Eight years had dissolved into the cold wind of Whispering Crag since the tremor first claimed Lysander. He was barely ten, a boy with calloused hands and a nascent power that hummed beneath his skin. His mother had been out with the scattered flock, the thin bleats echoing down the slopes. Then, a sudden, searing cold. Not from the chill air, but from within, a deep shiver. Lysander had merely wished for warmth. He yearned for the small hearth fire to catch, to chase away the gnawing cold that seeped through the stones of their modest cabin. Deep beneath the floorboards, the very earth groaned. A lick of arcane blue flame, not from timber, but from the raw rock itself, pulsed into existence. It flickered, a primal spark, then blossomed into a roaring, emerald blaze within the hearth. Lysander gasped, a sharp intake of frosty air. Not long after, he understood. A quiet thought, a silent command, and the world shifted. A pebble levitated from the dirt floor, tracing an invisible arc. A gust of wind, untethered by any storm, whispered through the small window pane. He even felt the solid ground beneath his feet ripple, a faint tremor that answered his will. “Mother, look!” His voice, normally quiet, soared with a child’s unfiltered delight. “The stones are dancing!” Returning from the grazing pastures, his mother, her face etched with the wind and sun, watched the small, smooth river stones hover in the air, spinning in a slow gyre. Her shepherd dog, a grizzled beast named Bran, whined low in its throat, a hackle of fur rising along its spine. Lysander expected wonder. He hoped for praise. Instead, a shadow fell across her features. Her shoulders slumped. A profound, weary sorrow settled in her eyes. Reaching out, her fingers trembled as she gently lowered the stones to the ground. Lysander’s smile faltered. His brow furrowed. “Lysander,” her voice was a breathy whisper, “a promise. This power… you must never use it carelessly. Never, ever, in front of another soul.” “But why?” The question was a stubborn knot in his throat. This raw, thrilling ability, a secret world unfolding, now forbidden. It felt unjust. Later, as the aether-lamps of Ashenspire began to prickle the distant twilight horizon, she warmed him a mug of rich ewe’s milk. For the first time, she spoke of the city below, a sprawling titan of arcane steam and forgotten lore. “Below, Lysander,” she began, her gaze fixed on the distant glow, “live the Aether-Lords.” She spoke of their lineage, how they claimed descent from the Primordial Weavers, beings who had once woven the very fabric of existence. These Aether-Lords, gifted with potent elemental command, ruled as both guardians and despots. They were the architects of Ashenspire, their power the engine of its relentless hum. And then, there were the conduits. Those born of mixed blood, human and ancient lineage. Their abilities, she explained, were fainter, a whisper compared to the Aether-Lords’ roar. They served. They were tools. They were, in the starkest terms, property. Lysander’s father, she revealed with a quiet sigh, had been a conduit. The power within Lysander was his inheritance. “If you ever descend into that city,” she warned, her voice tight with suppressed fear, “they will find you. They will take you. You will serve.” “Consider the Aether-Lords as shepherds,” her eyes met his, grave and unwavering. “And conduits? We are their dogs. Sometimes, they might show affection, treat us like family. But just as easily, they will sell us, or sacrifice us, for their own gain.” In their endless struggles for dominance, Aether-Lords often pitted conduits against each other, or against darker forces. It was like sending Bran to fight a pack of rift-wolves, while the shepherd remained safe, casting stones from afar. Her face, usually so composed, held a profound desolation Lysander had never witnessed. Her gaze held his, pleading. “Lysander, don’t you wish to live with your mother, here on Whispering Crag, for a long, long time?” “Yes.” His voice was small, conviction settling into his young heart. “Then hide this power. Else, they will come. And you will never see me again.” “I promise, Mother! I won’t use it. Not in front of anyone!” Eight years later, the promise held. Even after her passing, a few years gone now, Lysander remained on Whispering Crag. He tended the small flock, his power a leashed beast within him, a silent, vibrating hum beneath his skin. He avoided Ashenspire, avoided the Aether-Lords. He refused to be their shepherd’s dog. --- “Idiots.” Lysander’s breath misted the cabin air as he slammed the heavy door shut. Early morning. Before the first sliver of sun had kissed the peaks, the young men from Stonehaven had come calling. Old Man Garrot, a hermit from the lower slopes, had been found dead a few days prior. Mauled. The marks of a Shale-Hound were unmistakable. Yet, they insisted. Lysander had killed the old man, they claimed, then left him as bait for the beast. Absurd accusations, born of petty jealousy and ingrained suspicion. Lysander, with his solitude and strange aura, made an easy scapegoat. He understood their motive. Scared, superstitious, and eager to blame. But the accusations themselves were baseless. Fingers clenching, Lysander had driven them off. A few precise, well-placed shoves. The crack of bone against bone. They scattered, nursing bruises and wounded pride. He expected repercussions. Next time he descended to Stonehaven for barter, prices would be inflated, goods tampered with. It was an old song. Then, he would simply apply another 'lesson'. A few well-aimed fists, perhaps a controlled, visible tremor of the ground beneath their feet, just enough to instill fear without revealing the full extent of his capabilities. The cycle was tiresome, yet inevitable. A sudden, sharp rapping, two heavy thuds, rattled the doorframe. Lysander’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw clenched. “Who now?” A growl ripped from his throat. “Have you a death wish?” Had their short-term memory truly failed them so utterly? The sting of his knuckles was still fresh. However, the figure beyond the door was not one of the brawling youths. A man stood there, cloaked in dust-stained grey, his face lined but kind, perhaps in his late forties. A hesitant smile touched his lips. “My apologies, young friend. I am but