A chill wind ghosted through Eldoria’s narrow lanes that day. Kaelen moved with purpose, a quiet observer of the city’s pulse. He had spent the morning tracking, and the afternoon proved fruitful. Seven Warped Beasts, each a twisted echo of nature, had fallen to his will.
Each time Kaelen drew the elemental essence from their fading forms, a potent surge coursed through him. It was a raw, primal energy, a song of the earth and wind, briefly his to command. A fleeting, almost frightening power, so distinct from the quiet hum he usually felt. This wasn’t the gentle caress of a growing vine or the patient flow of a river. This was sharp, immediate. It filled him, yet left a strange hollow ache in its wake, a reminder of the life he had extinguished.
He felt the growing strength, a subtle thickening of the ethereal threads that connected him to the world. It was a rapid ascent, his nascent abilities sharpening with each absorption. His connection to the Weavers’ legacy deepened, his inner landscape expanding. Yet, the growth from the weaker beasts already began to taper. The truly potent essences, the ones that promised monumental shifts, remained elusive.
He knew this path. Continual hunting in one place would strip the land bare, exhaust the very source of his growth. The ancient lore hinted at it, tales of Weavers embarking on arduous journeys, seeking the heart of untouched wilds for challenges worthy of their power.
Two of the smallest creatures he found, a fur-tailed flicker and a shadow-hide badger, held little power worth absorbing. Their vibrant life-force, though small, felt more valuable intact. He bound them carefully, not with ropes, but with gentle currents of air that wrapped around them like soft bonds.
He entered the city hall, the air thick with the scent of old paper and dust. An official, thin-faced and weary, glanced up from his ledger. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Kaelen and the two bundled creatures.
“Two, you say?” the man mumbled, stroking a sparse beard.
Kaelen nodded. “Unharmed, save for the capture. The bounty should be twenty-five Shards.”
The official’s gaze flickered, a flicker of something calculating in his eyes. He hesitated, mouth opening to speak, then closing again as Kaelen met his gaze. There was no aggression in Kaelen’s eyes, only a quiet, unwavering expectation. A steady, almost ancient presence that seemed to weigh on the air.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” The man cleared his throat, pushing a small pouch across the counter. “Here you are.”
Kaelen pocketed the coins. It was a strange satisfaction, this exchange of effort for tangible reward. He had known only the bartering of goods back home, the simple exchange of shared labor. This structured transaction, a new custom for him, held an unexpected charm.
---
Back at the Golden Spire Inn, a warm smile greeted him. The inn’s bustling common room, usually a cacophony, felt almost welcoming now. A young server, Elara, her dark hair perpetually escaping its braid, waved from behind the counter.
“Kaelen! You made it back. Safe and sound.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Dinner tonight? The usual bread and stew?”
He paused. He was accustomed to the simple, filling fare. But with his pouch feeling heavier, a flicker of curiosity stirred. What was it about the ‘expensive’ dishes, the ones he only overheard whispers of, that set them apart?
“No,” he decided, his voice soft but firm. “Tonight, I’ll have the finest dish your kitchen offers.”
Elara’s eyes widened, a joyous laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, you must have had a grand day! I’ll tell the kitchen right away!”
He hadn’t realized the inn’s most luxurious meal took nearly an hour to prepare. He sat by the hearth, watching the flames dance, listening to the murmurs of the patrons. Time felt different here, less governed by the sun and stars, more by the clock on the wall and the promise of a full belly.
When the food finally arrived, carried by Elara and a red-faced cook, it was a revelation. A steaming platter of roasted fowl, its skin crisp and glistening, surrounded by root vegetables caramelized to a deep, earthy sweetness. Beside it, flaky river fish, delicately spiced, and a basket of soft, fragrant flatbreads, still warm from the oven, accompanied by a small pot of berry compote.
The aroma alone was intoxicating. Kaelen, who had lived on wild game and the plainest of grains, stared. He had never seen such a bounty, such vibrant colors on a single plate. Each bite was a symphony of tastes and textures. The rich, savory fowl. The tender, sweet root vegetables. The subtle spice of the fish. He ate slowly at first, savoring each mouthful, then faster, a primal hunger awakening within him. He ate until nothing remained, only faint traces of sauce on the plate.
Elara watched, amused. “My, Kaelen! For someone so quiet, you certainly have an appetite!”
The cook, a man of few words, even poked his head out from the kitchen. “Rare to see it enjoyed so thoroughly. Glad I made it for you.”
A quiet warmth spread through Kaelen. This was a new joy, a simple, profound pleasure he hadn’t known existed. The world, it seemed, held more than just struggles and ancient powers. It held unexpected delights, too.
