Eight years had carved their mark since the winter Kaelen turned ten. That was when the stillness shattered, when the forgotten language stirred within his bones. His mother had left with the stone-horn goats, their bleats fading into the biting mountain air. Kaelen, chilled to the marrow, simply wished for a warmer hearth. From the ancient stones of the fire pit, a lick of blue flame erupted. Not woodsmoke, but something raw, primal, coiling into the air. The smell of ozone stung his nose. Moments later, he understood. A whisper in his mind, a hum beneath his skin. He could speak to the world. He pulled a shard of slate from the floor, watching it levitate, twitching like a trapped bird. He urged a gust of wind to dance through the cabin, rattling the dry leaves stuffed into the wall cracks. From his palm, a spark of pure light bloomed, then dissolved. His breath hitched. “Mother, look!” That evening, Kaelen tried to show her. He made the kindling hover, a silent, clumsy bird in the lamplight. His face glowed with a child’s unfiltered wonder. His mother, wind-chapped and weary from the high pastures, did not smile. Her eyes, usually warm like embers, were shadowed with a deep, crushing weariness. She reached for the floating wood, her fingers trembling. Her face was a landscape of resignation Kaelen had never seen. “Kaelen, listen closely. This… this power. Promise me you will never use it carelessly. Never, ever, in front of another soul.” “Why?” He had always been a quiet boy, obedient. But this newfound marvel, this vibrant hum in his veins, chafed against the sudden command to bury it. A frown creased his brow. She warmed a cup of goat’s milk. For the first time, his mother spoke of the world beyond Cragfall Ridge, the vast valleys below their isolated dwelling. “Down below, Kaelen, there are Arbiter Lords.” She said the Arbiter Lords were born from the Ancients, the ones who shaped this world before the Sundering. Their blood carried potent magics, and they ruled as both keepers and masters of all folk. Others, born from the mingling of Arbiter blood and common folk, were called Oathbound Sentinels. They also held power, but it was lesser, tethered. They served. They were tools. “Your father,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “he was an Oathbound Sentinel. You carry that blood. If you ever descend the mountains, the Arbiter Lords will find you. They will take you. You will become their servant.” “An Arbiter Lord is like a shepherd,” she continued, stirring the milk. “And an Oathbound Sentinel is like the hound they raise. Sometimes, they might pet it, call it family. But they will sell it. Or sacrifice it, if the need arises.” The Arbiter Lords held everything, yet always craved more. Their conflicts were endless, their greed boundless. In those wars, it was always the Sentinels who were cast into the fray, broken and spent. Like a shepherd sending a dog to fight wolves, while they themselves stood safely behind the crags, throwing pebbles from a distance. Her face, etched in the firelight, showed a desolation that tightened Kaelen’s throat. A profound, ancient grief. “Kaelen, do you wish to live with your mother for a long, long time?” “Yes.” “Then you must hide this power. Always. Otherwise, the bad Arbiter Lords will come. They will take you. You will never see me again.” “Okay. I promise. I won’t use it. Not ever, in front of anyone.” Eight years had passed since that promise, a silent vow whispered under the towering peaks. Even after her cough grew ragged, after the cold claimed her, Kaelen kept the promise. He lived alone on Cragfall Ridge, tending the stone-horn goats, the wind his only companion. He avoided the valley, avoided the Arbiter Lords. He would not become their hound. --- “Fools.” Kaelen slammed the heavy oak door of his cabin. The morning air, thin and sharp, bit at his skin. Before dawn had truly painted the eastern sky, a group of young men from the settlement below had come, their faces twisted with suspicion. Old Man Brand, they said, found dead in the eastern pass, his body torn. A Stone-Gore attack, the signs were clear as the jagged peaks themselves. They accused Kaelen. Said he had lured Brand, offered him to the beast. Absurdity, born of ignorance and fear. He knew their game. They sought an excuse to chip away at his meagre holdings, to lower the value of his traded furs or goat’s milk when he next ventured down. His fists had spoken. He’d sent them scrambling, their boasts turning to whimpers. They would return, of course, their petty resentments festering. It was a familiar, grating rhythm he had long since accepted. Lost in thought, a sudden, heavy knock rattled the door frame. *Thump. Thump. Thump.*. Kaelen let out a slow, deliberate breath, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Who now? Do you crave more than a bruised jaw?” Surely, their memory wasn’t so short. Not after the lesson he’d just dealt. But the man standing outside was no villager. He was tall, mid-forties, his cloak thick with road dust. A cautious, almost apologetic smile creased his weathered face. “Forgive my intrusion, young friend. A traveler, I am. Seeking shelter for a night. But perhaps… I’ve arrived at an ill moment.” A traveler. Kaelen’s mind, accustomed to the unchanging rhythm of the mountains, froze. In his eighteen years, he had never seen such a person. Who would willingly journey to this forgotten corner of the Sundered Peaks? After a beat, Kaelen stepped aside. “No, not at all. Come in. Merely… some unpleasantries with the valley folk.” The formal words, taught by his mother for addressing elders, felt strange on his tongue. When had he last used them? Before he learned that most folk, Brand included, were merely lesser shadows. “My thanks, then.” The traveler moved with an easy grace, brushing dust from his cloak. Kaelen knew he should turn away a stranger, keep his solitude inviolate. Yet a part of him, starved for quiet conversation, yearned for it. And if this man held ill intent, Kaelen knew he could handle it. