Eight long years had passed since Levin’s world first buckled. He was ten then, a lean boy with sun-chapped lips and a silent way about him. Mara, his mother, had left him with the rock-goats, a sparse, bleating flock, while she sought the thin roots that clung to the arid earth. He had been scraping at a loose stone, trying to shore up a precarious ledge near the pens, when a thought took root. *Hold steady,* he’d willed, a child’s simple command to an inanimate thing. The ground hummed. A low tremor, barely a whisper against his bare feet, snaked up from the earth. The loose stone, previously unstable, settled with an unnatural finality. Dust motes danced in the still air, caught in the mid-morning sun. Levin stared. He tried again. A small pebble, resting on the hardpan, shivered. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it lifted an inch before thudding back down. His breath hitched. He spent the rest of the day in a feverish, secret dance with the earth. Small rocks floated, sand gathered into miniature dunes, then flattened again. He felt it, a raw, elemental tug, answering his quietest will. Joy, pure and unburdened, bloomed in his chest. That evening, Mara returned, her face etched with the weariness of the Sun-Scoured Lands. Her worn satchel held only a few withered roots. “Mara, look!” Levin’s voice, usually a murmur, cracked with excitement. He held out his hand. A small, jagged shard of flint, plucked from the ground beside him, began to rise. Mara’s eyes, usually warm despite her hardships, widened in alarm. Her calloused hand shot out, not in wonder, but in a desperate snatch. She grabbed the flint from the air, her fingers clamping down on Levin’s wrist. Her face, usually a mask of quiet endurance, crumbled. Despair hollowed her eyes. A raw, ragged grief contorted her features. He’d never seen her so broken. ‘Levin, listen to me. Promise. Never use this power. Not again. Never in front of anyone.’ Her voice was a dry whisper, like wind through dead brush. ‘Why?’ Levin’s pout was instant. He’d always obeyed Mara. But this… this was too fascinating, too exhilarating to hide. Mara moved to the clay oven, though no fire crackled within. She poured him a cup of brackish water, her hands trembling. Then, for the first time, she spoke of the world beyond Sunken Crag, a world of fractured stone and forgotten empires. ‘Far from here, below the wastes, live the Elder Kin.’ These Elder Kin, Mara explained, were said to be the direct descendants of the First Shapers, beings who had long ago descended from the Sky-Vaults to guide humanity. They bore ancient powers, remnants of that distant age, and ruled what remained of civilization as both protectors and tyrants. Others, born of mixed blood, carried fainter echoes of that power. These were called Way-Shapers. Weaker, lesser. They served the Elder Kin, like tools or beasts of burden. Mara’s gaze drifted to the single, rough-hewn bed. She told Levin that his father, a man he’d never known, had been a Way-Shaper. If the Elder Kin ever found Levin, they would take him. Force him into their service. A chill snaked down Levin’s spine. ‘Think of it,’ Mara continued, her voice desolate. ‘A stone-scourer has his rock-hounds. He might feed them, pat their heads. Treat them almost like kin. But when the dust storms rage, or the pack-hyenas close in, he sends the hounds first. He might sell them, or sacrifice them, if the need arises.’ Elder Kin, for all their power, squabbled over scraps of land and forgotten lore. In their endless conflicts, Way-Shapers were always the first to be ground underfoot. Like the stone-scourer, casting rocks from safety while his hounds fought the sand-wolves. Mara’s shoulders shook. Her eyes fixed on Levin’s, raw with a fear that was not for herself. ‘Levin, do you wish to stay with Mara? For many seasons?’ ‘Yes.’ His voice was small, suddenly uncertain. ‘Then you must bury this power. Deep. If the wrong eyes see it, the bad Elder Kin will come. They will take you. You will never see me again.’ ‘I promise! I won’t use it! Not ever!’ And so, Levin, usually so headstrong, had promised. Eight years later, Mara’s words still echoed in the dry wind. He had kept that promise, even after she finally succumbed to the desert sickness, her body returning to the sand from which it came. He lived alone now, a solitary stone-scourer on Sunken Crag, avoiding the faint trails that led to the settlements below. He would not be a rock-hound. --- “Fools.” Levin’s breath escaped in a sharp hiss. He slammed the rough-hewn door of his dwelling. Dust, disturbed by the impact, motes danced in the gloom of the single room. Sunrise barely touched the peaks, but already, trouble had found him. Early morning, a gaggle of young men from Dustreach had stumbled up the Crag. Their faces were red with indignation, their voices thick with accusation. Kael, an old man from their settlement, had vanished a few days prior. His body, when found, bore the undeniable signs of a Stone-fang Lurker attack. But they saw what they wanted to see. Levin, the quiet, strange boy of the Crag, must have killed Kael. He must have tossed the old man to the beast as bait. Their claims were as brittle as sun-baked clay. He knew their game. They sought an excuse to chip away at his already meager worth. They’d likely try to shortchange him on grain or water skins when he next went down to barter. His jaw tightened. Levin had met their accusations with swift, unyielding force. A few well-placed shoves, a handful of fists, and they had tumbled back down the stony path, nursing bruised egos and aching ribs. They wouldn’t forget the lesson quickly, but they wouldn’t learn it permanently either. He was still nursing the low thrum of irritation when a heavier, more deliberate knock rattled his door. *Bang. Bang.* The sound was deep, resonant, unlike the frantic scratching of the villagers. Levin let out a slow, deliberate sigh. He swung the door open, his voice a low growl. “Who is it? Come to test the earth beneath your feet?” He expected the foolish youths again, perhaps with reinforcements. Their memory, like their sense, was often short. Instead, a stranger stood on his threshold. The man was mid-forties, perhaps a touch older, his face weathered but not broken. A dust-caked cloak, the color of desert stone, hung loosely from his broad shoulders. He offered a slight, awkward smile. “My apologies, young friend. I am a traveler. Seeking a night’s rest, perhaps. It seems I’ve chosen an… inopportune moment.” A traveler. Levin froze. A man who simply *traveled*. He was eighteen cycles old, and such a concept was alien to him. Who had the leisure to wander the Sun-Scoured Lands? Most were bound to what little sustenance their patches of earth provided. Levin’s muscles, rigid a moment before, slowly eased. He stepped back from the door, a flicker of an unfamiliar yearning stirring within him. “No. Not at all. Please, enter. Some… bothersome folk were just leaving.” The formal words felt stiff, unused on his tongue. Mara had taught him this politeness, long ago, for elders, for strangers who might bring news from distant places. It had been years since he last spoke them, before he’d learned most elders in Dustreach were as treacherous as the desert itself. “My thanks.” Kaelen stepped inside, his eyes taking in the sparse dwelling without judgment. He moved with a quiet competence. Levin, despite his mother’s warnings, despite his ingrained caution, had let the man in. A part of him, a deeply buried part, yearned for conversation that wasn’t a negotiation, a threat, or a memory. Besides, if this man proved ill-intentioned, Levin trusted the earth under his feet, and the raw power thrumming within him, to handle it. “Have you eaten?” Levin asked, gesturing to the small, rough table. “Not since the morning’s sun kissed the horizon.” “Nor I. Join me.” He laid out their meager provisions: a bowl of thin porridge, boiled from dried grain from Dustreach. A lump of rock salt, precious as water. A few strips of dried rock-goat jerky. And a cup of the goats’ milk, freshly drawn. Mara’s other lessons resurfaced: treat a guest with the utmost hospitality, even if your stores are low. A well-fed guest was less likely to bring harm. And it was a good shield, against suspicion. “It is little, for such a long journey.” Levin pushed the bowl across the table. “Little? This is a feast, young man! My deepest thanks.” Kaelen’s smile softened. He ate with genuine hunger, his movements precise and unhurried. Not like the grasping, loud villagers. Kaelen kept his mouth