Oakhaven’s clamor was a stark counterpoint to the Dust-Kissed Barrens’ desolate silence. Stone and timber pressed close, the air thick with woodsmoke, baking bread, and the sweat of countless lives. Kaelen found respite in a bustling alehouse, its rough-hewn tables scarred by generations of patrons. He sought a quiet corner, his satchel resting against his worn boots, the memory of brigands and raw elemental fury still a fresh brand on his soul.
A young woman, Elara, her smile warm but weary, placed a chipped mug before him. Steam billowed from the spiced ale. Kaelen pushed a few coppers across the table.
“Curious,” Kaelen rumbled, his voice rough from disuse. “How might one learn of… creatures that plague the outlying roads?” His gaze flickered to a weathered parchment tacked near the hearth, detailing a reward for a “Stonehide Boar.”
Elara paused, wiping down the table with a damp cloth. “Ah, you mean the bounty lists, then? Folk looking to earn a bit of coin by clearing out the wild’s dangers.” She straightened, a knowing look in her eyes. “Best go to the Hall of Records. Ask for the Master of Petitions. They’ll have all the official notes.”
Kaelen furrowed his brow. “A Hall of Records? A Master of Petitions?” The terms were alien, Veridian’s city-states managing such matters through guildmasters and direct community forums, not these formalized titles.
Elara’s laugh, light and clear, drew a few glances. “You truly are new to Oakhaven, aren’t you, good sir? The Hall stands in the city’s heart, where all the city’s business is seen to. And the Master of Petitions, he’s the Lord’s own man, oversees it all.”
Night had already draped its velvet over the city, stars like scattered diamonds above the lamplit streets. Finding the Hall of Records now would be fruitless. Kaelen nodded, swirling the ale in his mug.
“You wouldn’t be one of those Beast-Reavers, would you?” Elara asked, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hunting the mutated things that stray too close to our walls?”
Kaelen felt a prickle of unease. “Beast-Reavers?”
“Aye,” she affirmed, her eyes wide. “They’re the ones who believe killing the twisted beasts can grant them… the Old Powers. Make them into what the legends call ‘Channelers’.” She scoffed, a soft sound. “Some folk will believe anything.”
Channelers. The word was a faint echo of the forgotten lore of Veridian, tales of individuals who could command the very elements, beings Kaelen now knew were his distant kin. He felt a tremor of his own latent power, a deep hum beneath his skin. Had the world truly forgotten so much, that his forbidden heritage was now mere superstition?
Elara continued, recounting the spread of this strange belief, how ordinary folk, desperate for power or prestige, risked their lives against creatures of nightmare. “Most folk, they pity them, or call them mad. But they keep coming, hoping to rise above their station.”
A heavy hand clapped Kaelen’s shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. A man stood there, grizzled and broad, his face a roadmap of hard living. Hair like tangled straw framed sharp, intelligent eyes that belied his unkempt appearance. He smelled of sweat, stale ale, and something metallic, like worked iron.
“Lena, lass,” the man corrected, his voice a gravelly rumble. “It ain’t just superstition. It’s the truth. I’ve seen it, with my own two eyes.”
Elara gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Thane! You live!”
Thane grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. “Did you think the blight would claim me? Not before I’ve claimed my own share of the Old Power, Elara.”
Behind Thane, three other men shuffled forward, their frames bulky with muscle. One carried a spear taller than himself, another a bow with a quiver of thick-shafted arrows, and the third, a monstrous hammer that looked capable of crumbling stone walls. Thane’s gaze, though sharp, held a desperate glint.
Kaelen subtly shifted, dislodging Thane’s hand. The man recoiled slightly, a flash of surprise in his eyes. “My apologies, friend.”
“It’s no matter,” Kaelen replied, his voice even. “But what you said… about the Old Power and hunting beasts?”
Thane’s grin widened, a spark of camaraderie lighting his face. “So, you’re curious too, youngling? It’s simple enough. Channelers, they slay the twisted beasts, and their essences, the raw spirit of the wilds, passes into them. Makes ‘em stronger, makes ‘em Channelers in turn.” He thumped his chest. “Same principle applies to us ordinary folk. Kill enough, and the spark catches.”
Thane’s men nodded vigorously, their faces etched with conviction.
“We’ve felled three of them already!” the spearman, Roric, boomed.
“Nearly there, we are!” Brenn, the archer, added, flexing his bicep.
