Deep within the twisting shafts, Kaelan moved with quiet grace. His lamp cast a stuttering circle on the damp rock, revealing veins of glimmering ore and patches of phosphorescent moss. Already, seven Deep-spawn had fallen to his precise strikes this cycle. A familiar thrum echoed through his bones each time he opened a creature’s chitinous shell, drawing the raw Aether from its pulsating core.
It wasn't pleasure, not precisely. More like a profound resonance, a deep, unsettling hum that vibrated through his very being, aligning something ancient within him. It was potent, addictive, a stark reminder of the power he harbored. A faint disappointment flickered. Soon, the lesser creatures would offer less of this intoxicating pull.
He understood the mechanics of his growth. His perception of Aether had sharpened, allowing him to subtly influence its flow, to coax more energy from a beast’s core than before. He felt the fundamental structure of things more acutely. His inner strength, his reserves, had deepened, a quiet reservoir filling within him. Yet, a truth was becoming clear: the meager Aether in these common scuttlers provided diminishing returns. To truly advance, he’d need greater challenges, or entirely new hunting grounds.
Moreover, the tunnels around Iron-Fell wouldn’t sustain an endless harvest. Deep-spawn populations dwindled quickly. Seasoned Tunnel Runners often undertook arduous expeditions, seeking out untapped veins of creatures, or even the fabled elder-beasts.
Kaelan had chosen carefully. Two of the weakest scuttlers, a four-limbed rock-louse with carapaced antennae, and a burrowing grub whose hide shifted colors, were bound tightly with fiber-cord. Their Aetheric signatures were too faint to bother siphoning, but their living forms fetched a bounty. He carried them to the Arbiter’s Bureau.
Scrivener Jorn, a portly man whose spectacles always seemed perched precariously on his nose, peered over a ledger.
“Two, you say?” His eyes widened, glinting under the dim steam-lamps.
“Unharmed, save for a few bumps from capture,” Kaelan stated, his voice low. “Twenty-five Shards, as per the current tariff?”
Jorn’s brow furrowed. “Hmm, well…” He began, a hint of something avaricious in his tone. Kaelan met his gaze with unblinking stillness. The scrivener’s words died in his throat. He pushed a small pouch across the polished slate counter.
“Here you are.”
Such was the simple satisfaction of fair exchange, Kaelan reflected as the pouch clinked in his hand. A different kind of reward than the Aether’s hum, but satisfying nonetheless. Back at the Cog & Kettle Respite, Lyra, the server with a bright, curious gaze, greeted him.
“Kaelan! Back safe, then? Dinner tonight, I imagine? Spiced bread and broth again?”
Kaelan paused. His usual order. The cheapest. He’d earned well today.
“The most expensive dish your kitchen offers,” he decided. The words felt strange on his tongue.
Lyra blinked. “Stars above, you must have struck a rich vein! I’ll tell the cook immediately!”
He hadn’t considered the time it would take. Almost an hour passed, filled with the distant thrum of the city’s steam-pipes and the quiet clatter of the kitchen. When Lyra finally set the platter before him, the wait vanished.
Thick, savory flatbread, still warm from the hearth, slathered with a tart cave-fruit preserve. Roasted cavern-fowl, its skin crisp and glistening with spiced glaze. Ribs of tunnel-boar, piled high, melted cheese bubbling between the bones.
Kaelan, whose life had known mostly gristle-broth and nutrient paste, gazed at the bounty. Each aroma was distinct, complex. He ate. He tore, chewed, savored. Textures, flavors, a symphony of unfamiliar sensations exploded on his tongue. The rich, earthy taste of the fowl, the sweet tang of the preserve, the smoky depth of the boar. He ate until the platter was bare.
“Did… did anyone take anything?” he murmured, blinking at the empty table.
Lyra chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Never seen a quiet one like you put away so much! Don’t worry, it’s all gone straight into you.”
Even the cook, a burly man named Borin, emerged from the kitchen. “A rare sight, that. Seeing someone enjoy the Cavern-Delight with such gusto.” It seemed the dish was ordered infrequently. Kaelan had stumbled upon a new understanding. Food could be more than sustenance. It could be an experience, a crafted pleasure.
---
Three cycles had passed. Kaelan had harvested over thirty Deep-spawn. Only five had qualified for full bounties, but even those had left him with over a hundred Shards. A significant portion he’d exchanged for Glimmer-Coins, easier to store. His Aetheric perception had become astonishingly precise. He could attune to the faintest energetic disturbances, tracking creatures by the subtle ripples they left in the deep earth’s natural Aether flow. He could even perceive the residual Aetheric traces in their droppings, a faint hum marking their recent passage.
While Kaelan prospered, Thorne’s group, the Ash-Hounds, seemed to be floundering. Their faces were perpetually grim, their complaints about dwindling prospects echoing through the common room. They spoke of struggling to pay for their alcoves.
One evening, as Kaelan headed to his own room, two of Thorne’s men, Krill and Fenn, blocked his path. Their fists hung loose, but their eyes were hard.
“Skinny. Heard you’ve been pulling in decent coin,” Krill grunted, stepping closer. “Time to share with your fellow scavengers, eh?”
Kaelan’s response was swift, silent. A precise strike to Krill’s solar plexus, a quick twist to Fenn’s wrist. Less than a minute later, both men lay groaning at the bottom of the spiraling stairs, winded and disoriented.
The commotion drew Thorne. He listened to Krill and Fenn’s garbled accusations, then to Kaelan’s brief, factual account. Thorne’s expression darkened. He turned to Kaelan, a deep bow from the waist.
“My apologies, Kaelan. They will be disciplined. Nothing like this will happen again.”
“Are you finding things difficult?” Kaelan asked. A simple question, direct.
