Eight cycles ago, when Kaelan barely touched ten, the Aetherium awoke within him. It was a frigid season, deep in the Coiling Veins, when the heat conduits in their small dwelling had faltered. His mother, a woman worn by the tunnels but with hands that never trembled at the forge, had left for the nearest steam-relay station, hoping to barter for repair components. Alone, Kaelan had stared at the cooling synth-metal ingots, picturing them hot, pliable. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest. A faint hum thrummed in the air. The dull metal, stubborn as stone moments before, began to glow with a soft, internal fire. It shimmered, stretching, twisting into intricate shapes his untrained fingers couldn’t have dreamed of. He had realized then, with a child’s unfiltered wonder, that he could coax impossible things from inert matter. Shaping raw ferro-shards into perfect gear teeth, purifying slag with a mere glance, or mending hairline cracks in ancient power conduits without a tool. “Mother, look!” he’d exclaimed that evening, holding up a flawlessly crafted cog, its teeth interlocking with silent precision. His mother, back with an empty pouch and cold shoulders, had simply stared. Her face, usually etched with a quiet resilience, crumpled. No awe, no joy. Only a profound, chilling despair. “Kaelan,” she’d whispered, her voice a rough rasp, reaching for the cog as if it might burn her. “You must promise me. Never use this. Not in front of anyone. Never.” “But why?” Kaelan had pouted, the wonder still fresh. This power, this hum, felt like an extension of himself, thrilling and natural. She settled him by the dying glow of their heat vent, the only warmth in the dwelling. For the first time, she spoke of the world beyond their isolated forge-crevice, the vast, lightless expanse of the Iron Veins. “Far beyond these tunnels, Kaelan, there are the Arch-Artificers.” These Arch-Artificers, she explained, were the direct descendants of the Progenitors, beings who had long ago descended into the deep to guide humanity. They commanded Aether itself, weaving it into their grand constructs, ruling the city-states with ironclad doctrine. And there were the Scions. Children born of mixed bloodlines, possessing a weaker, unpredictable echo of Aetheric manipulation. They were not rulers, but servants. Living tools, she called them. They were the architects of war machines, the sentinels of forgotten sectors, the sacrificial catalysts in grand Aetheric rituals. Kaelan’s power, she warned, was of a Scion. If an Arch-Artificer ever learned of it, he would be taken. Forced into servitude. Used until he broke, or worse, until he was consumed. “Arch-Artificers are like the great steam-presses, Kaelan,” she’d said, her eyes hollow. “They demand immense power, and if you are the most efficient fuel, they will burn you without hesitation. They might polish you, keep you oiled, but you are still just a component. Easily replaced.” A desolation Kaelan had never seen before settled upon her. A deep weariness. “You want to stay with Mother, don’t you? Live out your days by the forge?” “Yes,” he’d mumbled, the bright excitement of his power now a cold knot in his gut. “Then you must hide it. Else, the Arch-Artificers will come. They will take you. And you will never see me again.” “I promise,” he’d whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I won’t use it. Not ever.” Eight cycles had passed since that promise. Even after the chill claimed his mother, leaving Kaelan alone with his forge and the silent hum of dormant power, he kept it. He worked as a simple artisan, kept to his isolated forge-crevice, and avoided any entanglement that might reveal the terrible spark within. --- “Fools, all of them.” Kaelan’s hand slammed the heavy ingress plate of his forge-dwelling shut. The clang echoed through the cramped space. It was barely dawn, the low-light emitters of the tunnel network still struggling against the pervasive gloom. Youngsters from the lower strata had come, their faces twisted with thinly veiled aggression. Thane Garen, an old provisioner, had vanished a few days prior, his body found partially consumed near an abandoned conduit pipe. The telltale scrape marks, the acrid stench of volatile alchemical acid, all pointed to a Rust-maw Lurker. Yet, they’d insisted Kaelan was to blame. He’d lured Garen, they claimed. Fed him to the beast. Preposterous accusations, but the real intent was clear: to chip away at his standing, to devalue his forged wares at the next exchange. Kaelan had sent them packing, a few well-placed shoves and a growl enough to scatter their bravado. He knew the drill. Next market cycle, they’d try to shortchange him. He’d simply flex a few more muscles, tighten his grip on a few more wrists, and ensure a fair trade. It was a familiar, irritating cycle. A sudden, resonant thud echoed through the metal plate of his door. Someone was knocking. Sharply. Kaelan let out a low growl, already reaching for a heavy pipe-wrench by the forge. “Who the void-blight is it now? Are your skulls as thick as your greed?” His memory of their recent departure couldn’t be that poor. He pulled open the plate, ready to deliver another lesson. Standing in the dim glow was not a familiar face, but a man. Mid-forties by the look of him, cloaked in dust-caked synth-weave, his face etched with travel. An awkward smile touched his lips. “Ah… my apologies, young artificer. I am a Wayfarer, seeking a moment’s respite, but it seems I’ve chosen an inopportune time.” A Wayfarer. A true outsider. In eighteen cycles, Kaelan had never encountered such a person. His mind stalled, momentarily blank. Who would leisurely traverse the forgotten pathways to