A whisper of earth beneath his bare feet, a tremble in the tall grass. That was how it began, eight years past, when Kaelen saw his tenth winter. The hearth fire, usually a struggle to coax from damp wood, had simply roared to life at his silent yearning, an eager surge of heat. His mother, Mara, was out with the flock that day. Kaelen, alone, stared at the sudden, hungry flames.
Soon, he found he could do more. A loose stone would lift from the path. A breath of air, cool and sharp, would ripple through the small, draughty cabin. Water from the rain barrel would hum, rising a finger's breadth. It felt like a song he'd always known, finally remembered.
“Mara, look!” he’d called that evening, barely able to contain his wonder. A piece of kindling, dry and light, floated above his palm. The old shepherdess, weary from her day on Ember Ridge, paused at the threshold. Her dog, Bramble, let out a soft whine.
No smile graced her lips. No joyous cry. Just a slow, heavy breath that seemed to pull all the light from the cabin. Her hand, gnarled and rough, reached out, not to marvel, but to gently guide the wood back down. A profound weariness etched itself onto her face, something Kaelen had never seen so clearly. Despair, quiet and deep.
‘Kaelen, a promise,’ she’d said, her voice a low murmur. ‘You must promise me you won’t use this. Never, not ever, in front of another soul.’
‘But why?’
He had been a good child, always. He’d listened. But this felt different. This was *him*. A part of him that sang with strange, vibrant energy. To suppress it felt like holding his breath.
Mara warmed a mug of goat’s milk for him, the aroma of burnt sugar and fat filling the small space. For the first time, she spoke of the world beyond Ember Ridge, the distant, gleaming Spires.
‘Far below us,’ she began, ‘live the Arclords. They claim descent from the Primordial Weavers, who shaped our world before the Great Unraveling. They hold great power, Kaelen, a deep, potent command over the world’s threads. They rule as protectors, but also as masters.’
Among them, she explained, were the Bound Ones. Those born of mixed blood, Arclord and common folk. They inherited a lesser flicker of the Weavers’ spark, enough to be useful, but not enough to be free. They served, tethered to the great Arclord Houses.
‘Your father,’ she’d whispered, her gaze fixed on the dancing firelight, ‘he was a Bound One. You carry his legacy.’
She warned him: if he ever descended into the lowlands, the Arclords would sense him. They would claim him, harness his nascent power, and bind him to their service.
‘Think of it, Kaelen, like this,’ she’d said, her voice heavy. ‘The Arclords are shepherds, and the Bound Ones are their dogs. Sometimes, they might be gentle, offer affection. But they can also sell them. Or sacrifice them, should a pack of wolves appear.’
The Arclords, for all their power, squabbled amongst themselves, constantly vying for greater influence. And in those conflicts, the Bound Ones were often the first to be sent into the fray. Just like a shepherd sending his hound to fight a beast, safe behind his own wall of stones.
A raw grief had shadowed her face then, a desolation Kaelen had never known.
‘Kaelen,’ she’d pressed, her eyes suddenly wet, ‘do you wish to live with your Mara, for a long, long time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must hide this power. Else, the Arclords will come. They will take you. And you will never see me again.’
‘I promise! I won’t ever use it where others can see!’
And he had kept that promise. Eight years had passed.
Mara fell ill in the fourth year, a cough that shook her frame, stealing her breath. She faded like a distant star, leaving Kaelen alone on Ember Ridge, the flock his only companions, the secret his constant burden. He learned to herd the sheep, to mend the fences, to live a quiet, solitary life, ever watchful for any sign that might betray him. He avoided the lowlands, the bustling market of Hearthbend, lest an Arclord’s gaze, or worse, a Bound One’s instinct, find him. He would not become their shepherd’s dog.
---
‘Fools.’
Kaelen’s hand tightened on the latch as he pulled his cabin door shut. The morning air, crisp and biting, carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and sheep. Before the sun had even cleared the highest peaks of Ember Ridge, the young men from Hearthbend had arrived. Their faces were flushed with indignation, their voices thick with accusation.
