The inn, ‘The Root and Hearth,’ pulsed with a low, vibrant hum. Steam rose from brimming mugs, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and damp wool. Kaelen found a small, shadowed table near a window, the glass thick and grimy, offering a blurred view of Veridian Spire’s rain-slicked streets. He ordered a simple stew and waited.
A young woman, Elara, moved through the tables with practiced grace. Her eyes, quick and intelligent, met his. Kaelen felt a familiar discomfort, a prickle of unease under the scrutiny. He preferred the quiet scrutiny of ancient trees to the sharp gaze of humans.
He managed a question, voice quiet, about bounties on dangerous creatures in the Wastes. Elara’s brow furrowed, then cleared. She laughed, a bright, surprising sound.
“The Warder’s Hall, you mean? Up past the market square, the big stone building with the archway. Ask for Official Brenn. He handles the beastings.”
Kaelen felt a faint flush warm his cheeks. He hadn’t known the proper term, felt his country origins keenly. “Warder’s Hall,” he repeated, testing the words.
“Right! You must be new to the Spire. Or just come in from the outer settlements,” Elara said, setting his stew before him. The broth was rich, savory. It warmed his empty stomach, a welcome contrast to the hardtack and dried meat of his journey.
“Say, you’re not one of those… Spirit-Hunters, are you?” Her tone held a mix of curiosity and mild disdain.
Kaelen stopped mid-spoonful. “Spirit-Hunters?”
She leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “They’re the ones who believe slaying creatures from the Wastes—beastings, blight-kin, whatever you call them—will give them the ‘spark.’ Make them a Weaver, like the old stories. Foolishness, I say. Just gets them killed.”
A small, tight knot formed in Kaelen’s chest. The ‘spark.’ His own burgeoning, terrifying spark. He knew the truth was far stranger than any superstition.
“Some say the Wastes are where the old magic… congealed, after the Blight. And if you kill a beastie touched by it, you can take a piece for yourself.” Elara shrugged. “Most folk think they’re touched in the head. But they keep trying.”
A heavy hand landed on Kaelen’s shoulder. He tensed, muscles coiling.
“She’s wrong, lad. Entirely wrong.”
Kaelen turned, meeting the gaze of a man whose face was a roadmap of weathered lines. Rhogar, Kaelen heard Elara murmur his name. Unkempt beard, wild grey hair, but eyes that held a surprising, almost feral, clarity. Three other men, burly and armed with spears and crude axes, stood behind him, their shadows looming.
Rhogar chuckled, a gravelly sound. “Lena, you tell the same old lies. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The spark can be earned.”
Elara sighed, rolling her eyes playfully. “Rhogar, you’re alive? We thought the Wastes finally took you.”
“Not yet, girl. Not until I grasp that power myself.” Rhogar turned back to Kaelen, removing his hand. “Apologies, lad. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Kaelen said, his voice a low rumble. He hesitated, then pushed. “You mentioned earning the spark. Tell me more.”
A wide grin split Rhogar’s face, revealing stained teeth. “Ah, a fellow seeker! See, they say the old Weavers could draw power from the land. But I say, it’s not just given. You take it. You kill a creature steeped in the Blight-magic, and that essence can transfer. We’ve brought down three already, my lads and I.”
His companions nodded, muttering agreements. “Aye! Almost tasted it, we did!” one boomed, slapping his thigh.
Kaelen felt a chill. The bandit leader, the one he’d buried, had been nothing like the creatures these men described. The power within that creature had been raw, devastating. Three such monsters? He suppressed a shiver.
“Three? Has one of you… become a Weaver?” Kaelen asked, the word feeling foreign on his tongue.
The inn erupted in laughter. Patrons at other tables, listening in, joined the chorus.
“Not yet, lad!” Rhogar clapped Kaelen on the back. “There’s only the Lord-Warder and his three Keepers in the Spire with true power. If one of us had it, we’d be shouting from the rooftops!”
“We’ve nearly lost our hides on each of them!” another hunter added, grimacing.
