A singular silence settled over Kaelen’s small chamber. Deep Foragers, who usually snored and shifted in the adjoining bunks, had not returned. Last cycle’s Chthonic Tremor, or perhaps the subsequent Rock-Grasper ambush, had claimed another crew. Kaelen felt a cold, familiar pang. Loss was an endemic echo in Deepfall. He pushed away the heavy hides, rising from the stone slab. No lingering fatigue weighed his limbs, only a vibrant hum beneath his skin. Awakening had changed him, not just granted him power, but refined his very being. His senses, once dulled by the ceaseless grind of survival, now tasted the subtle vibrations of Aethelgard’s bedrock, a faint, rhythmic pulse that spoke of the city’s ancient resilience. Stretch-taut muscles felt ready, imbued with an unfamiliar energy. Hunger, though, was a persistent gnaw. He had not eaten a proper meal since the last surface-ward run, days ago. A growing unease stirred within him; the raw power in his bones demanded sustenance, but also purpose. Through the narrow passages, Kaelen ventured into Aethelgard’s Undercroft. Here, the city breathed, a sprawling cavern of makeshift stalls and temporary shelters carved into the living rock. Luminary crystals, embedded in strategic formations overhead, cast a soft, unwavering glow, painting the faces of early risers in hues of pale silver and deep violet. Market stalls stood mostly shuttered, silent monuments to the slumbering populace. Most Deep Foragers, those who delved into the Deep Veins for precious materials, carried rations for weeks. Reaching the richest seams could take days of crawling, burrowing, and blasting. Resurfacing daily is a luxury few could afford, an unforgivable waste of precious time. Lives spent in the dark, chasing faint glimmerings of Deep Shards, felt like a slow descent. Kaelen’s unique connection to the rock, his ability to *feel* the earth’s deep currents, could easily lead him down such a path. He needed to master it, shape it, or risk becoming another tool in the vast, unforgiving mines. Information was his current quarry. Tales whispered in hushed tones could guide, but Kaelen trusted only what the bedrock revealed, or what his own eyes verified. A habit forged in the desolate fringes of the Core, where truth was often buried deeper than any Deep Shard. A savory scent, rich and oily, cut through the damp, earthy air. It drew him to a small, unassuming stall tucked away in a shadowed alcove. An old man, his face a roadmap of deep-set wrinkles, tended a brazier. Sparks flew as he turned skewers over glowing embers, their rich aroma clinging to the humid air. Spectacles, one lens spiderwebbed with cracks, perched precariously on his nose, giving him an odd, wise-owl appearance. Thall, a legend muttered in the Undercroft, supposedly knew every secret the deep held. Kaelen settled onto a rough-hewn stool. “Meat, old man?” Kaelen’s voice, rough from disuse, was softer than he intended. “Wouldn’t do to ask too many questions, boy.” Thall’s grin revealed a few missing teeth. Sparks danced in his eyes. Kaelen nodded, taking a skewer. He remembered stories of surface beasts, long extinct, their meat a distant dream. Down here, 'meat' could mean anything that scuttled, burrowed, or nested in the forgotten passages. He bit into the hot, greasy flesh. Surprisingly rich, a deep, earthy flavor. Through his broken lens, Thall’s gaze sharpened. “New face in the Undercroft. Arrived yesterday, didn’t you?” “Just arrived. The meat’s good.” Kaelen chewed, feeling the warmth spread through his empty stomach. “Yesterday. So, the survivor of the last Deep Tremor. News travels faster than a rockfall in these tunnels.” Thall chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. Kaelen’s jaw tightened. News spread, yes. His gift, his *presence*, vibrated within the deep, too. “No secrets down here, boy. Not even the shade of your under-hides. Come next cycle, everyone will have heard.” Thall flipped another skewer. “A lone prospector, with little but the clothes on his back, yet survived a Tremor that swallowed a full crew. You’ll find many eyes watching.” “I’m no prospector.” Kaelen set his skewer down. “Came to understand this place. To find a use for my strength.” “Strength?” Thall raised a bushy eyebrow. “You come to the Deep Veins, where strength is measured in pickaxe swings and grit, with empty hands? No resonant pick. No deep-sense focus. You call that prepared?” Thall’s words, sharp as newly broken quartz, pricked at Kaelen. He had no need for such tools; his hands *were* the tools. Yet, the old man saw only absence. “You’ve been here a long time, old man?” Kaelen shifted the subject. “Since the first Deep Shard was pulled from the Veins.” Thall gestured with a greasy hand to the back of his stall. “Old-timer, they call me. All that… accumulated since the beginning.” Behind Thall, a cluttered mound of forgotten objects glinted faintly in the luminary light. Broken tools, tarnished trinkets, cracked geode fragments. A graveyard of aspirations. “New arrivals,” Thall continued, his voice softer, “they resist the Veins. They sell what they have, little by little. Worthless trinkets first, then their last precious memory. Until nothing remains but the choice to descend, or starve.” Thall’s gaze settled on Kaelen, unnervingly knowing. “The useful finds, they go to the Core. The rest, these scraps, they’re the husks left by the desperate. Heh.” A mirthless sound. Suddenly, the succulent meat in Kaelen’s mouth tasted like dust. He swallowed, forcing it down. Rising, Kaelen pushed two fingers into his pouch. “How much for the skewer?” “Ten Lumen-dust motes.” Thall stated, unblinking. Kaelen’s jaw dropped. “Ten? For one skewer of… unknown meat?” Even in the Upper Spires, such a price would be a scandal. One Lumen-dust mote represented a sliver of refined crystal, a day’s meager ration. Thall merely shrugged, turning another skewer. “Precious, everything