Old Man Elara, from the valley farm, had been found days ago. Torn and scattered, near the edge of the Shrouded Wastes. The tracks of a Gloom-hound, large and predatory, were clear in the frost-hardened earth. Yet, they had come for Kaelen, their minds already made up. He must have killed the elder, they’d insisted, throwing him to the beast as bait. Absurd claims, spun from fear and suspicion.
He knew why they did it. Kaelen was different. Quiet. Alone. An easy scapegoat.
Kaelen hadn't wasted breath arguing. A swift punch, a solid shove, then another, silencing their shouts. They stumbled away, nursing bruised jaws, their courage evaporating like morning mist. They would likely try to cheat him next time he took wool or cheese to the village, lowering prices, tampering with scales. He knew the routine. He would simply smack a few more, reminding them of the true cost of their petty greed. It was an irritating, predictable cycle.
A sharp rap echoed on the door. *Bang. Bang. Bang.*
A slow sigh escaped Kaelen. Had their memories truly dulled so quickly?
‘Who is it now?’ he growled, pulling the door open, his posture coiled. ‘Do you truly wish to test me?’
But the man on his threshold was not one of the familiar, angry faces from Hearthbend.
A stranger stood there, cloaked in dust-stained wool, his face lined with the deep etchings of sun and wind. Mid-forties, perhaps. An awkward smile touched his lips, revealing teeth slightly too long.
‘Ah… my apologies, young friend,’ the man said, his voice soft, unthreatening. ‘A traveler, merely seeking shelter. It seems I’ve chosen an… inopportune moment.’
A traveler. Kaelen’s mind, for a fleeting moment, simply froze. In his eighteen years, he had never seen such a person. Who would journey so far, to such a desolate corner of the world?
He stepped aside from the door, a flicker of an unfamiliar yearning stirring within him.
‘No, not at all,’ Kaelen managed, the words stiff on his tongue, a formality he hadn’t used since Mara had taught him to address elders with respect. ‘Please, come in. Some unpleasant folk were just leaving.’
When was the last time he’d spoken like that? Before he’d learned that Elara, and most of the village elders, were mostly hypocrites and gossips, he supposed. A long time indeed.
‘Thank you kindly, then.’
Logically, Kaelen knew he should drive the man away. A stranger was a risk, a crack in the carefully constructed wall of his solitude. But a deeper part of him, starved for quiet companionship, overruled the caution. He was tired of hostility. Even a brief, peaceful conversation felt like a desperate need.
And if this man proved to have ill intent? Kaelen’s hands, calloused and strong, tightened. He was confident he could handle him.
‘Have you eaten?’ Kaelen asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Nor have I. Join me.’
He motioned the traveler to the small, scarred table. He laid out the meager breakfast: fresh goat’s milk, a wedge of firm cheese, thick porridge made from dried grain, a lump of rock salt, and strips of smoked lamb jerky. Mara’s lessons, deep-set within him, dictated how guests should be treated. Offer hospitality, and they would be less inclined to harm their host.
‘A humble offering,’ Kaelen muttered. ‘This is a poor place.’
‘What nonsense!’ The man chuckled, his eyes bright. ‘This is a feast! My thanks.’
His words were not empty. The man ate with an earnest hunger, as if he hadn’t tasted food in days. Yet, even as he devoured the meal, his manners were impeccable. He chewed in silence, turning his head slightly when he drank from the milk jug. Kaelen had seen no such grace in Hearthbend.
The traveler, perhaps noticing Kaelen’s own quiet politeness, offered a warm observation after a long sip of milk. ‘You know your manners, young man. Your parents taught you well.’
‘My mother.’ Kaelen’s voice was flat.
A brief hesitation from the traveler, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. ‘And… is your mother in the village? This house seems… singular.’
He must have noticed the single cot, the sparse furnishings.