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Nor have I. Join me.” Kaelen motioned to the small, rough-hewn table. He laid out what little he had: a chunk of dried stone-horn jerky, hard-baked root bread, a wedge of goat cheese, and a bowl of fresh, thick milk from the morning’s yield. His mother had taught him: treat a guest with the utmost courtesy. Then, they would less likely think to harm you. “It is little, I know. Cragfall Ridge offers meager bounty.” “Little? This is a feast! My sincerest gratitude for your generosity.” The man ate with an earnest hunger, as if days had passed since his last meal. But even so, he observed courtesies Kaelen had rarely seen among the valley folk. He did not speak with a full mouth. He turned his head slightly when he drank. Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar in Kaelen’s own movements. After a long draught of milk, he spoke softly. “You know the Old Ways, young man. Your parents taught you well.” “My mother taught me.” The traveler’s eyes lingered, sensing the omission of his father. A brief hesitation, then a gentle inquiry. “And… is your mother in the settlement? This cabin seems… singular.” He must have noticed the single bed, the sparse belongings. Kaelen nodded, his voice steady. “She passed some years ago. The mountain claimed her.” The traveler’s face softened. He bowed his head, making a small, intricate gesture with his hand Kaelen didn’t recognize. “My deepest condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she must surely walk among the blessed Ancients.” “I hope so.” There was a time, not long after, when the thought of her would send a wave of desolate grief through him, stealing his appetite, bringing raw tears. Now, he could speak of it, even smile faintly. Was it time? Had his own hardening heart dulled the edge of sorrow? A sudden gloom threatened to settle. Kaelen forced himself to shift the subject. “What brings you to these remote heights, good sir?” “I was passing through a lower settlement. An old trapper spoke of a Stone-Gore, hunting higher than usual. Taking their goats, threatening their path through the passes. He sought someone skilled. I offered my services.” “Alone?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed. The man seemed sturdy, but not a warrior. A Stone-Gore was a formidable, rock-skinned beast. “No weapon?” The traveler offered an awkward chuckle. “I am an Oathbound Sentinel. I served House Ironpeak for sixty years. I can handle most beasts well enough.” At the word ‘Sentinel,’ Kaelen tensed, his body rigid. The beings his mother had warned him against, the servants of the Arbiter Lords. But the man’s eyes held no malice, no threat. The tension slowly bled from Kaelen’s shoulders. “Is something amiss?” “Only… it’s my first time meeting an Oathbound Sentinel. But more than that, you don’t look to have served sixty years.” “We Sentinels age slower, live longer than common folk. I am seventy-five winters old. For a Sentinel, this is but middle age. I’ve heard powerful Arbiter Lords can live two, three hundred years.” Kaelen felt a surge of awe. He studied the man, this kindred spirit, someone of his own kind. Outwardly, the man seemed little different from any other weathered mountain man. A robust frame, a healthy glow. This meant… his power wasn’t visible. He could stand in a bustling market, among a thousand souls, and no one would know. As long as he kept his abilities hidden, he was just… Kaelen. A profound lightness spread through his chest. A chain, unseen and heavy, had just been loosened. “To be a Sentinel,” Kaelen said, the words a rough whisper, “it must be… incredible.” “Incredible? No, young Kaelen. I think folk like you are far more so. Living in such a harsh land, where beasts roam, with no reliance on magic? I could scarcely imagine it.” The man misunderstood. This was the first Stone-Gore Kaelen had seen in his life, the first serious threat to human life on Cragfall Ridge. His mother, who had raised a child here without a scrap of magic, she was the truly incredible one. “My apologies,” the traveler said, a genuine smile now touching his lips. “I have not introduced myself. I am Veridian. Veridian, formerly of House Ironpeak, though now… I suppose, Veridian the Wanderer. And you?” “I am Kaelen. Shepherd of Cragfall Ridge.” “A strong name. Fitting for these peaks.” “You said… ‘formerly of House Ironpeak.’ You no longer serve?” “My contract was formally concluded a month past. They offered to keep me, to see me through my twilight years. But I wished to walk the world, to see what lies beyond. I had been tethered to that House since I was hired at fifteen.” Fifteen. To be so young, bound to a life of service. Kaelen watched Veridian, a man who had finally earned his freedom. A quiet hope, fragile as mountain frost, began to stir in Kaelen’s own heart.

Chapter 1: The Weight of Stone and Silence