a traveler. Hoped to impose upon your hospitality, but it seems I’ve chosen a poor moment.” A traveler. Lysander blinked, unaccustomed. In eighteen years, he had never encountered such a soul on Whispering Crag. Who possessed such leisure, such audacity, to venture to this forgotten corner? Lysander’s initial surprise melted, giving way to a strange, almost desperate curiosity. Stepping aside, he gestured the man inside. “No, no. Not at all. Please, come in. Unpleasant company departed but moments ago.” The formal address, learned from his mother for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken without a trace of resentment? Before he understood the villagers of Stonehaven for the small-minded fools they were. It had been years. “Thank you kindly,” the man said, stepping over the threshold, his gaze sweeping the sparse, tidy interior. Truth be told, a stranger was a risk to his hidden life. But the desire for peaceful conversation, for a voice not steeped in suspicion or greed, was a potent lure. Besides, if this traveler proved ill-intentioned, Lysander felt a cold certainty he could handle him. “Have you eaten?” Lysander asked, turning towards the small larder. “Not yet.” “Neither have I. Please, join me.” Lysander motioned the traveler to the rough-hewn table. He laid out a modest spread: a jug of fresh ewe’s milk, a wedge of hard cheese, thick porridge made from dried grains, a small lump of rock salt, and strips of cured lamb jerky. Hospitality, his mother had taught him, was a shield. Guests, well-fed, rarely sought harm against their host. “It is a humble offering, I’m afraid.” “Humble? This is a feast! My thanks for your generosity.” The man spoke with genuine warmth, eating with an eagerness that suggested long travels and lean rations. His manners, too, were refined, unlike the crude table etiquette of Stonehaven’s residents. He chewed with his mouth closed, turned his head politely to sip his milk. The traveler caught Lysander’s observing gaze, offering a kind remark. “You possess fine manners, young man. Your parents must have taught you well.” “My mother taught me,” Lysander said, his voice flat. He offered no mention of his father. Something in the omission registered with the traveler. He hesitated. “And… is your mother in the village? This house seems… singular.” The single cot, the lone set of clothes on a hook. Lysander simply nodded. “She passed from illness a few years ago.” Briefly, the traveler’s face clouded with sympathy. He bowed his head, making a peculiar gesture with one hand—fingers touching thumb, then sweeping outwards. A symbol Lysander had never seen. “My deepest condolences. Having raised such a fine young man, she surely dwells among the higher planes, blessed by the Weavers themselves.” “I hope so too.” In the raw immediacy of loss, his mother’s memory had been a torment, stealing his appetite, bringing fresh tears. Now, to speak of it with a measured tone, almost a smile, felt strange. Had he truly matured? Or had time simply dulled the sharpness of his grief, her presence slowly fading like a winter’s mist? Lysander pushed the gloom away. “Tell me, sir, what brings a traveler to such a secluded place?” “Passing through a nearby settlement, I heard whispers. An old man speaking of a Shale-Hound, a beast plaguing the slopes. He sought a skilled hand to deal with it. I decided to offer my services. I am… quite capable in combat.” “Alone?” Lysander’s surprise was palpable. This middle-aged man, with the faint weariness in his eyes, facing a primal beast without so much as a proper weapon? It seemed madness. The traveler offered an awkward smile. “I am a conduit. I served House Valerius for sixty years. Most lesser beasts pose little threat.” The word, ‘conduit,’ struck Lysander like a sudden blow. His body stiffened, every muscle tensing. A being from his mother’s forbidden stories. A servant of the Aether-Lords. A shiver, colder than any mountain breeze, traced its way down his spine. But the man’s eyes held no malice. No predatory glint. The tension slowly leached from Lysander’s frame, replaced by a profound curiosity. “Is something amiss?” Kael inquired, a gentle concern in his gaze. “It’s simply… I have never met a conduit before. But more than that, you do not seem to have served for sixty years.” “Conduits age slower, live longer, than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five cycles old this year. For a conduit, I show my years. But the powerful Aether-Lords… some easily live two or three centuries.” Lysander studied the man, truly studied him, with a fresh perspective. Outwardly, Kael appeared no different from any seasoned man of the mountains. Perhaps a slightly more robust physique, a healthier complexion. But nothing to betray the ancient power he wielded. This was vital. Profoundly important. It meant that even amidst the bustling crowds of Ashenspire, as long as he kept his own powers tethered, he could walk unseen. Unmarked. The realization was a loosening of internal chains. A deep, forgotten breath. “Being a conduit is truly remarkable,” Lysander murmured, a newfound respect in his tone. “Remarkable? Hardly! I think folk like you are far more remarkable. To survive in such a wild place, where beasts roam, without reliance on these powers? I could not imagine it.” Kael misunderstood. This was the first time a truly dangerous beast, a Shale-Hound, had appeared in Lysander’s lifetime. Otherwise, his mother, resourceful as she was, could never have raised him alone on this isolated crag. In truth, she, the ordinary woman who defied this wild land, was the truly remarkable one. “Ah, I never properly introduced myself. I am Kael. Kael of Valerius – though that title no longer fits. You may call me Kael the Wanderer. And you, young man?” “Lysander Thorne. Shepherd of Whispering Crag.” “A fine name.” Kael smiled, a warmth radiating from him that felt utterly foreign in Lysander’s solitary existence. “You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a noble house. You no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. House Valerius offered me comfort until my dying breath, if I wished. But… I longed to travel. To see the world beyond their walls. I had been bound to them since my hiring at the age of fifteen. Sixty years is a long time for a tethered soul.”

A Vein Stirred