A single tankard of fermented honey mead, amber and swirling with trapped lamplight, bought Kaelen more than just warmth. It bought words. Lyra, the inn’s spirited server, leaned against the rough-hewn counter, her gaze curious.
“Aether-Beast bounty? You’ll need the Nexus Archive,” she offered, a wisp of dark hair falling across her eye. “Ask for a Chronicle Keeper.”
Kaelen, tracing the worn lines of his map on the tabletop, paused. “Nexus Archive? Chronicle Keeper?” His voice was a low murmur, unaccustomed to such terms in the wild.
Lyra’s laughter erupted, bright and clear, echoing briefly off the smoky rafters. “You don’t know that? You truly are from the Sky-Shattered Steppes, aren’t you, oppa?”
A shrug stirred Kaelen’s worn tunic. He just listened. Lyra explained with amused patience. Nexus Archive, she clarified, was the heart of civic order, a sturdy building in Skyhold Keep’s core where all communal dealings transpired. Chronicle Keepers were the city-lord’s appointed overseers, the official voices of the fiefdom.
Outside, the last sliver of twilight had bled from the sky, leaving the world a canvas of deep indigo. Searching for bounties tonight would be a fool’s errand. Dawn would bring clarity.
“But why Aether-Beasts?” Lyra’s eyes, bright as river stones, narrowed. “You’re not an Aether-Hunter, are you, oppa?”
Aether-Hunter. Kaelen repeated the term softly. “What is that?”
“Oh, you know,” she waved a dismissive hand. “The ones who believe if they hunt Aether-Beasts, they’ll become Aether-Weavers.” A roll of her eyes punctuated the statement. A prevailing superstition, she called it. Common folk, desperate for power or prestige, risked their lives chasing fables.
Most considered them mad, she added, but a surprising number still clung to the belief, their hopes a fragile flicker against the harsh realities of Astrea.
A heavy hand landed on Kaelen’s shoulder, making him flinch subtly. A wave of unease rippled through him. He instinctively stiffened, a quiet tension coiling in his limbs.
“Lena, that’s no superstition. It’s the truth,” a gruff voice rumbled. “I’ve seen it myself.”
Kaelen turned, his gaze meeting sharp, clear eyes set in a face framed by unkempt hair and a bristly beard. Jorn, the man introduced himself. He appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties, a hardened map of lines creasing his weather-beaten skin.
Lyra gasped, a small sound of surprise. “Jorn-ahjussi! You’re alive?”
“Thought I’d kicked the bucket, did you?” Jorn scoffed, a wry twist to his lips. “Not a chance. Not until I grasp the aether.”
Behind Jorn, three burly figures emerged from the shadows near the hearth. A quiet clang of metal announced their presence. Long spears, a recurved bow, and a massive, dented hammer that looked fit for stone-breaking were their companions. Jorn's men, his sworn kin, Kaelen surmised.
Kaelen gently shrugged off the hand. Jorn blinked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then took a small step back. “Apologies, lad.”
“No offense taken,” Kaelen replied, his voice even. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Jorn. “Tell me more about what you said. About becoming an Aether-Weaver by hunting Aether-Beasts.”
Jorn grinned, a wide, almost predatory flash of teeth. His eyes sparked with a shared secret. “So, you’ve got the hunger, too, young friend?”
He then launched into his theory. Aether-Weavers, he claimed, kill Aether-Beasts and siphon their raw energy to augment their own power. Ergo, a commoner, by slaying these creatures, could likewise absorb their strength and ignite the latent aether within them. He’d witnessed it, he swore. Multiple times. The proof was in the blood, the residual aether.
“That’s why the four of us,” Jorn gestured to his men, “hunt these beasts. To become Aether-Weavers.”
“Already dropped three of them!” one of his men boasted, thumping his spear butt against the floorboards.
Another flexed a massive arm. “Close, so close.”
Three Aether-Beasts? Kaelen’s breath hitched. He recalled the sheer, untamed power of the one creature he had encountered, a beast that could have torn a dozen armed men limb from limb without effort. Three of *those*?
“Three?” Kaelen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Does that mean one of you… has become an Aether-Weaver?”
A thunderclap of laughter erupted from every corner of the common room. Lyra giggled, wiping a tear from her eye. Even Jorn chuckled, shaking his head.
