Kaelen shed his scholar's smock, a heavy weave dyed deep indigo, folding it with precise, unhurried movements. Beneath, a simple tunic of undyed linen clung to him, a stark contrast to the arcane diagrams and swirling aetheric equations that filled his mind daily. Even after long hours within the Aetherium Scriptorium’s glyph-scripting chambers, an unburdened clarity resided behind his observant, grey eyes. Slight, yet with a coiled resilience, his form stood with a quiet dignity. Leaving the Scholarium Archival Tower, he exchanged brief nods with passing apprentices and elder scribes. His strides were long, purposeful, eating up the distance along the polished obsidian pathways. Autumn air held a sharp bite. The air, crisp against his face, usually offered solace. From the Scriptorium’s highest levels, descending to the ground floor unveiled vast, arching pillars of petrified wood, open to the elements, drawing in the whispering winds and the scent of damp earth. Today, a subtle discord hummed. ‘Twilight deepens,’ Kaelen mused, a crease forming between his brows. ‘Too early.’ Winter’s approach often shortened the days, and the shifting of Aetherium’s cycles had already passed, yet the sun should not have begun its descent before the fifth bell. An unsettling pallor clung to the western sky. Kaelen found it profoundly curious. “—Aetheric imbalance, they call it. The cycles are broken, I tell you. First week of Highfrost, and not a lick of snow. The Warden Houses, they’re behind—” Kaelen’s pace did not waver as he passed a street vendor, whose cart offered steaming bowls of mushroom broth. He caught the fragmented complaint, but intrusion was not his way. Besides, what could Aetheric instability have to do with the precise turning of day to night? ‘…It’s plausible,’ Kaelen’s thoughts unfurled. ‘If distortions at the polar Aether-nodes are profound enough, Aethelgard’s axial tilt could shift, altering diurnal progression…’ A torrent of calculations flooded Kaelen’s mind, followed by a rush of intricate glyphic formulae. He allowed the mental currents to flow, a quiet companion on his journey home. Aethelgard was a complex place. He doubted the broth seller understood the subtle mechanics of celestial Aether-flows, and many would scoff at such claims. Yet, a kernel of truth often lay hidden within the simplest observations. Kaelen still found grand predictions of doom unlikely. One half of the populace believed Aetheric instability portended the end of all things. The other half dismissed it as fear-mongering conjured by restless spirits. For Kaelen, as with most matters, truth often resided in the quiet middle, perhaps leaning slightly to one side. He had lost himself in this analytical puzzle. Before he quite registered it, his hearthstead stood before him. To own a home so near the Scholarium spoke of his family’s standing. The dwelling, a sturdy structure of carved granite and dark wood, boasted a sprawling herbal garden, neatly tended, and ample space between it and its neighbors – a hallmark of the respected houses within the Eldoria ward. Kaelen unlatched the heavy wooden door, bending to unfasten his travel boots. Unexpectedly, a barrage of muffled voices assaulted him, far louder than his usually tranquil home permitted. The commotion, though indistinct, clearly signaled an argument. His usual calm gave way to a slight frown. He lived with his mother, Lira, his father, Torvin, his grandfather, Magnus, and his young sister, Lyra. Their household typically resonated with harmony. The most fervent debates his parents ever waged concerned the evening meal. This was different. Footsteps sounded. Lira, an elegant woman of middle years, emerged from the common room. Lyra, a wisp of thirteen cycles, clung to her, tears glistening in her large, green eyes. Lira’s face bore a helpless, drawn expression. “Kaelen, you’re home. Good. I’ve told you, take a sky-chariot. Why must you insist on walking?” Words Kaelen had heard countless times. Yet, he sensed Lira merely sought distraction from the escalating quarrel. The muffled sounds suggested it emanated from the hearth-sanctum below. That was Torvin’s and Magnus’s retreat, a place for training and quiet reflection. An argument there was unprecedented. Unless another soul was involved? His parents were esteemed artisans, but they maintained a strict separation of craft from home. No colleagues would disrupt their peace. He could not conceive of any friends who would spark such a significant dispute, either. “It is not far, mother.” He stepped forward, gently ruffling Lyra’s hair, a silent gesture of comfort. “Five kilometers at least. And look, the skies already darken, but your studies ended at the fourth bell. It is not safe these days.” Kaelen listened to Lira’s familiar worries without complaint. If escape from his mother’s watchful eye truly motivated him, as a scholar of twenty-six cycles who had already secured a promising tenure, he could have moved out long ago. Life beyond the hearthstead held little attraction. He had friends, though no one he called closest kin. Past romantic attachments always fixated on an idealized scholar, never Kaelen himself. Revelry, fermented spirits, the smoke of dream-leaf — none appealed. All reasons a soul might flee the family hearth simply did not exist for him. “I will see what stirs,” Kaelen finally managed, fitting his words into a pause. Lira hesitated, then offered a slight nod. She never interceded between her husband and her father-in-law. Kaelen’s presence was indeed best. Kaelen nodded in return, moving down the hall. He opened the heavy, iron-banded door to the hearth-sanctum, descending the worn stone steps. No explosion of fury met him. Instead, waves of exasperation radiated from the room. The less audible the words, the more potent the underlying tension. Yet, Torvin and Magnus seemed not to require mediation, merely an audience. “—Torvin, I am your father. When have I ever led you astray? Returning to the Elderstone is our only true recourse now.” “Father, none of this makes sense. You speak of packing our lives, abandoning everything to cross half of Aethelgard. It’s preposterous. Kaelen just began his tenure, and Lyra finishes her final year of elemental scripts. How can we do this to them?” “Matters of the fleeting world will cease to hold meaning in a few short months, Torvin. Can you not comprehend?” “No! No, I cannot! You have woven these tales since I was a boy, and I never believed them!” Kaelen stepped fully into the hearth-sanctum. He found them facing each other across the polished surface of the scrying-table, where they usually mapped Aetheric ley lines. Torvin’s face was flushed, his jaw tight. Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose, a grim line etched there. “You have never truly listened. If your mother—” Both men noticed Kaelen then. Kaelen felt his timing impeccable. He sensed Magnus stood on the precipice of a remark that would push exasperation into outright rage. His grandmother had passed long ago, before Kaelen’s birth. Stories claimed she raised Torvin alone until his tenth cycle. After her passing, Magnus returned, assuming his fatherly duties. Kaelen knew little more, as it felt a tender point, not his to prod. What child knew every detail of their parents’ early struggles? He avoided reopening old wounds. Still, he understood enough to know Magnus invoking his grandmother would be a swift, one-way path to ruin. It was Highfrost eve. He did not wish his rare leisure days tainted by this. “Kaelen,” Torvin uttered, a hint of shame in his tone. Truthfully, the moment Magnus spoke of his mother, Torvin had seen red. Even Magnus seemed to exhale a breath of relief at Kaelen’s presence. “What stirs?” Kaelen asked, his voice even. Magnus and Torvin exchanged a look. “You are twenty-six cycles, Kaelen. There are things you should know,” Torvin finally admitted. Observing his son’s impassive reaction, Torvin offered a wry chuckle. He was about to reveal a revelation, yet Kaelen was already deep in ‘analysis mode.’ “Forget it. It’s not so grand a secret. We hold distant lineage with House Thorne.” Kaelen’s brow lifted. House Thorne. The name itself resonated with power. They were among Aethelgard’s wealthiest Warden Houses, famed for generating three influential Glyph-Masters in this generation alone. They possessed enough influence to destabilize a minor principality with a mere decree, if their morning elixirs proved too tepid. A street vendor had once blamed them for the erratic Aether-cycles, and Kaelen understood the sentiment. House Thorne’s foundational industry, the harvesting of ancient Glyph-wood, still held a vast sway. They had felled their share of ancient, vibrant forests. Kaelen’s reaction was precisely as Magnus and Torvin had anticipated. Magnus sighed. “I will impart to you what I have told your father for all these cycles. He does not believe me. What else can an old man do?” Torvin crossed his arms. If the old man couldn’t sway him, how could he hope to convince his logic-bound son? Magnus seemed to grasp this dilemma, yet he gritted his teeth and continued. “Aethelgard’s most powerful Houses are not merely for show. They hold knowledge the common folk cannot fathom. Do you agree, Kaelen?” Kaelen nodded, a serious cast to his features. To believe otherwise was naïve. He did not subscribe to fervent whisper-theories, nor did he blindly trust the proclamations of the Guild Loyalist. Like most truths, he believed the answer lay in the subtle middle. “Good.” Magnus nodded, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “I will speak plainly. Aethelgard will soon enter a state of complete upheaval. Our best chance for survival is to return to the ancestral seat of House Thorne.” “What manner of upheaval? War?” Kaelen asked. “Yes,” Magnus replied swiftly, causing Torvin to roll his eyes. “He attempts to soften it. My father believes a cataclysmic, world-shaping event approaches. War might be but one facet of the chaos.” Kaelen fell silent. Magnus had exhibited no signs of fading mind. Indeed, he appeared robust. Ruddy, weathered skin, a vibrant head and beard of white. He held the same ramrod posture common to the men of their lineage. Despite his early seventies, Magnus had completed a strenuous climb of the Obsidian Peaks just two moons past. Though fading intellect rarely presented outward signs, Kaelen, who saw his grandfather daily, had observed nothing amiss. More importantly, Magnus had never before spoken of such outlandish things. This made Kaelen more inclined to consider his words. “Is there not a simple way to verify?” Kaelen murmured after a moment. Torvin’s triumphant sneer turned bitter. Magnus’s eyes, however, brightened. Kaelen moved to the side, unplugging a data-slate that projected moving glyph-story onto the room’s main crystal. A cartoonish sky-sprite held the screen, so Kaelen assumed Lyra had been there before the argument erupted. He walked back, placing the data-slate on the scrying-table, facing both his father and grandfather. “Aethelgard’s most elite Houses… I can list many, but for verification, we need only focus on three. Let us consider House Thorne, House Veridian, and House Solara. “All three possess high-profile members whose sky-chariot manifests are meticulously tracked. All three also have publicly known ancestral estates.” Kaelen looked up at Magnus. “Is the ancestral seat of House Thorne the same as the publicly available records?” He rotated the data-slate screen towards his grandfather. It displayed a sprawling complex nestled deep within the Whispering Spires region. “Yes, this is the location,” Magnus confirmed with a firm nod. “Good. That allows us to reasonably conclude that if an upswell of ‘returnees’ is truly occurring, then many of these high-profile individuals will also be returning to their ancestral grounds.” “Lucius Thorne… Malachi Thorne… Astrid Thorne…” Kaelen began to input names into the data-slate’s intricate search function.

A Crack in the Cycles