Kaelen looked down at his half-eaten stew. So few. For a city this size, with its sprawling markets and towering spires, only four acknowledged Weavers. It explained the fear, the desperation. He understood his isolated village elder, Old Ren, and his lament about the scarcity of true power.
Rhogar’s gaze fell to Kaelen’s travel pack, then to his belt. “You’re after beastings yourself, then? But your gear… it looks light. No weapon?”
Kaelen reached into his pocket, pulling out the worn leather slingshot. He expected a sneer, perhaps a hearty laugh. It was a child’s toy, really, against a grown man’s axe.
Instead, Rhogar’s men leaned forward, inspecting it with surprising interest.
“A sling! Haven’t seen one of those used by a serious hunter in ages.”
“Looks well-used, too. What kind of stones do you favor?”
“Egg-sized, mostly.” Kaelen’s fingers idly traced the smooth, oiled leather. He recalled the swift, silent kills on desert hares, the sharp crack against bandit skulls.
“Egg-sized? Good for smaller prey then. Break a fox’s skull, or a blighted rabbit’s.” Rhogar nodded approvingly. “So you hunt the lesser ones. Smart. No sense tackling a Scorch-hound with naught but that.”
Kaelen realized their quarry was far less formidable than his own. The beasts he’d encountered were distortions of nature, powerful and terrifying. These men hunted corrupted rabbits and foxes, creatures still dangerous but fundamentally weaker. His power, still largely unknown to himself, made such hunts almost trivial.
“Join us, lad. We could use a steady hand with a sling. Especially for the quick ones.” Rhogar’s eyes held a genuine invitation.
Kaelen shook his head. “I appreciate the offer. But my path is different.” He had no desire to reveal his true nature. Not yet. Not to these men, whose understanding of power was so incomplete. He sought to understand, to control, not just to ‘take.’
Rhogar sighed, a sound of slight disappointment. “A shame. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.” He clapped Kaelen on the shoulder again, a softer gesture this time, then turned to his men.
---
Later, tucked into a small, stifling room on the second floor, Kaelen lay on a thin cot. The sounds of the inn drifted up through the floorboards. He recognized Rhogar’s voice, then his men’s.
“Rhogar, why bother with that scrawny kid? He won’t last a day.”
“Aye, one swing of a blight-kin’s claw and he’d be weeping for his mother.”
Their words, once friendly and inviting, now dripped with casual contempt. Kaelen felt no surprise, only a familiar dull ache. He’d seen this before, the quick judgments, the shifting loyalties. It was the way of the world outside the quiet solace of the Woven Woods.
Then Rhogar’s voice cut through, lower, tinged with a weariness Kaelen hadn’t noticed before. “Tsk. He reminded me of myself, once. Young, with nothing but a prayer and a sling against the world. Ten lives wouldn’t be enough for him out there alone.”
“You’re too soft, old man.”
“Maybe so.”
Kaelen closed his eyes, a strange mix of emotions churning within him. He was alone, yes. But not helpless. He carried a power that none of them could fathom. He was quiet, but resilient. The world was indeed full of both shadows and unexpected flickers of warmth. He just had to learn which to trust.
---
Next morning, after a breakfast of coarse bread and weak tea, Kaelen made his way to the Warder’s Hall. The building loomed, a block of grey stone amidst the bustling market. Citizens moved in and out, their faces etched with concerns—a dispute over property, a complaint about a vendor, the petty concerns of city life.
He found Official Brenn behind a tall desk, a stack of scrolls before him. The man’s face was sharp, his gaze even sharper, raking over Kaelen’s simple clothes with thinly veiled disdain. “What do you want, boy?” His voice was a dry rasp.
“Bounties. On creatures from the Wastes,” Kaelen stated, keeping his tone even.
Brenn scoffed, his lips curling. If Kaelen were to unleash even a fraction of the power stirring within him, Brenn would undoubtedly be on his knees, stammering apologies. But Kaelen had no desire for such theatrics. Nobility meant endless pleasantries, ceaseless demands. A powerful Weaver would be a pawn for lords, forced into endless service. Better to remain unseen, unburdened.