such a desolate crevice? He stepped aside from the ingress. The pipe-wrench felt suddenly heavy, out of place in his hand. “No, not at all. Enter, Wayfarer. Just some unpleasant folk, now departed.” The formal tone, learned long ago from his mother, felt strange on his tongue. When had he last used it? He thought back to before he learned the hollow nature of the old artificers, of Thane Garen himself. It had been cycles. “If you’ll excuse me, then.” Truthfully, Kaelan knew he should have driven off any stranger, kept his isolated existence untouched. Yet, a raw, aching loneliness for a conversation without malice spurred him on. Besides, if the Wayfarer proved ill-intentioned, Kaelan knew he could handle him. “Have you broken fast?” “Not yet, artificer.” “Nor I. Join me.” Kaelan gestured to his small, salvaged table. He set out a block of dried fungal bread, a sliver of preserved synth-meat, a flask of recycled water, and a nutrient paste made from fermented algae. Simple, but solid. His mother had taught him the unspoken rules: treat guests with utmost care, and they would not dare consider harm. “It is a meager crevice, Wayfarer. Not much to offer.” “Meager? This is a bounty! My thanks for the meal.” The words weren’t empty. The man ate with genuine hunger, his movements precise and controlled. He possessed a decorum Kaelan had never witnessed in the rough-hewn inhabitants of his sector. He didn’t speak with his mouth full, he averted his gaze when drinking, small gestures that spoke of a different upbringing. Perhaps the Wayfarer noticed a similar refinement in Kaelan, for after a sip of water, he offered a kind observation. “You carry yourself with a certain… order. Your elders must have instructed you well.” “My mother taught me.” A flicker of understanding crossed the Wayfarer’s face. He hesitated, noting the absence of any mention of a father. “And… is your mother in this crevice? The dwelling seems suited for one.” He must have noticed the single sleep-cot. Kaelan nodded, his voice steady. “She passed from the chill, a few cycles ago.” The Wayfarer’s expression softened with regret. He bowed his head, making a gesture Kaelan didn't recognize—a palm pressed to his chest, then extended outwards. “My condolences, young artificer. Having raised such a capable son, she surely resides now among the Progenitors in the higher Aetherium.” “I hope so.” When she’d first gone, the mere thought of her had stolen his appetite, filled his days with a suffocating ache. To speak of it now, with a quiet smile, felt… distant. Had he grown into an adult? Or had the steady grind of the deep simply dulled the sharpness of his grief? Kaelan, feeling a sudden, heavy silence descend, deliberately shifted the conversation. “More importantly, Wayfarer, what brings you to such a remote passage?” “I passed through a larger city-state, and overheard an old provisioner speaking of a Rust-maw Lurker plaguing his sector. He sought a Scion to cleanse it. Hearing his plight, I decided to journey and offer my aid. I am… proficient in such matters.” “Alone?” A man of middle cycles, not in his prime, with no visible weapon, intending to face a corrosive predator born of alchemical waste? Kaelan’s astonishment brought another awkward smile to the Wayfarer’s face. “I am a Scion. I served the House Telarion for sixty cycles. I can manage most… anomalies.” At the word ‘Scion,’ Kaelan’s breath hitched. His body tensed, every muscle coiling. A being from his mother’s warnings, the silent threat she’d spoken of… But the tension quickly ebbed. No malice, no avarice gleamed in the man’s eyes. Only a quiet resolve. Kaelan slowly relaxed. “Is something amiss, artificer?” “It’s just… my first time meeting a Scion. But you don’t look as if you’ve served for sixty cycles.” “Aetheric manipulation slows the decay of the flesh, extends the lifespan beyond ordinary measure. I am seventy-five cycles this year. For a Scion, this is an advanced age, but the Arch-Artificers can easily live for two, three hundred cycles.” Kaelan stared, studying the man, a being of the same hidden kind as himself. Outwardly, the Wayfarer was indistinguishable from any hardy tunnel-dweller. A sturdy frame, a healthy glow from beneath the grime, perhaps… but nothing that screamed ‘Aether-wielder.’ This was vital. This meant that Kaelan, standing in the bustling thoroughfares of a city-state, could remain unseen. As long as he refrained from overt display, his secret remained his own. One of the invisible, constricting bands around his chest loosened, just a fraction. “To be a Scion… it is truly incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all. I believe those like you are far more so. To carve out a life in such a raw place, where creatures like the Lurker appear, without reliance on Aetheric power? I could not imagine it.” Contrary to the man’s assumption, this was the first significant threat from a Lurker in Kaelan’s lifetime. Had it been otherwise, his mother, despite her strength, could not have raised him in this desolate crevice. In truth, his mother, who had nurtured him here with no secret powers to aid her, was the one truly deserving of admiration. “Now that I think on it, I never introduced myself. My name is Keorn. Keorn of Telarion—or, perhaps, simply Keorn the Wanderer, now. And you, artificer?” “I am Kaelan. The sole artificer of this crevice.” “A fine name.” “You mentioned ‘served’ House Telarion. Do you no longer?” “I officially severed my vassal contract a cycle past. The House offered me comfort until my final spark, but… I desired to spend my later cycles journeying, seeing the veins. I’d been bound to a single sector since I was hired at fifteen cycles.”

A Spark in the Deep