Dust motes danced in the waning light, stirred by a breath of wind across Whisperwind Crag. Below, the Stonehorn Goats, their coats thick with sun-bleached grit, shifted in unison. Levin stood atop a weathered outcrop, fingers brushing the warm, rough stone. He didn’t shout, didn’t wave a staff. A low thrum resonated beneath his feet, a silent pulse in the earth, and the scattered herd began to gather. His command was a thought, a focused intent. Subtle tremors traveled through the ground, a gentle nudge the goats instinctively followed. They moved without a drover’s cry, without the snap of a whip, converging toward the crude pen near his dwelling. This was his power, raw and untamed. Years of solitude had taught Levin much about the earth’s language, and his own connection to it. He’d learned that will was the root, desire the fuel. Whispering his intent aloud, even to the wind, seemed to sharpen his focus, requiring less of him. Yet, the power was fickle. Some tasks were simple: lifting a boulder, shaping a ditch, guiding his herd. Others, seemingly trivial, demanded a strength he rarely possessed. Weeks ago, facing down the snarling desert cat, his desperate plea to “stop” had done little to halt its charge. The beast had barely faltered. But a focused thrust of power, a sudden surge of stone to erupt beneath its feet, had been devastatingly easy. Enough to crack its skull open. The contrast remained a mystery. As the last goat shuffled into the enclosure, a faint, metallic tang pricked the arid air. It wasn't the scent of goat or the dry, salty tang of his own sweat. Deeper, richer, almost coppery. He knew that smell. He’d known it when his mother lay still, blood staining the parched earth. This scent was different. Musky, wild. A wolf. Seconds later, a figure emerged from the crimson wash of the setting sun, a hulking shape draped over his shoulders. Kael, the Wanderer, approached, his strides long and unhurried, the dead wolf a testament to his strength. Its hide was thick, its fangs long even in death. “Greetings, Levin,” Kael’s voice was a low rasp, like wind over stone. “May I impose upon your hospitality tonight? This quarry is yours, for a meal and a roof.” Levin nodded, his gaze lingering on the wolf. A rare kill this far west. Most predators avoided Whisperwind Crag, preferring the game-rich foothills. “Few of these beasts venture so close,” Levin said, his voice quiet. “How far did you range for this?” Kael set the wolf down, its lifeless weight thudding softly. “The Sky-Spine Peaks. Found it stalking game near the lower ledges.” Levin’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking his usual composure. The Sky-Spine Peaks, a jagged wall on the horizon, were days of travel even for seasoned merchants. Half a day, Kael claimed. “A journey of days, to reach those foothills…” “For some, perhaps. My stride carries me farther, faster.” A flicker of something akin to pride entered Kael’s eyes. Levin felt a prickle of unease, a familiar caution settling over him. His mother’s warnings echoed in his mind, ancient fears stirring. --- Later, a fire crackled, spitting embers into the vast, darkening sky. The wolf meat, tough but flavorful, simmered in a pot, its savory steam a welcome comfort in the chill. Kael chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on the constellations blazing above them. “The stars here are sharp,” he observed, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Like diamond shards scattered on black glass.” “Mother said this crag was one of the highest places,” Levin murmured, stirring the stew. “Save for the Sky-Spine, of course.” Kael grunted. “Aye. Seen it today. A true barrier. Even the Elder Kin would struggle to cross that.” Levin frowned. “I heard the Elder Kin commanded godlike power. Could they not simply… leap over?” Kael chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Not all, boy. The heads of the great Houses… House Varak, House Kaelar… they come close. True gods among men, some say.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Once, I saw the head of House Varak. He crushed a small ridge with a single gesture, just to clear a path for his procession. Felt the ground tremble miles away.” Levin’s hand tightened on the wooden ladle. A familiar humiliation coiled in his gut. He often harbored secret fantasies, convinced his own burgeoning power might one day rival theirs. But Kael’s words were a cold dose of reality. Compared to that, his ability to shift a few goats or hurl a stone felt… insignificant. Kael broke the silence again, his tone softening. “Does living out here, alone, not weigh on you?” Levin shrugged. “It does, some days. But I’ve grown accustomed.” “Why not find a girl from Scar-Town? Bring her back.” A bitter taste filled Levin’s mouth. “Who would choose a life of dust and goats, out here?” “Plenty, for a young man like you,” Kael said, a wry grin on his lips. Levin managed a weak smile in return. He remembered girls, from when he was younger, when his