Kaelen felt a cold knot in his stomach. The memory of the hulking creature he’d faced outside Veridian, the brigands consumed by fire and crushing earth, flickered behind his eyes. Those were not mere beasts. They were manifestations of raw, unrestrained power. Three of them? It seemed impossible for men without any elemental sensitivity.
“Three?” Kaelen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Has one of you… become a Channeler, then?”
His question was met with a burst of laughter from Thane’s group, quickly joined by others in the alehouse. It was a hearty, almost pitying sound.
“Bless your naive heart, lad!” Thane chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “In all Oakhaven, there are but four Channelers: our Lord, and his three Oath-Knights. That’s it.”
Roric snorted. “If even one of us sparked, the rest would be a sight easier!”
“Truth be told,” Brenn added, his expression grim, “we’ve nearly met the Silent Mother ourselves, just taking down those beasts.”
Four Channelers, in a city that must have housed tens of thousands. Kaelen recalled whispers from his youth in Veridian, of a time when the world was alive with primal forces, when elemental command was not a rarity but a natural extension of life. The thought brought a pang of loneliness, a reminder of his own isolation.
Thane’s gaze fell upon Kaelen’s simple, unadorned satchel. “You speak of hunting, but your gear… seems light. No blade? No bow?”
Kaelen hesitated. He carried a small carving knife, a tool of his craft, but it was hardly a weapon against a Stonehide Boar. His true weapon lay within him, a power that manifested as a fiery tremor in his blood, a crushing weight in his bones. He raised his calloused hands, the scars from his craft and from the recent battles clear on his knuckles.
“These are my tools,” Kaelen said, his voice low.
Thane’s group eyed his hands. “Ah, bare-knuckle work, then,” Thane mused. “Hard-bitten, eh?”
Roric grunted. “Looks like he’s put ‘em to use.”
Brenn leaned in. “What sort of beasts do you hunt, then? The scuttlers? The transformed burrow-hares, maybe?”
They assumed he hunted the weakest of the mutated, creatures that, in their normal forms, might fall to a well-placed rock or a sturdy club. Kaelen had faced a different class of foe entirely. He felt a shiver of the primal energies he’d wielded, remembering the sheer destructive power. These men, for all their bravado, were playing a far more dangerous game than they understood.
“Say, lad, we could use another hand, if you’re looking to join a hunt,” Thane offered, a glint in his eye. “A quick hand could prove useful.”
“My thanks,” Kaelen replied, shaking his head. “But my path lies elsewhere.” He could not risk revealing his abilities, not when they were so volatile, so forbidden. Nor did his emerging purpose align with their desperate, misguided quest.
Thane sighed, a sound of disappointment. “A shame, that. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.”
---
Later, with a key given by Elara, Kaelen ascended to a small room on the inn’s second floor. He lay on the rough mattress, the day’s journey and the unsettling conversations weighing on him. Below, through the creaking floorboards, he could hear the Beast-Reavers’ voices, muffled but discernible.
“Thane, why bother with that scrawny runt? He’d be more trouble than he’s worth,” Roric grumbled.
“Aye,” Brenn agreed. “One good swipe from a beast and he’d be blubbering like a bairn.”
The men, who had seemed so jovial and earnest moments before, now mocked him. Kaelen had witnessed such duplicity before, in the squalid corners of Veridian, among desperate merchants and grasping laborers. He felt no anger, only a quiet weariness. People, he knew, often presented a different face when they thought no one was listening.
Thane’s voice eventually cut through the others. “Bah, he just reminded me of my own foolish youth. Wandering the wilds with nothing but grit and empty hands? He wouldn’t last ten days.”
“You’re too soft-hearted, hyungnim,” Garon, the hammer-wielder, responded.
“Perhaps,” Thane conceded. “But the world’s a cruel place.”
Kaelen closed his eyes. The world, indeed, held both kindness and venom, often in the same breath.
---
Mornings in Oakhaven were a symphony of smells: fresh-baked bread, brewing kaff, damp earth. Kaelen broke his fast on a simple meal of dark rye and a thin vegetable stew, then set out for the Hall of Records. It was a formidable structure of weathered grey stone, four stories high, its entrance a constant flow of citizens engaged in myriad tasks.
Kaelen navigated through a bustling crowd, past an elderly man gesticulating wildly about a disputed land claim and a sharp-eyed woman haggling over a merchant’s permit. He eventually found a narrow counter marked ‘Petitions and Public Works’, where a man with a quill perpetually poised over parchment presided.