“No, lad, not yet!” Jorn boomed, once the mirth subsided. “In Skyhold Keep, only four Aether-Weavers exist: the Lord, and his three Skyguard captains.”
“If one of us had the gift,” a spearman grumbled, “we wouldn’t be nearly dying on every hunt.”
Four Aether-Weavers in a city of perhaps ten thousand souls. The scarcity was staggering. Kaelen understood then why the old lore-masters always spoke of the diminishing light of magic, the fading echoes of a forgotten era.
Jorn’s gaze snagged on the worn leather pouch at Kaelen’s hip. “Say, you’re hunting Aether-Beasts, you said? But your gear looks… sparse. No weapon?”
“Weapon?” Kaelen’s hand went to his pocket, pulling out a small slingshot, crafted from supple lambskin. It felt familiar, comforting in his palm. He expected derision, a fresh round of laughter. Their metal, their brute force, dwarfed his humble tool.
Yet, their reactions surprised him. Curiosity replaced mockery.
“You use that to hurl stones?” Jorn’s eyes widened slightly.
“Much use, by the look of it,” one of the spearmen observed, noting the smoothed, darkened leather.
“What size stones?” the hammer-wielder asked, leaning forward, an unexpected keenness in his expression.
“Egg-sized, mostly,” Kaelen replied, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“Egg-sized? That’d split the skull of a burrow-rat gone wild, or a forest-hare with sharpened claws,” Jorn mused, a flicker of genuine appreciation in his gaze. From their words, Kaelen understood. They were after the weaker Aether-Beasts, creatures mutated from herbivores or smaller animals. The kind an un-mutated human might grapple with bare-handed.
Even those, Kaelen knew, could tear a man apart if their mutation was potent enough.
“Listen, lad,” Jorn leaned closer, his voice dropping. “We’re always looking for a good marksman. Join us on a hunt?”
“No,” Kaelen said, his refusal immediate, unequivocal. He had no intention of revealing his connection to the raw aether, not to these men. Their goals were disparate, their quarry beneath his consideration. He sought the heart of the aether’s corruption, not mere mutated field animals.
Jorn sighed, a sound of resigned disappointment, but didn't press. “Pity. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.”
---
A short while later, after a few more pleasantries with Lyra and receiving a tarnished brass key, Kaelen climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor. His room was small, a cot and a splintered chest its only furnishings.
Lying on the straw-filled mattress, the low murmur of voices drifted up through the rough wooden floorboards. Jorn’s men, their voices muffled but distinct, carried on the stale air.
“Jorn-hyngnim, why’d you try to enlist that scrawny kid? He’s no help.” This from the hammer-wielder, his tone thick with disdain.
“Right. One good hit, and he’d just bawl.” The spearman’s sneer was palpable even through the floor. They had been so amiable moments before. The two-faced nature of men, a familiar song Kaelen had heard countless times in his travels, held no sting for him now. He simply sighed, a soft breath lost in the darkness. *People are just… people*.
Then, Jorn’s voice cut through the petty murmurs, gruff and a little weary. “Tsk. He just reminded me of my younger days. Wandering out there, nothing but a toy like that for defense? Ten lives wouldn’t be enough.”
“Hyngnim, you’re too kind,” one scoffed.
“Who’s arguing?” Jorn retorted, a note of finality in his voice.
Kaelen closed his eyes. The world held both light and shadow, kindness and cruelty, all intertwined. He knew this deeply.
---
The next morning, a sparse breakfast of hard darkbread and thin broth did little to quell the gnawing hunger that often accompanied Kaelen’s travels. Yet, he ate it, methodically. Then, Nexus Archive.
He found it in the city’s heart, a squat, four-story stone edifice, bustling even at this early hour. Citizens milled about, their voices a low drone of negotiation and complaint. An elderly man and woman bickered loudly over a lease agreement for a stall, their argument echoing in the spacious entry hall. Kaelen, skirting around them, eventually found the Chronicle Keeper assigned to bounty listings.
“What is it?” The Keeper, a man with thin, sour lips and spectacles perched on his nose, peered down at Kaelen, his gaze sweeping over the travel-worn clothes with open disdain. Another nameless drifter, his expression seemed to imply. Kaelen merely stated his purpose: Aether-Beast bounties.