“Don’t touch it, just read,” Brenn commanded, pushing a brittle parchment across the desk. It listed creatures: their descriptions, sizes, behaviors, last known sightings, and the paltry rewards offered for their eradication.
Weaker, non-hostile beastings earned their bounty only if captured alive. The more aggressive ones, the true threats to human life, could be killed, their bodies presented for proof. The document emphasized the difficulty in distinguishing a ‘blighted’ rabbit from a normal one, the common frauds attempted by desperate folk.
“Listen closely, boy,” Brenn snapped, his finger tapping the parchment. “Even if you kill one, don’t leave the corpse out there. Bring it back, no matter what state. If the city Keepers don’t ritually disperse its lingering magic, it can fester. Become a true nightmare. Abandoning a blighted carcass is punishable by death in this city. Understood?”
Kaelen’s spine stiffened. He remembered the bandit leader, his corpse left in the sun, pulsing with that strange, corrupted light. He had sensed a wrongness, a lingering malevolence. The warning struck a chord of dread. He nodded slowly. “Understood.”
“Some of these creatures… they seem too dangerous for ordinary people,” Kaelen observed, glancing at one entry. “Don’t the Keepers deal with them?”
Brenn stared at him, as if Kaelen had sprouted another head. “Keepers have a real job! Defending the Spire’s walls, maintaining order, training the watch. Hunting stray beastings is for drifters like you. Now go.”
Kaelen gripped the parchment, his jaw tight. Keepers, Weavers, protectors of humanity. Yet they allowed such dangers to menace the city’s outskirts, preying on children, on livestock. A bitterness, sharp and cold, settled in his heart. He walked out of the Hall, the clamor of the market washing over him.
He needed to leave the city’s confines. Needed the quiet.
Beyond the final gates, the neat cobblestones gave way to a rough-worn path. The city’s noise faded, replaced by the whisper of wind through skeletal trees, the rustle of dry grasses. He was back in the familiar, desolate embrace of the Wastes, though tamed by proximity to the Spire.
‘Start here.’
He held the parchment, his eyes scanning the entry that had caught his attention:
---
Thornwing Harrier:
A crow-like creature, larger than common ravens. Its flight feathers are partially ossified, hardened to razor-sharp points. It can shed these feathers mid-flight, using them as projectiles, or deflect arrows with its wings. Preys on small animals and occasionally unattended children near the city’s periphery, scattering remains after feeding…
---
A creature that preyed on children. Kaelen’s resolve solidified. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his inner sense, the delicate threads of his Weaver connection unfurling into the natural world around him.
“Sense… winged creature. Corruption.”
Suddenly, his mind was overwhelmed. A cacophony of small rustles, the flutter of countless wings, the distant caws of a thousand ordinary crows. The air around the city was alive with avian life, scavenging at the edges of human habitation. Too much.
His concentration shattered. Kaelen gasped, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes. He opened them, shaking his head. “This won’t work.”
How could he differentiate? His sense could discern the faint echoes of the natural world, the pulse of growing things, the flow of water. But a corrupted creature… it wasn’t just a simple ‘magic signature.’ It was a distortion, a twisted note in the grand song of nature. But how to filter that from the mundane? He tried again, focusing, narrowing his intent.
“Sense… winged creature. Essence… twisted by Blight.”
Nothing. His innate connection wasn’t a blunt tool. It responded to the subtle truths, the deep currents. The sheer volume of life, even common life, near the city made fine discernment impossible. He had to think like the Wastes, not just wield its power. He pressed his palms into the dry earth, seeking a deeper resonance.
“Sense… feathered creature. Feathers… like stone or blade. Unnatural growth.”
Still, too many echoes. He needed something more specific, something tied to the Harrier’s malevolent nature, something reflecting its specific predation. A cold dread settled over him. This was harder than he thought. Much harder.
He needed a different approach. He needed to understand the prey, not just the hunter. He needed to learn how the corrupted creatures left their mark upon the world. He stood, eyes scanning the horizon, a new understanding dawning. This was not just a hunt; it was a lesson. And the Wastes, as always, were a cruel, exacting teacher.