mother still lived and they ventured into the oasis-settlement. Giggles and curious glances. But after his mother’s death, after the villagers’ fear had driven him away, those connections had withered. No one wanted a life tied to Whisperwind Crag, to the quiet, strange boy whose mother had warned of ancient evils. “Still,” Kael continued, “never say never. A chance encounter, a passing traveler…” He paused, glancing at Levin. “Though I seem to be the first in years, wouldn’t you say?” Silence settled between them, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the wind. Levin watched the flames, his thoughts heavy. “Why do you do it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Kael raised an eyebrow. “Do what, boy?” “This. The wolf, the travel. The villagers in Scar-Town… they demanded such a price for your lodging. With your skill, you could command far more, with far less effort.” He thought of the village chief’s greedy eyes. If Kael truly possessed such power, why accept their paltry offerings? He could have taken what he wanted, smashed their mud-brick homes, and left them scrambling. “They are desperate people,” Kael said, his voice flat. “How so?” “Living in the wilds, far from the reach of the Elder Kin, they cling to every scrap. They tremble in fear, every day, of what lurks beyond their walls. Without the protection of a Way-Shaper, they are prey.” Kael spoke gently, like a father teaching a son. He explained that the Sun-Scoured Lands were vast, teeming with creatures of hunger and tooth. It was the pride of a Way-Shaper, one who inherited the old powers, to shield the helpless from such dangers. Levin felt a jolt. This wasn't the story his mother had told. Her Way-Shapers were enslavers, oppressors, their power a chain. Kael’s words painted a different picture, one of duty and fierce protection. Noticing Levin’s confused expression, Kael smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips. He pushed a bowl of goat’s milk across the ground to him. “Well, not all think as I do,” Kael said softly. “The world holds a million minds, boy. And a million truths.” --- The next morning, an early sun bled across the horizon. Levin stood in the goat pen, the memory of Kael’s words still resonating. He extended his will, and with a soft groan of protest from the earth, the compacted goat dung and discarded straw lifted, a cloud of grime, and settled in a neat mound in the composting pit behind the dwelling. Effortless. He had time. ‘Pride,’ he mulled. Kael’s quiet conviction still gnawed at him. A Way-Shaper finding purpose in protecting the weak. The idea was alien, yet… compelling. It didn’t make him yearn to serve the Elder Kin, but it softened the hardened edges of his own fear. Maybe, just maybe, not all power was corrupt. He had planned for Kael to wander, to eventually leave, unaware the desert cat was already gone. Now, he felt a strange obligation to the man. Retrieving the sand-cat’s rotting carcass from the deep ravine, though, was a problem. Not just the stench, but the lingering traces of his own power. Any Way-Shaper would sense it. Levin couldn't risk revealing himself. ‘I should seek him out.’ Kael had mentioned patrolling closer to the crag today. He might still be within reach. Levin closed his eyes, centering himself. He reached out with his mind, not through the air, but *through the earth itself*. A deep hum, a tremor that expanded, linking him to the very bedrock of the crag. His awareness stretched, not just visual, but a tactile map of the land. He felt the shifting sands, the rumble of hidden roots, the distant scurrying of small creatures. Then, a sharp, ragged presence. A human. Kael. He strained, sharpening his Earth-Sight. A voice, strained, followed by a raw, guttural shriek that ripped through the quiet morning. His eyes snapped open. He saw Kael, blood staining his brow and shoulder, his breathing ragged. And before him, lurching with unnatural stiffness, was the half-decayed body of the sand-cat Levin had killed days ago. It roared, a rattling, dry sound, its empty eye sockets fixed on Kael. --- ‘Who in the blazes did this?’ Kael gritted his teeth, his arm throbbing. The reek of decaying flesh was thick and cloying. An undead spirit. When living things died, especially beasts imbued with inherent strength, their lingering magic sometimes twisted, desperately attempting to cling to life. A broken body, reanimated by its own death throes. It was why a Way-Shaper always absorbed or dispersed a creature’s magic after a kill. Someone had either been terribly ignorant, or deliberately malicious. The hole in the sand-cat’s skull, a precise impact point, spoke of a projectile-based attack. A rare skill, almost unheard of among the few surviving Way-Shapers. [---RIIIIII-!] The desert cat’s roar was a grating scrape, a sound of the grave, echoing across the sun-baked plains. Kael raised his arm, palm outward. “Taste dust!” he bellowed, a surge of energy gathering at his fingertips.

A Way-Shaper's Burden