found Old Man Thorne’s remains.” Kaelen’s voice hardened slightly. He had seen the currents of death around the old man’s body, the violent disruption of his life’s flow. “It was larger than any native mountain cat. Its aura was… cold. Predatory.”
Varus’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Aura? You perceive such things?”
Kaelen froze. A misstep. A word too much. He hadn’t used his power, but his scholarly language often reflected his deeper perceptions.
“I… I have studied many ancient texts,” Kaelen stammered, scrambling for an explanation. “My mother had a collection. They spoke of the subtle energies of life, of beasts. I merely extrapolated.” A poor excuse, but all he had.
Varus studied him, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the hearth and the distant wind.
Then, the older man chuckled, a sound of genuine amusement. “A scholar, indeed! Remarkable. To glean such insights from ancient lore… most would dismiss such talk as mere superstition.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Tell me, young scholar, what else did these texts reveal of the world?”
Kaelen felt a rush of relief, a warmth spreading through his chest. He had been so alone, his unique perception a secret burden. Now, someone, a Warden, perhaps understood a fraction of his world, and didn’t condemn it. A fragile thread of trust began to form, a tentative bridge across the chasm of his isolation.
“They spoke of many things,” Kaelen began, his voice gaining a quiet confidence. “Of the Aethelian Empire’s true foundations. Of a time when magic flowed freely, before the great cities rose and grand abilities faded into myth.” He spoke of the currents of creation, carefully, abstractly, framing them as philosophical concepts rather than personal experience.
Varus listened, truly listened, his head tilted, his expression thoughtful. “A fascinating perspective. Much of the old knowledge has been lost, corrupted, or simply forgotten in the academies. To hear such intricate thoughts… it is refreshing.”
The conversation flowed easily then, a rare gift. Kaelen spoke of the ancient languages he had taught himself, of the forgotten rituals hinted at in faded scrolls, of the subtle shifts in the peaks that hinted at deeper, geomantic currents. He omitted any mention of his own ability to manipulate them, focusing instead on his keen observations and interpretations of lore.
Varus, in turn, shared tales of his travels, of strange beasts he had encountered, of the politics of the noble houses, carefully edited to omit anything that would reveal too much of their inner workings. He spoke of the decline of magic, the rise of industry, how the Sky-Born maintained control through their ancient lineage, but often resorted to brute force and political maneuvering as their true powers waned.
They spoke until the sun reached its zenith, painting the cabin floor with a narrow shaft of light.
“This shadow-cat,” Kaelen finally interjected, bringing them back to the immediate concern. “It hunts at twilight. It is cunning.”
Varus nodded, a grim set to his jaw. “I must locate it before it claims another life. Will you assist me, Kaelen? Your knowledge of these peaks, and your… unique insight into beasts, would be invaluable.”
Kaelen hesitated. To venture with a Warden, to reveal even a fraction of his capabilities, was a risk. Yet, the beast was a menace. And the thought of confronting it alongside another who understood, who did not recoil from the deeper truths of the world, was a powerful draw. A chance to perhaps test the boundaries of his promise, in a cause that felt right.
The currents of creation around the beast had been thick with hunger, with a raw, destructive power. He had perceived its direction, its probable lair. A quiet hum of purpose settled in Kaelen’s chest.
“I will,” Kaelen said, his voice firm. “I know where it makes its lair.”
Varus smiled, a genuine, relieved expression. “Then let us prepare. The beasts of this world are stronger than many give them credit for. Even a seasoned Warden should not underestimate them.” He pushed himself from the table, a subtle grace in his movements. “Tell me of this lair, Kaelen. Every detail.”
Kaelen rose, his scholarly mind already cataloging the terrain, planning their approach. For the first time in years, the crushing weight of his secret felt lighter. He was still Kaelen, the solitary scholar, but perhaps, just perhaps, he was not entirely alone anymore.