Eight years prior, during the winter young Alaric Thorne had seen ten seasons, an unfamiliar power stirred within him. His mother was out tending the small flock of aether-goats. Alaric, bundled against the creeping cold, had simply wished for a flicker of warmth in their barren hearth. No kindling had been laid, no ember stirred. Yet, a faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated through the cabin. A wisp of grey ash in the grate began to glow, then pulse, radiating a gentle heat that chased the chill from the air. He watched, mesmerized. Soon, Alaric learned he could coax such things into being with little more than a thought. The worn wooden ladle levitated, spinning slowly as if held by an invisible hand. A dried sprig of winterbloom, long dead, unfurled a single, vibrant petal. The faint zephyr that always whistled through the gaps in their cabin walls could be urged into a soft, steady breeze or hushed completely. He felt the very grain of existence, pliant beneath his nascent will. “Mother, look! The water is steaming without a fire!” That evening, Alaric, bright-eyed and brimming with the giddy thrill of discovery, demonstrated his abilities to his mother. She had returned, her face etched with the biting wind, the faithful sheepdog, Bramble, padding at her heels. Her gaze, however, held neither marvel nor joy. As the kettle, warmed by an unseen force, began to sing, a profound weariness settled upon her features. Her hand, calloused from years of toil, reached out to still the kettle. Resignation, deep and suffocating, clouded her eyes. “Alaric,” she spoke, her voice a hushed whisper, “we must make a promise. Promise you will never use this power carelessly. Never, especially, in front of others.” “Why?” Alaric, usually a quiet, obedient child, felt a childish pout tug at his lips. To suppress such an enthralling, vital part of himself felt like a cruel injustice. His mother poured him a mug of warm aether-goat’s milk. For the first time, she spoke of the world that lay far beyond their solitary dwelling in Aethel Copse, down in the grand, decaying city of Veridia. “Down below,” she began, “there are the Archons of the Church.” She explained that the Church of Illumination claimed dominion over all, having purged the world of ancient magic, rebranding it as ‘Corruption.’ They preached that only their divine light was pure. Yet, within the Church’s gilded walls existed those who wielded a sanctioned, weaker form of this power. These were the Wardens, serving the Archons and the Church. They were the hounds of the Shepherd. His mother explained Alaric had inherited a forbidden power from his father, a power closer to the ancient sources the Church demonized. She warned him that if he ever descended the copse, the Archons would find him. They would see his power as a threat, or worse, as a tool to be broken and bent to their will. He would be forced into servitude, a weapon to be wielded. “If the Archons are like shepherds,” she murmured, her gaze distant, “then Wardens are like the dogs they raise. Sometimes, they might seem cherished, even loved. But they can be sold, or sacrificed, whenever the need arises.” Such individuals, even those within the Church, constantly vied for greater influence, greater power. In these silent, ruthless conflicts, it was often the Wardens, the lesser magic-wielders, who bore the brunt. A shepherd, safely behind his flock, might send his hound to face the wolf, throwing stones from a distance. As she spoke, her face held a desolation Alaric had never witnessed. A bleakness that sank into his young heart. “Alaric, do you want to live with Mother for a long, long time?” “Yes,” he breathed. “Then you must hide that power. If you don’t, the Archons will come. They will take you away. And you will never see me again.” “Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!” Eight years had passed since Alaric, with childish earnestness, made that solemn vow. Even after his mother succumbed to the winter fever, her passing leaving an echoing void in the solitary cabin, Alaric continued his life on the edge of Aethel Copse, tending their small flock. He avoided the settlements, evaded the occasional patrol, refusing to become another cog in the Church’s terrible machine, another hound on their leash. *** “Fools.” Alaric’s lips thinned as he latched the cabin door. Earlier that morning, before the dawn’s first grey light, the village youths had arrived. Their anger, baseless and blustering, focused on the recent disappearance of old Elara, a crotchety spinster from the village. Though the trampled earth and shredded wool clearly bespoke a shadow-beast’s predation, they insisted Alaric had somehow enticed the creature, or worse, offered Elara as bait. Their accusations, absurd and venomous, hung in the frigid air. He knew their motives. Alaric kept to himself, a silent figure on the copse. He was different, and difference bred suspicion, then malice. They sought an excuse to exploit his isolation, to demand greater portions of his harvest or lower prices for his aether-goat cheese during trade. He had sent them scrambling, not with overt displays of power, but with a quiet, menacing stare and a sudden, inexplicable chill in the air that seemed to sap their bluster. The cycle was old, tiresome, but predictable. Lost in thought, a sharp rap echoed through the quiet cabin. *Bang, bang, bang.* Startled, Alaric inhaled slowly. He let out a low sigh before reaching for the door, a growl rumbling in his chest. “Who is it now? Do you seek a colder greeting?” Could their memories truly be so short? Had the fright he’d instilled already faded? However, the figure beyond the weathered wood was not one of the familiar, angry youths. A man stood there, seemingly in his late forties, his cloak dusted with trail grime. A weary smile touched his lips. “Ah… my apologies, young friend. A traveler, I am. Hoping for a moment’s respite, but it seems I’ve chosen an inopportune time.” A traveler. For the first time in his eighteen years, Alaric faced such a person. His mind, usually so precise, momentarily stalled. The sheer audacity of someone venturing so far into this desolate, forgotten corner of Veridia. He took in the man’s features: kind eyes, a slight stoop to his shoulders, but an underlying resilience. Alaric, stiff for a moment, stepped aside. The heavy door swung inward. “No, not at all. Please, come in. Some unpleasant company departed just moments ago.” The formal tone, learned from his mother for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When had he last spoken with such deference? Not since he’d realized the villagers, Elara included, were petty and cruel. It had indeed been a long time. “With your leave, then.” Truthfully, to maintain his carefully constructed anonymity, Alaric should have turned the stranger away. Yet, he invited him in. It had been years since he’d exchanged words with another soul without a wall of hostility rising between them. A flicker of yearning, for even a brief, peaceful conversation, stirred within him. And besides, should the man prove ill-intentioned, Alaric felt a quiet confidence in his ability to handle him. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet, young sir.” “Nor have I. Will you join me?” Alaric gestured the traveler to the small, scarred table. He set out freshly churned aether-goat’s milk, a wedge of pungent cheese, porridge made from dried grains brought from the infrequent village trips, a small lump of rock salt, and dried strips of lamb jerky. His mother’s lessons resonated: *Guests, if treated with utmost hospitality, rarely consider harming their host, unless driven by desperation.*. “It is a poor place, I have little to offer.” “What nonsense! This is a veritable feast! My thanks for the meal.” The man’s gratitude seemed genuine. He ate with an enthusiastic hunger, as if many days had passed since his last proper meal. Even while eating, he displayed manners utterly alien to the crude habits of the villagers. He did not speak with a full mouth. He turned his head slightly when drinking. Small, refined gestures Alaric had never observed outside of his mother’s careful tutelage. The traveler, perhaps noticing Alaric’s own quiet decorum, offered a kind remark after a long sip of the milk. “You possess good manners, young man. Your parents must have raised you well.” “My mother taught me.” The traveler paused, sensing the unspoken absence of a father. He inclined his head gently. “And… is your mother in the village? This house suggests singular occupancy.” He must have noted the single, narrow cot in the corner. Alaric nodded, his voice level. “She passed from illness a few years past.” A fleeting shadow crossed the traveler’s face. He bowed his head, making a peculiar gesture with one hand—a slight curving of the fingers, a touch of thumb to palm. A symbol Alaric had never seen. “My condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she must surely dwell now in the celestial gardens, amongst the blessed.” “I hope so as well.” When his mother had first departed this world, the mere thought of her had brought a choking grief, ruining his appetite, filling his days with silent tears. Now, to speak of it with a faint, polite smile – was this the stoicism of adulthood? Or had the relentless march of time, like a slow grinding stone, simply dulled the keen edge of her absence? A sudden, unexpected gloom threatened to settle. Alaric, forcing it back, changed the subject. “More importantly, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?” “I passed through a nearby settlement,” the traveler explained. “An old man spoke of a shadow-beast, menacing the outskirts, and a longing for someone capable of handling it. Upon hearing his tale, I decided to lend my aid. I am rather proficient in such encounters.” “Alone?” A middle-aged man, not in his physical prime, his back hinting at years of strain, intending to face a magical beast without so much as a proper weapon? Alaric’s astonishment brought an awkward smile to the traveler’s face. “I am a Warden,” he replied. “I served the Order of the Zephyr for sixty years. Most shadow-beasts present little challenge.” At the word ‘Warden,’ Alaric’s eyes widened. His body stiffened, a primal tension seizing him. A being from his mother’s hushed warnings, the servants of the Archons, the wielders of sanctioned magic. The tension was short-lived. He searched the man’s gaze, finding no hostility, only a gentle weariness. Slowly, Alaric relaxed his rigid posture. “Is something amiss?” the traveler asked, perceiving the shift. “It is simply… my first encounter with one of your kind. But more so, you do not appear to have served for sixty years.” “Those touched by the true Light, or even its weaker reflections, age far slower than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five cycles this year. For a Warden, this is my natural pace. I hear powerful Archons can easily live two, three centuries.” This was entirely new information. Alaric observed the man, a kindred spirit in the eyes of the world, though their powers diverged greatly. Outwardly, Kaelen was indistinguishable from any other man of advanced years, save for a certain vigor in his step and a healthy complexion. No glowing eyes, no crackling auras. This was profoundly important. It meant Alaric, too, could walk amidst the crowds of Veridia, as long as his power remained quiescent, invisible. No one would discern his forbidden nature. A profound sense of lightness bloomed within his chest, as if a long-held chain had finally unfastened. “To possess such a gift is truly incredible,” Alaric murmured. “Incredible? Not at all! I find folk like you far more incredible. To live in such a wild, untamed place, where shadow-beasts roam, without relying on any power? I could not imagine such a life.” Contrary to Kaelen’s assumption, this was the first time a truly dangerous shadow-beast had appeared in Aethel Copse in Alaric’s lifetime. Had it been otherwise, his mother, for all her fierce resilience, could not have raised him here, alone and unarmed. It was *her* strength, her simple, unyielding resolve, that truly deserved praise. “Now that I think on it, I neglected introductions. My name is Kaelen. Kaelen of the Zephyr—though, I suppose, I should no longer claim that affiliation. Simply, Kaelen the Wanderer. And you are?” “I am Alaric Thorne. The sole shepherd of Aethel Copse.” “A wonderful name, Alaric.” “You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ an Order. Does that imply you no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially concluded a month ago. The Order offered to care for me until my final breath, but… I wished to spend my later years seeing the world, traveling. I was bound to a single Order since I was hired at the age of fifteen. There is much I have yet to experience.” He sipped his milk, a quiet contentment settling on his features. Alaric, watching him, felt a strange, unfamiliar stir of curiosity. The world, it seemed, was far larger, and perhaps far less rigid, than his mother’s warnings had led him to believe. ---

A Spark in the Ashes