Eight years ago, in a harsh Thalassian winter, Finnian felt the world shift. He was ten. Not flames, but a silent hum vibrated through the floorboards of their small cottage. Elara, his mother, had stepped out to tend the deep-sea goats, their bioluminescent hides a faint glow in the pre-dawn gloom.
He had reached for a piece of driftwood by the hearth, intending to coax a spark from the flint. Instead, a deeper current answered. It wasn't heat he felt, but an invisible tug, a deep pulse beneath the earth, answering his unspoken will. The ancient, worn stone of the hearth seemed to breathe, a warmth blooming from within the cold rock itself. A tiny, forgotten knot of wood in the ceiling creaked, then tightened.
Finnian’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, suddenly seeing the world not as solid forms, but as shifting currents, hidden veins of raw energy lacing through everything. He felt the ancient, buried power of the land respond, a primal geomancy.
“Mama, look!” he'd cried, pointing at the hearth, a faint warmth now lingering in its cold stones. The driftwood pulsed with a soft, internal glow.
His mother returned, her face etched with the brine and wind. She saw the light, the unusual warmth. Her gaze, usually soft, hardened with a fear he had never seen. She didn't marvel. She simply reached out, extinguishing the subtle glow with a firm hand, her lips a thin line.
‘Finnian,’ she whispered, voice rough as shell-grit, ‘we must make a promise. You will never use this power. Not carelessly. Never in front of anyone.’
‘Why?’ A pout twisted his lips. It was fascinating, a new language the world spoke to him.
She warmed a cup of rich, Brine-Gleam milk, its luminescence swirling faintly. Then, for the first time, she spoke of the world beyond their isolated bluffs, of the grand metropolis of Thalassia far below.
‘Down in the city, there are people called Ley Sages.’
According to Elara, Ley Sages were the direct descendants of the Primeval Architects, those who first channeled the planet’s profound energies, building Thalassia upon forgotten foundations. They inherited immense, raw power, ruling as guardians and masters of the vast energy grid that fed the city.
Among them were the Wayfinders. They were born of mingled Ley Sage and common blood, also inheriting the Sight, but their abilities were lesser, bound to specific tasks. They were treated as servants, instruments of the Sages.
Finnian’s mother explained that he carried the blood of a Wayfinder from his long-absent father. She warned him. If he ever went down to the city, the Ley Sages would find him, bind him, and force him into servitude.
‘If the Ley Sages are the ancient Hearthstones that anchor this world, then Wayfinders are the lines that carry their fire. Sometimes, they might value a line, cherish it even… but they can also sever it, or divert its current, whenever it suits them.’
Ley Sages, though possessing everything, constantly vied for more. In their conflicts, Wayfinders were often the first to be sacrificed, sent to confront threats while the Sages stood aloof, directing power from a distance.
Her face, as she spoke, held a desolation Finnian had never witnessed before. It was like the deep, crushing pressure of the ocean floor.
‘Finnian, don’t you want to live with Mama for a long, long time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must hide this power. Else, bad Sages will come, take you away. You’ll never see me again.’
‘Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!’
Eight years had passed since that confident promise. Even after his mother succumbed to the Deep-Cough, a few years back, Finnian continued living alone at the Coveside Watch on the Salt-Swept Bluffs, herding his Brine-Gleam Goats. He avoided the cities, the Wayfinders, the Ley Sages, refusing to become a conduit for another’s will.
---
“Fools.”
Finnian muttered, shoving the heavy, salt-pitted door of his dwelling shut. Pre-dawn again, before the first glint of sun touched the Veridian Sea. Young men from the Harborside village had come, their voices sharp and cold. They demanded answers about Elder Lysander's death a few cycles ago. The signs of a Deep-Coil Serpent attack were undeniable to anyone with eyes, yet they insisted Finnian had somehow lured the creature, sacrificed the old man. Their accusations were as absurd as they were vicious.
Their true motive hummed in the air, clearer than the tang of salt. Next time he descended to the village for trade, they’d try to cheat him, lower the value of his cured sea-meat or demand more for their salvaged tech parts.
He would simply glare, perhaps let a barely perceptible tremor run through the ground beneath their feet, a warning from the deep earth itself. Enough to remind them of his quiet strength, ensuring a fair exchange. It had happened before, a tiresome cycle, like the tide.
A sharp rap sounded on the door, startling him from his thoughts. Not a quiet knock, but a heavy thud, thud. He sighed, a slow, deep exhalation. Who now? Had their memory truly faded so quickly?
Finnian wrenched open the door, a low growl forming in his throat. “Who is it? Have you a death wish?”
But the man standing outside was not one of the Harborside youth. He was cloaked, dust-worn, appearing to be in his mid-forties. A faint, almost imperceptible aura of calm radiated from him. He offered an awkward smile.
“Ah… my apologies, young friend. I am but a traveler, seeking respite. It seems I’ve come at an ill time.”