is, down here. Food, light, even a fresh breath of air. That’s how it is.” “What if I refuse?” Kaelen’s voice hardened, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist. Across the market, three other stall owners, previously obscured in shadow, turned. Their eyes, like pinpricks of light, fixed on Kaelen, sharp and unyielding. Thall’s quiet power in this desolate corner became chillingly clear. He was no mere vendor; he was the Undercroft’s silent arbiter. ‘I misjudged this place,’ Kaelen thought, a cold awareness settling in his gut. Refusal meant isolation, an instant pariah in a place where connection meant survival. “Seems you’re not entirely without wit.” Thall’s dry chuckle seemed to echo the shopkeepers’ unspoken warning. “Some blunder about, learn the hard way.” “I don’t have that kind of Lumen-dust on me.” Kaelen grimaced, searching for another angle. “Not on you, perhaps.” Thall’s gaze flickered to Kaelen’s hip, where a faint resonance lingered. “But a Deep Shard, now. That, you might have. I’d give you a fair price.” His voice held a silken edge. Kaelen felt a prickle of alarm. Thall’s knowledge of the Deep Shard, carefully hidden, was unnerving. He had acquired it from a collapsed vein, a potent, raw fragment he intended to study, to understand his own power. To surrender it for a single meal… “That rumor, about you carrying a raw Deep Shard, it would drift through these tunnels faster than the exhaust vents clear stale air. You think you could keep it safe then?” Thall’s words were quiet, but their weight felt immense. They were not a question. Kaelen glared, a hot surge of defiance warring with cold reason. He had faced many dangers, but this old man, with his broken glasses and knowing eyes, felt more ancient, more deeply rooted than any beast of the deep. Compared to Thall, Kaelen felt like a fledgling, an echo in the vast, silent rock. Defeat tasted bitter. He reached inside his tunic, pulling out a small, jagged fragment of dark, resonant stone. It pulsed faintly, even in his palm. Thall’s eyes, behind the cracked lens, sharpened, a predatory glint. “Ah. That one. Worth about a hundred Lumen-dust motes, I’d say.” “Hundred?” Kaelen’s voice cracked. “In the Upper Spires, that would fetch three times that, easily!” “This isn’t the Upper Spires, boy.” Thall stated, his voice flat. “Is this truly happening?” Kaelen whispered, the words catching in his throat. His struggles, his journey, his very purpose, suddenly felt hollowed out. “A treasure, without the strength to guard it, becomes a burden, not a boon.” Thall’s lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. “Heh.” Kaelen wanted to strike him. To shatter the old man’s knowing smirk, to feel the bedrock reverberate with his rage. But the invisible web of power Thall commanded, the silent threat of the watching shopkeepers, held him fast. Subduing the old man would be trivial, but the cost, he knew, would be catastrophic. The Guardians of the Veins, the powerful Stone-Speakers who maintained order, would come for him. Sighing, Kaelen handed over the Deep Shard. It felt like giving up a piece of himself. “Heh. Not so grim, boy. I’m no cutthroat. I won’t bleed a newcomer dry.” Thall offered a small, woven pouch. “Here. Ninety Lumen-dust motes. Keep them close. These tunnels hold many nimble fingers.” “A claw showing concern for the cub it just swindled,” Kaelen muttered, pocketing the pouch. The small weight felt heavy, burdened by his forced transaction. Thall chuckled, then gestured with his chin towards the mound of junk behind him. “As a gesture of our first… transaction, choose an item from that pile. On the house.” “That junk?” Kaelen scoffed. Worthless leavings of forgotten lives. What possible value could be found there? Thall merely shrugged, amusement plain on his wrinkled face. “If you prefer not to…” Kaelen felt a surge of irrational stubbornness. He wouldn’t simply walk away empty-handed, leaving the old man with the last laugh. He strode over, rummaging through the dusty, forgotten heap. “Nothing but cast-offs. What am I supposed to take?” Kaelen grumbled, kicking at a rusted pick-head. Thall watched, a faint smile playing on his lips. Kaelen’s raw, untamed energy, so different from the broken spirits that usually wandered through, was almost endearing. He showed no sign of resignation, only stubborn, youthful indignation. Then, Kaelen’s fingers brushed against something smooth, cold, and strangely resistant to the deep’s corrosive dampness. He pulled it free. A small hourglass, its glass casing perfectly preserved, the fine sand within a muted gray. It was utterly useless in a city where time was marked by Luminary cycles and geological shifts, not by falling grains. “An hourglass?” Thall’s amusement deepened. “No one ever took that. Always left it behind.” “No one would. It’s a decoration.” Kaelen held it up. “But it’s whole. More than I can say for most of this scrap.” Kaelen exited the stall, the small hourglass clutched in his hand, its silent flow a mocking reminder of the time he’d just lost. A profound sense of annoyance warred with the faint hum of the Deep Shard, now gone from his possession. He would find another, stronger. He would learn. “Come back sometime, boy.” Thall’s voice drifted after him. “We’ll cross paths again, I imagine,” Kaelen retorted, a growl in his chest. “A rather unfortunate imagination, that…” Thall’s low chuckle followed Kaelen down the tunnel. Kaelen stopped, turning back once more. “Old Man Thall,” Kaelen stated, the name feeling solid in his mouth. “Let’s not.” Then, Kaelen walked on, the rhythmic thrum of Aethelgard’s bedrock a silent companion against his rage. Thall watched him go, a knowing smile slowly spreading across his face. The boy, he mused, carried a deep stone, indeed. One that would eventually crack the surface of this world, or shatter within its depths.

The Dealer of Deep Whispers