Thorne hesitated, then sighed. “Aye. Prospects are tight. Very tight.”
Thorne and his Ash-Hounds had been mere street-scraps in a sprawling Under-City, two cycles ago. They’d heard tales of Essence-Weavers, those fabled individuals who could draw raw power from the world’s fabric by engaging Deep-spawn. They’d traded their petty thuggery for the hope of power, of a better life. But the Deep-spawn were elusive for ordinary folk. And without the proof of a core, or a particularly grotesque specimen, the Arbiter’s Bureau wouldn’t pay a full bounty. They’d drifted from settlement to settlement, barely surviving on odd jobs, still chasing the elusive promise.
‘Two cycles,’ Kaelan thought. ‘And they’ve barely landed three.’ They were not artisans, not seasoned hunters, merely desperate men. Side jobs meant little time for hunting, a vicious cycle. He began to understand the contempt many officials held for Tunnel Runners, dismissing them as shiftless drifters. Chasing a phantom, while others toiled at their forges and looms. It was a stark contrast.
“Honestly, another three cycles, we’ll be out of our alcoves,” Thorne continued, his gaze distant. “Iron-Fell is too picked over. Not enough work to go around. But don’t worry, we won’t trouble you for coin. After what my lads did, it’d be a disgrace to ask.”
Kaelan reached into his pouch. He pulled out a handful of Shards. Ten of them. Enough for the four Ash-Hounds to secure their alcoves for another few cycles, with some frugal negotiation.
Thorne stared, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“When I first arrived, you offered me a place in your group, concerned for my safety. This is repayment for that kindness.”
Kaelan’s mother had taught him a simple code: give as you receive. Kindness earned kindness. Hostility, a swift response. Thorne’s earlier offer, however brief, had been a genuine gesture. The incident with Krill and Fenn? That had already been settled with quick hands.
“Still, I can’t just…” Thorne began, shaking his head.
“Then give me information,” Kaelan offered. “Tell me about the districts you’ve visited. Anything that might be useful.”
Another lesson learned in the Iron Veins: information held value. His mother had given him a basic understanding of the Under-Cities, the major clans. But the details, the specific hazards, were a blank slate. Thorne’s face brightened at the proposal.
“That’s no trouble at all!”
Thorne had indeed traveled widely. He sketched a rough map on a piece of parchment, detailing nearby industrial districts, listing known Deep-spawn concentrations, and marking territories controlled by reclusive Iron-Bound Clans or volatile Steam-Cult enclaves. This intelligence was invaluable. Kaelan had no desire to wander aimlessly again.
Thorne spoke of forgotten ruins, deep in uncharted shafts, remnants of ancient empires. He mentioned specific Essence-Weaver families who held sway over certain trade routes, their allowances for passage a delicate matter. One detail in particular caught Kaelan’s quiet attention: an Archivist’s Deep, a colossal library in the Spire-City of Oakhaven, relatively close to the northeast.
“Thousands of scrolls, you say?” Kaelan asked, his voice softer than usual.
“That’s what I heard. Never been inside myself. Only Essence-Weavers are permitted entry.”
Kaelan’s mother had taught him to read and write. But books? They were myths in their barren settlement. She would sometimes lament, speaking of stories she wished she could still recall, tales from forgotten scrolls. He had always imagined them as objects of immense, arcane power, repositories of lost wisdom.
And now, a place holding thousands of them, within reach.
“Perhaps one day,” Thorne mused, a wistful look in his eyes. “When we finally become proper Essence-Weavers, we’ll visit it too.”
Kaelan felt a new desire stir within him, deeper than the primal pull of Aether, more profound than the pleasure of fine food. A hunger for knowledge. He yearned to understand this sprawling, subterranean world, to grasp the secrets it held.
“Was this enough?” Kaelan asked, gesturing to the parchment.
“More than enough, Kaelan. Thank you.”
Kaelan had planned to leave Iron-Fell the next cycle. Now, he knew his destination.
---
The following afternoon, as if to mock their brief sense of hope, Kaelan found Krill. He lay slumped against a stalagmite, clutching his gut, blood blooming on his worn tunic. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged. Death was already in his eyes.
“What happened?” Kaelan knelt, scanning the immediate area. His Aetheric perception hummed with violent echoes.
“A… a Grim-Fell Scuttler… monstrous…” Krill rasped, a cough tearing through him.
“Thorne?”
Krill weakly lifted a hand, pointing deeper into the tunnel. “Over there…”
Kaelan saw it then. A familiar tuft of rough, dark hair, detached, lying amidst shattered rock. Thorne. His body lay twisted, eyes wide, fixed in a stare of incredulous horror. Two other Ash-Hounds, Krill’s companions, were gruesomely torn apart nearby. Their forms were half-buried in displaced earth.
Then Kaelan saw the creature. A rabbit-like beast, no larger than a child’s arm, but horrifically mutated. Its fur was matted, dark as dried blood. Its incisors, long and jagged, nearly scraped the ground. Hind legs, disturbingly muscular, bunched under its coiled body. It was chewing something, a wet tearing sound, before it lifted its head. Blood-red eyes locked onto Kaelan. The air crackled with raw, untamed Aether. It coiled, then launched itself with terrifying speed.
“Ugh!” Kaelan flung himself aside. The creature, a blur of red and dark fur, shot past him, slamming into a thick rock pillar. Not stopping, its terrible incisors sliced through the stone with a sickening *crack*, sending shivers through Kaelan’s bones. The pillar groaned, then toppled. It was too dangerous to risk a direct approach. Kaelan reached for his small pouch. He drew out a palm-sized chunk of refined ore, perfectly dense. He centered his will, pouring his Aether into it, making the stone hum with focused power. His slingshot, a simple sheepskin and iron-wood tool, was already in his hand.
He aimed.