---
Three days passed in a blur of diligent work. Kaelen rose before dawn, venturing into the fading wilds around Eldoria. He tracked. He observed. He acted. Over thirty Warped Beasts had crossed his path, their elemental essence adding to his own.
Few of them were significant enough to warrant a bounty, but even those few, combined with his earlier haul, had amassed a respectable sum. He had over a hundred Shards now, a small fortune. Some of it he converted into Gleams, the larger, more ornate gold coins, easier to store.
His Wild-sense, a subtle extension of his Weaver abilities, grew sharper with each passing hour. He learned that even beyond the direct range of his perception, he could attune to the faint elemental residues a creature left behind. A broken twig, a disturbed patch of earth, the lingering scent of ozone from a recent burst of elemental energy—all became threads he could follow, leading him directly to his quarry.
While Kaelen’s success mounted, the small group of Hunters he had met earlier seemed to sink deeper into gloom. Roric and his companions, Jaric and Turlan, often sat at their usual table, their faces etched with worry. Their complaints about meager catches and dwindling funds drifted across the common room.
One evening, as Kaelen made his way to his room, Jaric and Turlan blocked his path. Their faces were flushed, their gazes hard. Jaric, the larger of the two, put a hand on Kaelen’s shoulder.
“Hey, quiet one,” Jaric slurred, his breath heavy with ale. “Heard you’ve been doing well for yourself. Share the luck, eh?”
Kaelen felt a faint tremor beneath his feet. He could sense the two men’s desperation, the frustration curdling into aggression. He did not speak. His eyes, usually calm, held a sudden, unwavering stillness.
Jaric’s grip tightened. “We’re just asking for a small loan. For fellow Hunters.”
Kaelen focused. A subtle eddy of air swirled around Jaric’s ankles, just enough to disturb his balance. Jaric stumbled, his hand falling away. As Turlan moved in, Kaelen sent a whisper of earth-magic, a sudden, almost imperceptible shift beneath Turlan’s feet. Turlan yelped, pitching forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the wall. He scrambled to regain his footing, looking around in confusion, as if the floor had betrayed him.
Kaelen, seeing their disarray, stepped past them. He gave them a look that held no anger, only a quiet, firm warning. They exchanged bewildered glances, too stunned by the subtle, inexplicable forces that had tripped them to continue their bluster. The incident was over in less than a minute. They simply watched him go, muttering to themselves.
A few moments later, Roric appeared, his face a mask of mortification. He bowed his head, a heavy sigh escaping him. “My deepest apologies, Kaelen. Jaric and Turlan… they’re good men, but prone to foolishness when desperate. I’ll speak to them. This won’t happen again.”
“Are you having a difficult time?” Kaelen asked, his voice low.
Roric hesitated, then met Kaelen’s gaze. “Truthfully? Yes. Things are… lean. Eldoria’s wilds are getting thin, and we’re not as quick as we used to be.”
Roric explained their journey. They were once roughs, common toughs from a crowded port-city. Two years ago, they’d heard tales of an old Weaver, a hermit who claimed his power came from hunting Warped Beasts. They were captivated by the idea of such strength, such freedom from their old lives. They’d traded their cudgels for dull blades, hoping to find the same path.
But hunting Warped Beasts was no easy task for those without a true connection to the primal forces, without the gifts of the Weavers. And the city officials, Roric explained, rarely believed them without a body of undeniable strength, not just whispers of a beast. They’d wandered from city to city, taking odd jobs, barely scraping by, all the while chasing a dream that seemed perpetually out of reach.
‘Two years,’ Kaelen thought, a pang of understanding. ‘And they’ve only managed a handful of true catches.’ It was a hard life, to chase a shadow. He understood then why many in the cities dismissed Hunters as nothing more than glorified thugs, gambling their lives on a rare chance instead of steady labor.
“Honestly,” Roric continued, “another three days, and we might not make rent. This city’s too small for much extra work. But don’t worry, Kaelen. We’d never ask you for charity. Especially after… this.” He gestured vaguely at the stairs, referencing his brawling subordinates.
Kaelen reached into his pouch. He withdrew ten Shards, holding them out. “Here.”
Roric stared, dumbfounded. “Why… why would you?”
“You invited me into your group when I first arrived,” Kaelen said simply. “Saw me alone, a stranger. You offered company, protection. Consider this a repayment for that kindness.” Kaelen’s mother had instilled a deep sense of reciprocity in him. Kindness, like enmity, demanded a response in kind. The earlier scuffle had been settled by his own quiet action. This was for Roric’s genuine goodwill.
