Eight years had carved their mark since Kaelen, barely past his tenth winter, first felt the pulse of the world shift under his command. A frigid gust swept through their small cabin on the Azure Peaks, threatening to extinguish the meager fire. His mother was out with the flock, the wind’s howl her only companion. A thought, quick and desperate, blossomed in Kaelen’s mind: *warmth*. The cold hearth stones shimmered with an inner glow, then a small, steady flame bloomed where only ash had been. Raw aether, the fundamental weave of reality, had answered his silent plea. Soon, he realized the hum was always there, a dormant song he could coax into being. Objects, heavy and stubborn, would lift at his will. A gust of wind, precisely angled, could shepherd wayward sheep. Invisible barriers, like solidified air, would ripple into existence, then vanish. “Mother, look!” His voice, thin with excitement, trembled as a stack of kindling hovered by the hearth. “It’s flying!” Returning from the blustery heights with her flock and their shaggy guard hound, his mother saw the spectacle. No wonder shone in her eyes. No joy. A shadow, deeper than any mountain dusk, fell across her features. Her hand, calloused from years of toil, reached out to gently push the floating wood back to the floor, her expression a landscape of resignation and despair. *Kaelen,* her voice was low, strained, *we must make a promise. Promise you will never use this power carelessly. Never, ever, in front of others.* *Why?* His brow furrowed. He was a quiet boy, always compliant, but to hide something so wondrous, so thrilling, felt like a betrayal of his own heart. She warmed him a cup of rich ewe’s milk. Then, for the first time, she spoke of the world that lay beyond their desolate peaks, far below the churning cloud sea. *Down below,* she began, *are the Skyborn.* These Skyborn, she explained, were the ancient progeny, descendants of those who once walked with the gods, wielding limitless magic. They ruled the scattered fiefdoms of Astrea, their power a birthright, their word law. Among them, those born of mixed blood—Skyborn and human—were known as Wielders. Wielders, too, held a spark of magic, though lesser. They were often bound as servants, their abilities a tool for their Skyborn masters. Kaelen, she murmured, had inherited his power from his father. A Wielder’s gift. She warned him: descend into the dominion, and the Skyborn would capture him, bind him, force him into service. *If the Skyborn are shepherds,* her voice grew tight, *then Wielders are the dogs they raise. Sometimes they may treat them with affection. Call them family. But they can also sell them off. Sacrifice them. Whenever necessary.* Even with all their power, the Skyborn squabbled, clawed for more. In their petty wars, Wielders were often the first to fall. Like a shepherd sending his hound to fight wolves while he stood safe behind, flinging stones from afar. Her face, as she spoke, held a desolation Kaelen had never witnessed. A raw, unvarnished grief. *Kaelen, do you want to live with Mother for a long, long time?* *Yes, Mother.* His small hand gripped hers. *Then you must hide this power. Otherwise, bad Skyborn will come. They will take you away. And you will never see me again.* *Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!* Eight years. That promise, made with the fierce sincerity of a child, had been his anchor. Even after his mother succumbed to the chill whispers of the mountains, Kaelen remained, a lone shepherd on the Azure Peaks, herding his flock. Avoiding the Skyborn. Refusing to become their hound. --- “Fools.” A low growl rumbled in Kaelen’s chest as he pushed the cabin door shut. Just before dawn, a trio of youths from the Stoneshield settlement had clambered up the winding path, their faces red with accusation. Old Denholm, found dead a few days prior, torn apart by a sylvan predator. The signs were clear to anyone with eyes to see. Yet they insisted Kaelen had slain the old man himself, then used the body as bait for the beast. Absurd claims, spun from fear and malice. He knew their game. Kaelen had sent them sprawling, each one nursing a fresh bruise, before they’d retreated down the trail. A brief, unsatisfying skirmish. Next time he descended to trade, they would undoubtedly try to shortchange him. Tamper with his goods. If that happened, Kaelen would simply ensure a fair deal with the swift swing of a fist or the chilling gleam of his blade. It was a tedious cycle, one he had long grown accustomed to. Lost in thought, a sharp rap echoed against the wooden door. *Bang, bang, bang.* A sigh escaped Kaelen’s lips, heavy with annoyance. Who now? Had their memories truly blurred so quickly since their last lesson? He pulled the door open, his voice a low snarl. “Who now? Do you seek a faster journey to the Elysian Fields?” The man standing on his threshold was not one of the youths. He appeared to be in his late forties, cloaked in dust-caked travel-worn wool. An awkward smile stretched across his face. “Ah… my apologies, young friend. I am but a traveler, seeking a moment’s respite. It seems I’ve come at an ill time.” A traveler. Kaelen’s mind, accustomed only to the familiar faces of Stoneshield and his flock, momentarily froze. In his eighteen years, he’d never seen a true wanderer reach these desolate heights. Someone so free. Kaelen stepped aside from the door, his initial stiffness giving way to an unfamiliar curiosity. “No, not at all. Please, come in. Unpleasant company had just departed.” The formal tone, learned from his mother for addressing elders, felt strange on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken without hostility? Before he’d realized the entire settlement, Old Denholm included, were little more than grasping fools. That felt like an age ago. “If you’ll excuse me, then.” The man ducked inside. Kaelen knew, logically, he should have driven the stranger away. Maintain his isolation. But a quiet hunger for peaceful conversation, for a voice not dripping with suspicion, gnawed at him. And besides, if the man proved malicious, Kaelen felt confident he could handle him. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Neither have I. You should join me.” Kaelen motioned to the rough-hewn table. He set out a jug of freshly churned ewe’s milk, a wedge of hard cheese, porridge made from dried grain, a lump of rock salt, and strips of dried lamb jerky. His mother’s wisdom: even in hardship, offer utmost hospitality. A well-fed guest was less likely to harm his host. “This is a poor place,” Kaelen said, “so I have little to offer.” “Little? This is a feast! Thank you for the meal.” The man ate with an enthusiasm that spoke of long travels and lean days. Kaelen watched, fascinated. The stranger’s table manners were impeccable, unlike anything he’d ever witnessed in Stoneshield. He didn’t speak with his mouth full, he turned his head discreetly when he drank. Perhaps the traveler noticed Kaelen’s own quiet decorum. After a sip of milk, he offered a kind remark. “You know basic table manners. Your parents must have raised you well.” “I learned from my mother.” Kaelen’s voice was flat, revealing nothing. Noting the omission of a father, the traveler hesitated. “And… is your mother in the settlement? This house… it suggests you live alone.” He must have seen the single bed, the sparse dwelling. Kaelen nodded. “She passed from illness a few years ago.” The words, once a raw wound, now carried only a dull ache. The traveler’s face clouded. He bowed his head, making a gesture Kaelen had never seen: a hand pressed to his chest, then swept upwards towards the low ceiling. “My condolences. To raise such a fine young man, she must surely dwell in the Elysian Fields, among the true Skyborn.” “I hope so.” Once, just thinking of her could steal his appetite, fill his days with silent tears. To speak of it now, with a faint, polite smile… had he simply grown into an adult? Or had time truly dulled the sharp edges of her absence? A wave of melancholic gloom washed over Kaelen. He abruptly changed the subject. “More importantly, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?” “I passed through a nearby settlement, heard an elder speak of a sylvan predator. One that preyed on humans. Said he sought a Wielder to dispatch it. I decided to heed the call. I am… confident in my abilities.” “Alone?” Kaelen’s brows shot up. A middle-aged man, not in his prime, with the faint stoop of age, facing a magical beast without so much as a proper weapon? His astonishment drew an awkward smile from the traveler. “I am a Wielder. I served House Velys for sixty years. I can handle most beasts.” *Wielder*. Kaelen’s eyes widened. His body tensed. A being from his mother’s cautionary tales, a servant of the Skyborn. His tension was fleeting. The man’s gaze held no malice, only a weary kindness. Kaelen relaxed, his muscles slowly unclenching. “Is something amiss?” Lyraeus asked. “No… it’s just my first time meeting a Wielder. And you don’t look as if you’ve worked for sixty years.” “Wielders age slower, live longer than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five this year. For a Wielder, this is aging gracefully. I’ve heard the most powerful Skyborn can live for two or three centuries.” Kaelen stared, amazed, observing the man. Someone of the same kind. Outwardly, he was indistinguishable from any other man. Perhaps a sturdy frame, a healthy glow to his skin, a robust air. But nothing that screamed *Wielder*. This was crucial. A revelation. It meant Kaelen, too, could walk through a crowded market in a city, unseen. Undetected. So long as he kept his aether manipulation hidden. The realization felt like a tight chain, binding his chest, suddenly snapping open. “Being a Wielder is incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all! I think people like you are far more incredible. Living in such a rough place, where sylvan predators appear, without relying on arcane powers? I could not imagine it.” Contrary to the man’s assumption, this was the first time a truly dangerous magical beast had appeared on the Azure Peaks, at least in Kaelen’s lifetime. If it had been otherwise, his mother, for all her resilience, could never have survived here, alone with a child, without arcane power. *She* was the truly incredible one. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Lyraeus. Lyraeus of Velys—or rather, Lyraeus the Wanderer, now. And you are?” “Kaelen. Skyborn of the Azure Peaks.” He almost used his old title, a faint, internal smile touching his lips at the familiar ring of his isolated identity. “That’s a wonderful name.” Lyraeus nodded. “You mentioned you ‘served’ a noble house. You no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. House Velys offered me comfortable retirement, but… I wished to spend my later years traveling. I’d been tied to that house since I was hired at fifteen.” ---

Echoes on the Azure Peaks