A traveler. For the first time in his eighteen years, Finnian encountered such a person. His mind briefly froze. Someone leisurely enough to venture to these desolate bluffs?
Finnian, though stiff with surprise, stepped aside. “No, not at all. Enter. Just some unpleasant folk, moments ago.” His voice, usually gruff, adopted a formal cadence his mother had instilled for elders. It felt strange on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken like this? Before he realized the villagers, including Lysander and the other elders, were mostly self-serving gulls.
“If you’ll excuse me, then.” The traveler entered, shedding a faint scent of pine resin and distant sea-mist. Truthfully, to remain hidden, Finnian should have driven off any stranger. Yet, loneliness gnawed at him. He craved even a brief, peaceful conversation.
Besides, if this man held ill intent, Finnian knew he could handle him. The primal currents beneath his feet always gave him an advantage.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Neither have I. Join me.”
Finnian gestured to the rough-hewn table. He set out a bowl of fresh Brine-Gleam milk, a wedge of cured sea-cheese, porridge from dried kelp-grain, a lump of rock salt, and dried slivers of deep-sea lamb. His mother had taught him: even in poverty, a host offers utmost hospitality. It prevents guests from even considering harm.
“This is a poor place; I have little to offer.”
“What nonsense! This is a feast! My thanks.” The man ate with surprising vigor, as if starved, yet his manners were impeccable. He chewed silently, turned his head slightly when drinking—a refinement Finnian had never observed among the Harborside folk.
Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar about Finnian. After a long draught of milk, he offered a kind remark. “You know table manners. Your parents taught you well.”
“My mother taught me.” The traveler paused, sensing the omission of his father. Then he continued, carefully. “And… is your mother in the village? This dwelling seems fit for one.” He must have noticed the single, narrow sleeping platform.
Finnian nodded, his voice steady. “She passed from illness a few years ago.”
A shadow crossed the traveler’s face. He bowed his head, making a subtle gesture with one hand—a symbol Finnian had never seen. “My condolences. She must reside now in the Celestial Palace, having raised such a fine young man.”
“I hope so.” Once, the mere thought of her had stolen his appetite, brought him to tears for days. Now, to speak of it with a faint, almost smile? Had he grown up? Or had time truly dulled the sharp edges of her absence?
A sudden melancholy washed over him. Finnian forced a change of subject. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?”
“I passed through a nearby settlement, heard an elder speak of a Deep-Coil Serpent troubling his people, seeking someone to deal with it. I decided to investigate. I am confident in such matters.”
“Alone?” A middle-aged man, not yet past his prime but certainly not in the flush of youth, facing a creature like the Deep-Coil Serpent without even a visible weapon? Finnian’s astonished expression drew an awkward smile from the traveler.
“I am a Wayfinder. I served House Maris for sixty years. I can handle most creatures.”
At the word ‘Wayfinder,’ Finnian’s body tensed. A being from his mother’s dire stories, a servant of the Ley Sages. But the tension lasted only a moment. There was no malice in the man’s eyes, only a quiet strength. Finnian’s rigid muscles slowly relaxed.
“Is something amiss?” Kaede asked.
“It’s just… my first time meeting a Wayfinder. You don’t appear to have worked for sixty years.”
“We Wayfinders, and Ley Sages, age more slowly than common folk. I am seventy-five cycles this year. For a Wayfinder, that’s quite aged, but I’ve heard powerful Sages can live for two, even three hundred years.”
Hearing this, Finnian studied the man, someone of his own kind. Outwardly, he was indistinguishable from an ordinary person, perhaps a little sturdier, healthier in complexion. In other words, one could not simply *look* at a Wayfinder and know their nature. This was vital information.
It meant Finnian could stand in the heart of Thalassia, surrounded by thousands, and so long as he refrained from overt displays of power, no one would discern his identity. A tight band around his chest seemed to loosen.
“Being a Wayfinder truly is incredible.”
“Incredible? Not at all! I find folk like you far more incredible. To live in such a rough place, where creatures appear, without relying on hidden powers? I could not imagine it.”
Contrary to Kaede’s assumption, this was the first time a truly dangerous creature had appeared in the area since Finnian’s birth. Had it been otherwise, his mother, despite her extraordinary strength, could never have raised him alone on these bluffs. His mother, who faced life without the Sight, was the truly remarkable one.
“Now that I think on it, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Kaede. Kaede of Maris—or rather, I suppose I should no longer use that affiliation. Just Kaede the Wanderer. And you are?”
“I am Finnian. The sole keeper of the Coveside Watch.”
“A wonderful name.”
“You mentioned ‘served’ a noble house. You no longer do?”
“My vassal contract officially ended a cycle ago. The house offered to care for me until my dying breath, but… I wished to spend my later years traveling, seeing the world. After all, I’ve been tied to a single house ever since I was apprenticed at the age of fifteen.”