Eight years prior, during the brutal turn of winter, Kaelen had felt it. He was barely ten, bundled in worn woolens, watching his mother mend a tear in the sheepfold. His fingers, numb with cold, traced a hairline crack in a nearby stone, wishing for warmth. A faint hum vibrated through the earth, a resonance Kaelen had never noticed before. The crack beneath his touch deepened, stretching like a spiderweb. A patch of frost-bitten moss, struggling in the frigid air, suddenly unfurled a vibrant green, impossibly fresh. He watched, eyes wide, as a thin seam of gold light pulsed just beneath the stone’s surface. It was not fire, not electricity, but something deeper, a vital pulse of the world itself. He found he could *feel* it, a current running through everything. Moving a rock, urging a wilted sapling to reach for the sun, even just sensing the subtle paths of subterranean water—he found he could accomplish these things with little more than a focused thought. Not grand displays, but a quiet, foundational manipulation. “Mother, look!” That evening, as his mother returned with the flock and their shaggy guard dog, Kaelen excitedly showed her a handful of pebbles he had subtly arranged into a perfect spiral, each stone still warm to the touch. The moss from earlier, now glowing softly, sat in his palm. His mother did not marvel. Her gaze, usually sharp with resilience, softened into something close to dread. She simply reached out, gently sweeping the moss and stones back to their inert state. “Kaelen, we must make a promise. Promise you will never use this… connection… carelessly. Especially never in sight of others.” “But why?” Kaelen had always been an obedient child, but this newfound perception was fascinating, a thrilling secret. To suppress it felt wrong. His mother warmed a cup of sheep’s milk over the hearth. For the first time, she spoke of the world far beyond their lonely ridge, of the Iron Spire Hegemony that sprawled across the land. “Below, Kaelen, there are the Hegemony Scions.” These Scions, she explained, were the heirs of the ancient bloodlines, said to have descended from figures of myth. They governed the vast empire, their power rooted not in open magic, but in their engineered might, their towering steam-driven mechanisms, and their absolute authority over the primal currents they called 'ley lines'. Among them, those born of diluted blood, or those who merely sensed the currents rather than commanded them, were designated as Regulators. These individuals served the Scions, their subtle perceptions used to maintain order, to track anomalies, or to enforce the Hegemony’s suppression of unbridled power. Kaelen’s mother believed he had inherited such a connection from his father, a man she rarely spoke of. She warned him: if the Hegemony found him, he would be taken, his connection harnessed, his life enslaved. “If the Scions are the engineers of the world, then the Regulators are their instruments. Sometimes, they might be treated with a semblance of esteem… but they can also be discarded, or used as a means to an end, whenever the Hegemony demands.” The Scions, with all their power, constantly jockeyed for more. In their subtle conflicts, Regulators were often the first to be sacrificed, pushed into situations where their unique perceptions offered an edge, but at great personal cost. It was like a Hegemony Overseer sending a lone surveyor into an unstable excavation, while they remained safely above, directing from their control room. Her face, as she spoke, held a desolation Kaelen had never witnessed before. “Kaelen, do you wish to stay with your mother, here, for a long, long time?” “Yes.” “Then you must hide this connection. Or the Hegemony will find you. They will take you away, and you will never see me again.” “I promise! I won’t let anyone see!” Eight years had passed since Kaelen made that solemn vow. Even after his mother succumbed to the winter fever, he continued to live on the desolate ridge, tending his small flock. He avoided the Hegemony scouts, refusing to become their instrument. --- “Fools.” Kaelen shut the cabin door with a resonant thud. Before dawn had painted the eastern sky, a group of young men from the valley settlement had come, belligerent, accusing him of old Elara’s death a few days prior. Evidence of a wildling cat’s attack lay stark for anyone to see—the claw marks on the gnarled oak, the scattered fur. Yet they insisted Kaelen had somehow lured the old woman, then abandoned her as bait. Absurd claims, fueled by spite. He knew their true motives. His quiet independence, his success with the sheep where their own flocks often dwindled, bred resentment. They sought to diminish him, to assert some petty dominance. Of course, Kaelen had dealt with them. He wasn't one for elaborate displays, but a swift, precise shove, a well-placed trip, and a glare that promised worse, usually sufficed. They’d scattered, nursing bruised egos and perhaps bruised ribs. Later, when he went to the settlement for barter, they would try to shortchange him, or claim his wool was tainted. Kaelen would simply ensure their dealings were fair, perhaps with another well-aimed glare, or the subtle weight of his hand on a ledger. An annoying, predictable cycle he had long grown accustomed to. Lost in thought, a sudden, firm rap echoed against his door. Kaelen sighed, a slow release of breath. He flung the door open, his voice a low growl. “Who is it now? Have you forgotten your lesson?” Surely their memories weren’t so short, their bravado so quickly returned? However, the figure beyond the threshold was not one of the braying youths. A man stood there, seemingly in his late forties, cloaked in dust-stained travel wear. An awkward smile touched his lips. “Ah… my apologies, young friend. I am a traveler. I sought a night’s shelter, but it seems I’ve chosen an inopportune moment.” A traveler. Kaelen, in