“But… this is too much. I can’t just take it.” Roric pushed the coins back slightly.
“If it weighs on you, then share something in return,” Kaelen suggested. “Tell me about the cities you’ve visited. About the wilds beyond Eldoria. Anything you’ve learned on your journeys.” Information, Kaelen was quickly learning, held a value far beyond mere coin.
Roric’s face brightened. “That, I can do!”
For the next hour, Roric spoke, sketching rough maps on a scrap of parchment. He spoke of the sprawling fields near Oakhaven, a larger city to the northeast, and the elusive forest-wyrms that stalked its edges. He warned Kaelen of the shifting bog-ghouls near the Salt Flats and the territories fiercely guarded by certain Weaver families. He spoke of ancient ruins, crumbling stones that whispered of forgotten empires. He told Kaelen which cities were welcoming, which were suspicious, and which offered bounties for certain rare elemental flora.
What truly seized Kaelen’s attention, however, was a detail about Oakhaven.
“There’s a grand library there,” Roric said, tapping a spot on his crude map. “Heard it holds thousands of tomes. Never been inside myself. Only Weavers are permitted entry.”
Thousands of books. Kaelen had learned to read from his mother, but he had never held a true book in his hands. His hearth-home, nestled deep in the forgotten valleys, had no such luxuries. His mother had sometimes lamented, speaking of stories she once knew, tales she wished to share, but whose words had faded from memory. He had always imagined books as mystical artifacts, vessels of ancient knowledge, repositories of the world’s true wisdom.
“Thousands of books?” Kaelen repeated, a new, unfamiliar yearning stirring within him. A hunger for something other than power, or even a full belly. A hunger for understanding. He wanted to know what kind of world lay beyond the valleys, beyond the city-states, beyond the Wastes. He wanted to touch the wisdom of the ages.
“A Weaver can enter,” Roric said, a wistful note in his voice. “Maybe one day, we’ll be skilled enough to walk through those doors ourselves.”
“This is more than enough,” Kaelen told Roric, the image of Oakhaven’s library already firm in his mind. He had planned to leave Eldoria the following day. Now, he knew his destination.
---
Yet, as if to mock his new resolve, tragedy struck the very next afternoon. Kaelen was on his final hunt outside Eldoria, preparing for his journey. He found Jaric first, sprawled amongst the undergrowth, clutching his stomach. Blood, a dark stain, bloomed on his tunic. A ragged cough rattled through him, his eyes half-lidded, fading.
“What happened?” Kaelen knelt, a wave of elemental energy washing over the man, trying to staunch the flow, but it was too late. Life ebbed swiftly.
“A hare…” Jaric gasped, his voice a strained whisper. “Storm-fang… monster…”
“Roric? Where is Roric?”
Jaric’s hand trembled, weakly pointing deeper into the copse of stunted trees. “Over… there…”
Kaelen followed the direction. A small, familiar tuft of hair lay on the ground, detached from its owner. And then, Roric’s body. He lay twisted, mangled, his eyes wide and clear, staring at the sky. A raw, indignant regret burned in their depths, frozen in his final moment. Beside him, two more of their group lay, grotesquely torn apart, their struggles evident in the disturbed earth.
And then, Kaelen saw it. A creature, no larger than a house cat, sat amidst the carnage. Its fur, once perhaps a dappled brown, was now matted with blood. Its eyes, luminous and crimson, turned slowly towards Kaelen. Its incisors, long and wickedly sharp, jutted from its mouth, almost touching the ground as it chewed, meticulously. Its hind legs, grotesquely muscular, tensed.
This was no mere hare. This was a Storm-fang Hare, a creature of malice and raw, destructive power. It sprang. An impossible blur of crimson eyes and razor teeth, it charged Kaelen with the speed of an arrow, a high-pitched snarl tearing from its throat.
“Urgh!” Kaelen threw himself to the side, a gust of wind at his back adding to his evasion. The hare, unable to halt its momentum, shot past him, slamming into an ancient oak. A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the quiet woods. The tree didn’t just shudder; it cleaved. A perfectly clean cut, as if sliced by a colossal blade, separated the trunk, sending the top half toppling to the ground with a thunderous roar.
‘No time for caution,’ Kaelen thought, his mind racing. This was a monster. He reached for the simple sheepskin slingshot he always carried, a relic from his youth, a tool for precise aiming. His fingers found the smooth river stone already nestled within its pouch. It might be crude, but it was swift. It was direct. And he was a Weaver of the earth.