shut while chewing, turned his head when he drank from the cup. Levin had seen such manners only in his fading memories of Mara. Perhaps Kaelen saw something similar in him. After a long drink of the milk, Kaelen offered a kind observation. “You carry yourself well. Good manners. Your parents must have raised you with care.” “Mara taught me.” Levin’s voice was flat, revealing nothing. Kaelen paused, a flicker of understanding crossing his eyes. He glanced around the small dwelling. “And… is your mother in Dustreach? This home seems… singular.” He’d noticed the single pallet, the solitary cooking pot. Levin merely nodded. “She passed from the desert sickness, several cycles ago.” His voice was calm, almost detached. The raw pain had dulled, replaced by a quiet ache. He could speak of it now without his throat seizing. Kaelen lowered his head, a gesture Levin didn’t recognize. He pressed his fist to his chest. “My condolences. Having shaped such a fine young man, she must surely rest in Deep Repose, among the blessed.” “I hope she does.” The old sadness stirred, a familiar sand-devil winding through his heart. To speak of Mara now without tears, was that strength, or was it simply the slow, grinding work of time? Levin forced a change of topic. “Tell me, traveler. What brings you to such a desolate place? Few venture this far.” “I passed through a settlement, not far from Dustreach. Heard an old man speak of a Stone-fang Lurker, plaguing his village. He sought one to deal with it. I thought I might offer my services. I am… capable in such matters.” “Alone?” Levin’s brow furrowed. This man, mid-forties, perhaps seventy, judging by his weathered but unyielding frame. No visible weapons. No guards. To face a Stone-fang, a creature of plated earth and razor teeth, alone? Kaelen offered a wry smile. “I am a Way-Shaper. I served Stoneheart Bastion for sixty cycles. I can contend with most creatures of the earth, young man.” *Way-Shaper.* The word struck Levin like a hammer on stone. Mara’s grim stories. The servants of the Elder Kin. His own hidden truth. His body tensed, every muscle coiling. But the man’s eyes held no malice, only a quiet calm. Slowly, Levin relaxed his shoulders. The tension bled from him like dust through a sieve. “Something troubles you?” Kaelen asked, his gaze perceptive. “Only… this is my first encounter with a Way-Shaper. But you spoke of sixty cycles. You do not look… sixty.” “We Way-Shapers, and the Elder Kin, we age more slowly than common folk. Our lifespans stretch. I am seventy-five cycles this year. Elder Kin, those with purer bloodlines, can live two or three hundred.” Levin studied Kaelen, truly studied him, for the first time. The man simply looked like a robust, sun-hardened wanderer. His build was strong, his complexion healthy, but nothing screamed ‘magical being’ or ‘ancient power’. This was vital. Earth-shattering. If Way-Shapers looked so ordinary, so unremarkable, then Levin could walk amongst crowds, unseen, unheard, as long as his power remained hidden. A heavy chain, one he hadn’t even realized was crushing his chest, suddenly snapped. “Truly… Way-Shapers are incredible.” “Incredible?” Kaelen chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Hardly. I find folk like you far more remarkable. To survive in these harsh lands, where creatures like the Stone-fang appear, without such powers? I could not imagine it.” Kaelen was mistaken. A Stone-fang Lurker was an anomaly, not a regular threat. Not since Levin’s birth had such a creature ventured so close. If they had, Mara, without powers, could never have carved out a life for them on the desolate Crag. She was the truly incredible one. “I spoke much, but neglected my manners.” Kaelen’s smile returned. “I am Kaelen. Of Stoneheart Bastion, once. Now, simply Kaelen the Wanderer. And you, young man?” “I am Levin. Sole stone-scourer of Sunken Crag.” “A good name.” “You said you ‘served’ Stoneheart Bastion,” Levin pressed. “Do you no longer?” “My vassal contract officially ended a moon-cycle past. The Bastion offered me rest, a home for my fading years, but… I craved the open sand. To wander, to see the world before the Deep Repose claims me. I had been bound to one house since I took up service, fifty cycles ago. It was time.”

Sunken Crag, Shifting Sands