He considered, for a fleeting moment, revealing a fraction of his true self. A whisper of aether, a subtle shift in the air. The Keeper would be on his knees, all disdain evaporating like mist. But Kaelen refrained. To reveal himself as an Aether-Weaver, even a seemingly mediocre one, risked entanglement. The Lord might press him into service, a gilded cage. To show the full scope of his ability, the true resonance of lost magic, would mean being hailed as an honored guest, a noble. A waste of precious time, caught in the intricate web of Astrean etiquette. He simply desired to find his quarry, neutralize the threat, and vanish.
“Look, but don’t touch. Return it promptly.” The Keeper, without another word, thrust a thick sheaf of parchment into Kaelen’s hands. Descriptions of various Aether-Beasts filled the pages: their warped forms, their sizes, their corrupted traits, their known haunts, and the prices on their heads.
Weaker creatures, those with lesser aetheric corruption, were only rewarded if captured alive, their potential for further study deemed higher. The more aggressive, truly dangerous ones could be slain, their desecrated forms brought back for proof. He read how easily fraudulent claims arose for the lesser beasts, their changed corpses often indistinguishable from mundane animals.
“Heed this warning,” the Keeper added, his voice sharp. “Even if you kill an Aether-Beast by chance, bring the carcass to the city. The Skyguard will disperse its magic. If left in the wilds, the residual aether corrupts further, giving rise to Undead Spirits. Abandoning a killed Aether-Beast is punishable by death under city law. Remember that.”
“I understand,” Kaelen affirmed, the weight of the words pressing on him. He had witnessed the aftermath of such corruption. The memory was a cold dread in his gut. This warning, he would engrave into his mind.
A question stirred in him. “Some of these creatures seem… beyond the reach of common folk. Do the Skyguard not pursue them?”
The Keeper scoffed, his gaze hardening. “Do you think they have such leisure? The Skyguard upholds order, defends against raiding parties. Hunting glorified beasts is for drifters like you.”
Kaelen’s gaze fell to the parchment in his hands. He read, a slow burn of indignation rising within him.
***
Shardwing Crow
A crow with feathers partially hardened and sharpened like obsidian shards. It uses these to deflect arrows, and attacks humans by dropping them from great heights. It preys on small dogs or young children near the city outskirts, consuming them and scattering their remains…
***
If Aether-Weavers were meant to be the guardians of humanity, shouldn’t such horrors be their primary concern? Yet, it seemed few embraced such a duty. A bitter taste filled Kaelen’s mouth. He returned the parchment, nodded curtly, and turned from the Nexus Archive.
He walked, his steps measured, toward the city’s perimeter. Buildings thinned, their stone replaced by encroaching scrubland, then by the familiar embrace of the wilderness. Once beyond the last, crumbling city wall, he confirmed his solitude.
*Time to begin.*
Kaelen focused, drawing the image of the creature from the bounty list into his mind. *Shardwing Crow. Man-eater, preys on children.*
“Aether-Echo: Corvid.”
His awareness expanded, reaching out, not as a visual lens, but as a subtle shift in the aether around him. Suddenly, a cacophony of sounds flooded his senses. The rustle of countless feathers, the rhythmic *thump-thump* of beating wings, the sharp, percussive *tap-tap* of beaks against unseen surfaces. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
“Ugh.” The sheer, overwhelming deluge of sensation, a swirling storm of avian life from every direction, forced Kaelen to recoil. He snapped his mental connection, the spell flickering out. The raw aether of so many mundane creatures was a deafening roar.
*That won’t work.*
He needed precision. How to sift through the ordinary to find the corrupted? *A crow possessing mutated aether?*
He attempted to narrow the focus, to filter his perception for the specific resonance of a transformed beast. But the aether refused to coalesce. The presence of inherent magic, it seemed, was not a simple tag for the detection spell. Not like this.
*A crow that has consumed human flesh?*
He tried again, reshaping the parameters of his search. This time, the aether pulsed, but far too many echoes flared to life. Scavengers. Many ordinary crows would have partaken, their hunger blind to the nature of their meal. This, too, was a dead end. He needed a different approach. A whisper of frustration tightened his jaw. The aether, so powerful, yet so maddeningly indiscriminate without the right key.