his eighteen years, had never encountered such a person. His mind momentarily seized. Who, in their right mind, would leisurely visit this desolate stretch of land? Kaelen, momentarily stiffened, stepped aside, gesturing the man inside. “No, not at all. Please, enter. Just some unpleasant villagers, nothing more.” The formal tone, ingrained from his mother’s lessons for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken like this? It must have been before he’d discovered the true, grasping nature of the valley folk. “If you’ll permit me, then.” Truthfully, to maintain his seclusion, Kaelen should have turned the stranger away. Yet, he allowed the man in. It had been so long since he’d spoken with someone without suspicion or hostility, that even a brief, peaceful conversation appealed to him. Besides, if the man proved malicious, Kaelen felt confident he could handle him. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Nor have I. Please, join me.” Kaelen gestured the traveler to his small, sturdy table. He laid out freshly churned ewe’s milk, a block of aged cheese, a bowl of grain porridge from the last market trip, a shard of rock salt, and strips of dried lamb. His mother’s lessons dictated that guests, even unexpected ones, must be treated with utmost hospitality. Only then would they feel indebted, and perhaps less inclined to mischief. “A poor offering for a guest, I’m afraid.” “Poor? This is a feast! My thanks for your generosity.” The man ate with an earnest hunger, as if he hadn’t seen a decent meal in days. His words didn't seem empty. Even as he ate, the traveler displayed manners Kaelen had never observed among the villagers—chewing silently, turning his head slightly when drinking. Perhaps the traveler noticed Kaelen’s own quiet decorum. After a sip of milk, he offered a remark. “You possess a certain grace at table. Your parents taught you well.” “My mother taught me.” Noticing the absence of a mention of his father, the traveler paused. “And… is your mother in the settlement? This cabin seems sized for one.” He must have noted the single cot. Kaelen nodded, his voice level. “She passed from illness a few years ago.” A flicker of sorrow crossed the traveler’s face. He bowed his head slightly, making a peculiar gesture with his hand Kaelen had never seen. “My deepest condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she must surely reside now in the highest reaches, among the Architects.” “I hope so too.” When he first lost her, merely thinking of his mother had stolen his appetite, brought on a storm of grief. To speak of it now, with only a quiet ache in his chest—was it because he had aged? Or had time truly dulled her living presence in his heart? Kaelen, feeling a sudden, unwelcome gloom, steered the conversation. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?” “I passed through a city recently. Heard an old merchant lamenting a wildling cat, one larger than usual, had taken up residence near his village. He sought an individual with… a certain aptitude… to handle it. I decided to oblige. I possess some skill in such matters.” “Alone?” A middle-aged man, not yet past his prime but certainly not in the bloom of youth, facing a territorial beast without so much as a hunting rifle? Kaelen’s astonished look drew an awkward smile from the traveler. “I am a Regulator. I served a Hegemony Guild for sixty years. Most wild creatures, even those with a touch of the primal currents, pose little threat.” Regulator. Kaelen’s eyes widened, his body stiffening. A being from his mother’s warnings, the instruments of the Scions. His tension, however, was brief. Kaelen sensed no malice in the man’s weary gaze, only a quiet resolve. His rigid posture eased. “Is something amiss?” “It’s just… my first time meeting a Regulator. But more, you do not look as one who has served for sixty years.” “Those with a connection to the currents age slower, live longer than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five cycles this year. For a Regulator, I am merely experienced. I’ve heard the true Scions can live for two or three centuries.” Learning this, Kaelen quietly observed the man, a distant reflection of his own nature. Outwardly, the Regulator was indistinguishable from any healthy, robust man. A sturdy build, a weathered face, a steady gaze. There were no obvious signs, no tell-tale marks of his unique perception. This was immensely important. It meant Kaelen, too, could stand in the bustling central markets, his own senses humming with primal currents, and remain unseen. As long as he withheld any overt manipulation, his identity would remain hidden. A subtle tremor of relief, like a deep-seated ley line shifting, moved through him. A silent chain, binding his chest for years, seemed to loosen. “To be a Regulator, it is truly… incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all! I find folk like you far more remarkable. To endure such a harsh existence, where wildlings appear, without the aid of primal perception? I could not imagine it.” In truth, this was the first truly dangerous wildling Kaelen had known to appear in the region since his birth. Had it been otherwise, his mother, despite her resilience, could never have survived here, alone with her child. It was she, Kaelen thought, who truly deserved praise. “Now that I think on it, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Kaeron. Kaeron of the Obsidian Guild—or perhaps, no longer of it. Call me Kaeron the Wanderer. And you?” “I am Kaelen. The sole shepherd of this ridge.” “A fine name.” “You mentioned serving a Guild. You no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially ended a month ago. The Guild offered to see me through my remaining cycles, but… I wished to spend my later years in movement. I had been bound to a single Guild branch since I was hired at fifteen.” ---

The First Ripple