Eight years prior, a harsh winter wind scoured the Stonepeak Ridge. Kaelen, barely ten summers old, had sought refuge from its bite within their small croft. His mother, Morwen, was out with the flock, their sturdy shepherd dog at her heels, leaving Kaelen alone with the dying embers of the hearth.
He had only wished for warmth. A flicker of deep, primal desire. The next instant, a roar of flame burst from the hearth-stone, a fiery blossom startling him back.
Time became a blur of discovery. Kaelen soon found he could coax more than just fire. A thought, a whisper of intent, and objects would lift, untethered by weight. Gusts of wind, sharp and cold, answered his will. He could even solidify the very air, forming shimmering, invisible shields.
“Mama, look!” That evening, he’d rushed to show her, holding aloft a splinter of kindling that danced in the air. Morwen had just returned, her face etched with the day’s toil, the scent of damp wool clinging to her.
She did not marvel. No joy brightened her eyes. A deep, weary resignation settled over her features as she simply reached out, gently reclaiming the floating wood.
‘Kaelen, we must make a promise. Promise me you will never use this power carelessly. Never, ever, in front of another soul.’
‘Why, Mama?’ He pouted, a child’s frustration at such a fascinating, playful power being forbidden. Kaelen was always a dutiful child, but this felt different.
Morwen warmed a cup of ewe’s milk. For the first time, she spoke of the world that lay far below their lonely ridge, of the bustling city-state of Veridian, and the powers that governed it.
‘Below the hills, there are Archons,’ she began. ‘They are said to be the direct descendants of the Progenitors, ancient beings who once shaped our world, then faded into myth. These Archons command powerful Resonance, inherited from their lineage. They rule, protectors and masters over all.’
Among them, Morwen explained, were those born of mixed blood, Archon and common folk. They were called Sentinels. Sentinels also held the Resonance, but their power was weaker, a diluted echo. They served the Archons, like hounds to a master.
Kaelen, she revealed, had inherited the power of a Sentinel from his father. If he ever descended the mountain, the Archons would find him. They would take him, force him into servitude.
‘If Archons are shepherds, like us, then Sentinels are their dogs. Sometimes, they might be treated as kin, shown affection… but they can also be sold, or sent to their deaths, whenever needed.’
Archons, though possessing everything, constantly squabbled for more. In their endless conflicts, Sentinels were often the sacrifice. A shepherd sending their dog to fight wolves, while they themselves stood safely back, casting stones from afar.
Morwen’s face held a desolation Kaelen had never witnessed before. A cold dread settled in his young heart.
‘Kaelen, do you wish to live with Mama for a long, long time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must hide this power. Otherwise, cruel Archons will come. They will take you. You will never see me again.’
‘Okay, Mama! I promise! I won’t use it for anyone!’
And so, eight years had passed since Kaelen made that solemn vow. Even after his mother succumbed to the winter fever, her warmth fading like a hearth-fire left untended, Kaelen had kept his word. He lived on the Stonepeak Ridge, tending the flock, a solitary guardian.
He evaded the notice of the Archons, those distant masters who might someday come looking. He refused to become their shepherd dog.
---
“Fools.”
Kaelen slammed the crooked door of his cabin shut, the sound echoing in the pre-dawn quiet. A group of the village’s younger men had come, their faces contorted with manufactured outrage. They’d blamed him for old Elara’s death just a few days prior.
The signs of a Gloom-fang Stalker were unmistakable: the snapped branches, the claw marks in the earth, the way the very air felt leached of warmth where the beast had passed. Yet, they insisted Kaelen had somehow harmed the old woman, then offered her to the creature as bait. An absurd claim, but their true motives were clear enough.
Kaelen had, of course, soundly beaten the young men who came seeking trouble. He’d chased them back down the winding path to the village, their cries fading in the mist.
They would, no doubt, use this incident to try and lower the value of his goods, or tamper with his exchanges, the next time he ventured down for barter. If that happened, Kaelen would simply visit a few of their homes, a quiet reminder of his strength, and ensure a fair deal. It was a tedious cycle, one he had grown accustomed to.
Lost in thought, Kaelen paused by the hearth, stoking the low fire. A sharp rap-rap-rap echoed from the door. Not the tentative knocking of a lost sheep, but a firm, deliberate sound.
A heavy sigh escaped Kaelen. He crossed the small room, his hand on the door latch. “Who dares disturb my quiet now? Do you seek a similar lesson?” Could their memory be so short?
However, the figure beyond the door was not one of the brawling youths. A man stood there, perhaps in his late forties, cloaked in dust-stained grey. An awkward smile touched his lips.
“Ah, pardon me, young friend. I am but a traveler. I sought a moment’s respite, perhaps a cup of water, but it seems I’ve chosen an inopportune moment.”
A traveler. Kaelen had never encountered such a person in his eighteen years. He froze for a moment, his mind struggling to process the sight. Someone leisurely enough to wander these desolate hills?
Kaelen stepped aside. “No, not at all. Please, come in. Unpleasant company departed just moments ago.” The formal tone, learned from his mother for addressing elders, felt strange on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken like this? It must have been before he learned that most in the village, including Elara and the other elders, were largely self-serving fools. Yes, it had been a long time.