Kaelen nodded, his gaze distant. ‘She passed a few years ago. From the wasting sickness.’
The traveler’s expression softened, a genuine sadness touching his features. He bowed his head, then made a small, unfamiliar gesture with one hand, a brush across his chest.
‘My condolences, young Kaelen. She must dwell now in the Sky Halls, having raised such a fine spirit.’
‘I hope so,’ Kaelen replied, the words a hollow echo.
When Mara had first gone, the mere thought of her had stolen his appetite, brought tears that burned for days. Now, he could speak of it, a faint smile on his lips. Was this what adulthood was? Or had the relentless march of time simply dulled the sharpness of her absence? A sudden, heavy gloom threatened to settle.
Kaelen cleared his throat, changing the subject with practiced ease. ‘More importantly, Master, what brings you to this remote place?’
‘I passed through a town, not far from here, just beyond the foothills,’ the traveler explained. ‘Heard an old farmer weeping about a Gloom-hound, a savage beast, devouring his livestock, threatening his family. He spoke of seeking a… skilled hand, to deal with it. My purpose, then. I am rather confident in such matters.’
‘Alone?’ Kaelen frowned.
A man in his middle years, his back likely aching from long travel, without so much as a hunting spear? Against a Gloom-hound, a creature of shadow and claw? Kaelen’s astonishment brought another awkward smile to the traveler’s face.
‘I am a Bound One. I served House Valerius for sixty years. Most beasts pose little challenge.’
At the word ‘Bound One,’ Kaelen’s blood went cold. His body tensed, every muscle coiling. A being from Mara’s cautionary tales, a servant of the dreaded Arclords, stood before him.
The tension, however, quickly dissipated. The man’s eyes held no malice, only a quiet weariness. Kaelen slowly relaxed.
‘Is something amiss?’ the man asked, a touch of concern in his voice.
‘It’s just… my first time meeting a Bound One,’ Kaelen admitted. ‘And… you do not look as though you’ve served for sixty years.’
‘Ah,’ the man chuckled. ‘We Bound Ones, we age differently. Slower, longer lives than common folk. I am seventy-five summers old this year. And the Arclords, they say, can live two or three centuries.’
Kaelen felt a prickle of awe. He studied the man, this kindred spirit he’d only known through whispers. Outwardly, there was little to distinguish him from any other sturdy, healthy man. Perhaps a deeper calm in his gaze, a subtle strength in his posture. Nothing that screamed ‘magic.’
This was crucial. He could stand in the bustling market of Hearthbend, even in the shadow of the Spires, and as long as he kept his own abilities hidden, he would be unseen. He wouldn’t be snared. A knot in his chest, a tight, invisible chain he’d worn since childhood, seemed to loosen, allowing him a breath deeper than any he’d taken in years.
‘Being a Bound One… it sounds extraordinary,’ Kaelen murmured.
‘Extraordinary?’ The traveler shook his head. ‘Not at all. I think folk like you are far more so. To live in this harsh land, where shadow-beasts stalk, without a whisper of magic? I could not imagine it.’
The man was mistaken, of course. This was the first time a Gloom-hound had ventured so close to Ember Ridge in Kaelen’s lifetime. Mara, without a drop of magic, had raised him here, alone. She was the truly extraordinary one.
‘Now that I think of it, I’ve been rude,’ the man said, offering a small bow of his head. ‘My name is Gareth. Gareth the Wayfarer, I suppose. And you, young shepherd?’
‘Kaelen. The sole shepherd of Ember Ridge.’
‘A strong name. Suitably so.’
‘You mentioned you ‘served’ a House. You no longer do?’
‘My contract with House Valerius ended a month past,’ Gareth explained, his eyes distant. ‘They offered me a place, to live out my remaining years in comfort, if I wished. But… I desired to travel. To see the world I’d only known from a distance, tied to one place for so long. Ever since I was taken into service, at the age of fifteen.’