“Your business?” the official asked, not looking up. He was middle-aged, his face saggy with bureaucracy, his tone dismissive. He clearly saw Kaelen as another grubby wanderer.
Kaelen stated his purpose, requesting information on bounties for dangerous creatures. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: to reveal his lineage, the primal power that surged through him. The official would undoubtedly be bowing and scraping, offering titles and deference. But the thought was quickly dismissed. Such a revelation would bring unwanted attention, perhaps even fear and persecution. He sought knowledge, not power, at least not in this public, performative way. His own path required discretion, quiet study, and the avoidance of entanglements.
“Don’t take it with you. Read it here, return it when done,” the official grumbled, sliding a thick vellum scroll across the counter. It listed various creatures: their perceived forms, approximate sizes, behaviors, suspected locations, and the coin offered for their capture or eradication. Weaker beasts required live capture; the more aggressive, a corpse. The official warned, “Be wary. Many try to pass off common animals as lesser beasts. And hear this: should you fell one, do not abandon the remains. Bring it back, no matter its state. Without the proper rites from the Oath-Knights, the magic within it could fester, give rise to an unquiet spirit. Leaving such a corpse is a crime punishable by the axeman’s block.”
Kaelen’s breath hitched. He had, in his own recent trials, left the remains of foes to be consumed by the barrens. The warning about an “unquiet spirit” echoed the terror he’d witnessed, the malevolent will he’d perceived. He etched the official’s words into his memory, a cold dread settling in his gut.
“But some of these creatures,” Kaelen ventured, pointing to a particularly menacing entry, “they sound beyond the reach of ordinary folk. Do the Oath-Knights not deal with them?”
The official scoffed, a dry, rasping sound. “And when would they find the time? The Oath-Knights uphold the Lord’s law, patrol our walls, and ready for invasion. The wild things, they’re for… drifters like yourself, seeking a coin.”
Kaelen’s gaze drifted to the scroll, landing on an entry that turned his stomach cold:
**Razorwing Crow**
*A crow whose feathers have hardened and sharpened to steel, capable of deflecting arrows and severing flesh. Known to dive from heights, dropping its lethal quills upon prey. It preys upon stray dogs and young children near the city’s fringes, leaving their scattered remains…*
A wave of bitter disappointment washed over Kaelen. If Channelers were truly meant to protect humanity, to be the guardians of this world, why did such horrors persist? Why were these tasks relegated to desperate wanderers, while the city’s sworn protectors remained within their walls? His own burgeoning power, still wild and untamed, suddenly felt like a heavier burden, a silent accusation.
Kaelen left the Hall of Records, the city’s bustling streets now feeling cold and indifferent. He walked towards the outskirts, the noise of civilization gradually fading into the rustle of dry brush and the chirping of unseen insects. Beyond the last scattered dwellings, the wild began.
*Time to begin, then.* He closed his eyes, centering himself. The Razorwing Crow. A predator, seeking the vulnerable. He reached out, not with a conscious spell, but with an unfurling of his perception, a deep probe into the elemental fabric around him. He sought the resonance of the avian, the tell-tale shimmer of life-force, the subtle currents of the air.
Suddenly, his mind was overwhelmed. A cacophony of sound, a blinding storm of sensation. The beating of countless wings, the sharp caws of ordinary crows, the rustle of feathers, the scrabble of tiny claws on branches. It was a riot of avian life, a thousand tiny currents swirling around him. He gasped, the sheer volume of unfiltered information forcing him to pull back.
“Too much,” Kaelen muttered, rubbing his temples. The method was useless. How could he discern one corrupted bird from a flock of a thousand, when each one’s life-force was merely a ripple in a vast ocean?
He tried again, this time attempting to filter for a particular distortion, a *corruption* in the elemental flow, a faint echo of malevolent intent that might mark the Razorwing. He pressed, focusing on the quality of *sharpness*, the *edge* of its elemental being.
Nothing. The sensation remained diffuse, a general hum of the wild, no distinct signature emerging. The sheer breadth of life, both mundane and twisted, made precise identification impossible. He had not yet learned to sift the subtle from the pervasive, the specific blight from the general life-force. He needed another approach. He needed to find a different kind of trail. Perhaps a more direct, physical sign, a disturbance in the earth or air that only *this* creature could leave.
His gaze fell upon the dry, cracked earth, the whisper of the wind through the tall, brittle grasses. A new path, then. A hunter’s path, not a Channeler’s. At least, not yet.