“If you would be so kind.” The man entered, shedding a faint scent of pine needles and distant rains.
Truth be told, if Kaelen truly wished to hide, he should have sent the stranger away. But a long silence had settled over his life since Morwen’s passing. He longed for even a brief, peaceful conversation.
And besides, should the man prove ill-intentioned, Kaelen was certain he could handle him.
“Have you taken your morning meal?” Kaelen asked, gesturing to the simple table.
“Not yet, I confess.”
“Nor I. Join me, then.”
Kaelen seated the traveler, then laid out freshly churned ewe’s milk, a wedge of firm cheese, porridge made from dried grain from the village, a lump of rock salt, and strips of dried lamb jerky. His mother’s lessons on hospitality echoed: *Treat guests with utmost care, and they will not dare harm their host.*
“Such a poor place this is. I have little to offer.”
“Nonsense, young man! This is a king’s feast!” The traveler spoke with genuine warmth, eating with an enthusiasm that suggested days of lean travel. Kaelen noted his table manners; things he had never witnessed among the villagers. He did not speak with a full mouth, and he turned his head slightly when drinking. A quiet respect for the meal, and for Kaelen.
Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar in Kaelen. After a sip of the milk, he offered a kind remark. “You carry yourself with a fine grace, young man. Your parents must have taught you well.”
“My mother taught me.” Kaelen’s voice was even.
The traveler hesitated, sensing the omission of a father. “And… does your mother reside in the village? This house suggests a single inhabitant.” His gaze drifted to the lone cot.
Kaelen nodded. “She passed from illness, a few years gone.”
A flicker of sorrow crossed the man’s face. He bowed his head, making a subtle gesture with one hand Kaelen had never seen—a slow, spiraling motion that seemed to gather the air, then release it towards the earth. “My deepest condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she surely dwells in the celestial halls, among the Progenitors.”
“I hope so.” Once, the mere thought of her had ruined his appetite, brought him to tears for days. Now, he could speak of it, even offer a faint smile. Was it the passage of time, dulling her presence? Or had Kaelen truly grown into an adult, capable of bearing such grief with quiet strength?
A sudden gloom threatened to settle. Kaelen forcibly changed the subject. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?”
“I passed through a nearby hamlet, where I heard an old man lamenting the appearance of a Gloom-fang Stalker, and seeking a Sentinel to deal with it. I found his story compelling. I’m quite confident in matters of combat.”
“Alone?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed. A middle-aged man, not yet past his prime but certainly not in the flush of youth, looked as though his back might give out from a strenuous hike. To face a magical beast without even a visible weapon?
The traveler’s astonishment drew an awkward smile from Kaelen. “I am a Sentinel, young man. I served the House Ashara for sixty years. Most beasts are no match for me.”
At the word ‘Sentinel,’ Kaelen’s eyes widened. His body tensed, a coiled spring. A being he had only heard of in his mother’s whispered tales, a servant of Archons, one of his own kind.
His tension, however, was brief. Kaelen searched the man’s gaze, finding no trace of malice, only weary benevolence. Slowly, he relaxed.
“Is something amiss?” the traveler asked, observing Kaelen’s shift.
“It’s just… this is my first time meeting a Sentinel. But more than that, you do not appear to have worked for sixty years.”
“Sentinels age more slowly, and live longer than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five summers this year. For a Sentinel, I’ve aged thus. I’ve heard that powerful Archons can easily live two or three centuries.”
This was new, startling information. Kaelen observed the man, a being of his own kind, with renewed intensity. Outwardly, he was indistinguishable from any other man of sturdy build and healthy complexion. Strong, perhaps, but not overtly magical.
This was crucial. It meant Kaelen could stand amidst the bustling markets of Veridian, as long as he refrained from conspicuous displays of power, and no one would ever discern his true nature.
Learning this, Kaelen felt as though one of the heavy chains binding his chest had suddenly loosened. A deep, slow breath filled his lungs.
“To be a Sentinel… it truly is incredible.”
“Incredible?” The man chuckled softly. “Not at all. I think people like you are far more incredible. To live in such a rough place, where the Gloom-fang Stalkers roam, without relying on the Resonance? I could not imagine such a life.”
Contrary to the man’s belief, this was the first time a magical beast truly threatening to humans had appeared in this area. At least, in Kaelen’s memory. If that had not been the case, Morwen, extraordinary as she was, could not have raised a child here, alone, as a shepherd.
In truth, his mother, who had nurtured him in this desolate hill, without a shred of power, was the one truly deserving of praise.
“Now that I think on it, I have not introduced myself. My name is Lysander. Lysander of Ashara—though, I suppose I no longer carry that title. Call me Lysander the Wanderer. And you are?”
“Kaelen. Sole shepherd of Stonepeak Ridge.”
“A fine name, Kaelen.” Lysander nodded.
“You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a noble house. Does that mean you no longer do?”
“I officially ended my vassal contract a moon ago. The house offered to care for me until my dying breath, if I wished. But… I desired to spend my later years traveling, seeing the lands. I had been tied to a single house ever since I was indentured at the age of fifteen, after all.”