The sprawl of Veridia pressed in, a suffocating weight of stone and clamor after the empty plains. Roric moved like a phantom, a whisper among the roaring crowd, each face a blur, each voice a jumble. The incident outside the city walls, the raw surge of power, clung to him like a second skin, cold and unforgiving. He sought refuge in an alley, the scent of refuse and stale bread a brutal comfort compared to the vibrant chaos. His stomach growled, a commoner's reminder. A tavern sign, chipped and faded, beckoned from the next street over. ‘The Cog & Flagon.’ Its warmth, when he pushed through the creaking door, was immediate, a thick stew of roasted meat, stale ale, and the low thrum of conversation. A wiry server, her apron stained with the day’s labor, moved between tables. Roric, perched on a stool at the counter, ordered a bowl of the cheapest broth. His eyes, quick and darting, absorbed the room. He wasn't looking for trouble; he was looking for understanding. He caught snippets of talk, merchants haggling, laborers grumbling. Then, a phrase snagged his attention: “...Guildhall of Records, that’s where you’d find it. Ask one of the Scriveners about the Errant-Creature reports.” Errant-Creatures. That was Veridia’s euphemism, then. The city’s denial of magic was a thin veil. A young man near him, nursing a half-empty tankard, chuckled, a loose, boisterous sound. “The Guildhall? Ha! You’d think they’d know better. Still chasing the whispers, eh?” The server, placing Roric’s broth, leaned conspiratorially. “Oh, they still do. Think hunting a beastie can make you an Awakened, they do. Mad, I say.” She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Imagine. Just kill a few mutated hares, and suddenly you’re wielding the Elder-Echoes, like the Guildmasters themselves.” Elder-Echoes. Awakened. The names were different, but the intent was clear. People sought power, a connection to the very thing Roric himself was a reluctant vessel for. A shiver traced his spine. “Madness,” Roric murmured, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. His own strange capabilities felt like a curse, not a gift. He suppressed the thought, pushing it down, down. --- A heavy hand clapped Roric’s shoulder. He flinched, almost spilling his broth. A man, somewhere in his late thirties, stood over him. His face was a roadmap of sun-chapped skin and stubble, but his eyes held an unnerving clarity, sharp as flint. Three others, burly and grim, stood behind him, their rough-hewn axes and crude steam-pistols clanking. “Lira, don’t you be calling us mad. I’ve seen it, lad.” The man, who others called Kaelen, gestured with a calloused thumb at Roric. “Don’t tell me, young’un, you’re chasing the Echoes too?” Roric’s stomach clenched. “Chasing what?” Kaelen grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. “The Elder-Echoes! The true source! They say kill enough of these Erratic-Forms, absorb their raw Essence, and the dormant seed within you… it awakens. Turns you into something more. A Wielder of the Echoes. Just like the old tales, eh?” His companions grunted in agreement, their eyes alight with a fanatical glint. “We’ve felled three of the brutes already!” one of them boasted, thumping a fist on the table. “Almost there, lads, almost there!” another chimed in, his voice thick with ale and ambition. Roric stared, the broth cooling forgotten. Three. The creature he’d faced, a mutated wolf, had been a nightmare of teeth and claw, an abomination that had forced a terrible, violent answer from him. These men, with their flimsy weapons, hunted such things? “Three?” Roric’s voice was barely a whisper. “Does that mean one of you… is already… Awakened?” The entire tavern erupted in laughter. Kaelen clapped Roric’s back again, a bone-jarring blow. “Gods no, lad! If we had an Awakened among us, think how easy it’d be! We’d be rich beyond measure, living in the Inner Ring!” “Aye, Master Kaelen speaks true,” one of his men said, sobering. “Only four truly Awakened in Veridia. The High Arbiter and his three Vanguard Captains. Everyone else? Just common folk, or those with a few parlor tricks.” Four. In a city that seemed to stretch to the horizon, a pulsing heart of industry and people, only four. It mirrored the scarcity of true knowledge he'd always felt in the dusty archives. His own burgeoning, terrifying power felt even more alien, more solitary. --- Kaelen’s gaze drifted to Roric’s worn satchel, then to his unweaponed hands. “Still, chasing Erratic-Forms with nothing but hope, eh? What do you arm yourself with, boy? A prayer book?” Roric hesitated. He carried no sword, no pistol. Only the smooth, river-polished stone he had instinctively used as a conduit for his power. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the stone. It felt warm, familiar, a solid anchor against the chaotic currents within him. Kaelen’s men exchanged glances, then burst into a round of appreciative murmurs. “A slinging stone, eh?” “Looks like it’s seen a few targets.” “Good for cracking the skull of a burrow-rat, that is.” “Aye, or a fox-snare.” Their words clicked into place. They weren't hunting the monstrous predators Roric had faced. They were targeting smaller, lesser mutations – creatures that, while dangerous, were still within the realm of conventional weaponry. Roric felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. “Say, lad, interested in joining us?” Kaelen asked, his eyes suddenly calculating. “We could use another hand, especially one with a good aim.” Roric shook his head, a quick, decisive motion. He couldn’t. Couldn’t risk them seeing the raw, untamed surge. Couldn’t risk them finding out what he truly was. And his aim, if he truly let loose, was something far beyond a simple sling. Kaelen shrugged, a flicker of regret crossing his face. “Pity. Well, if you change your mind, we’re always at the Cog until the last bell.” Roric finished his broth, the warmth a welcome balm to his empty stomach. He paid the server, gathered his satchel, and climbed the creaking stairs to a small, rented room. The sounds of the tavern seeped through the thin floorboards. He laid on the straw mattress, eyes fixed on the grimy ceiling. “...the scrawny kid? He wouldn’t last an hour out there.” “Barely looks like he could lift a tankard, let alone an axe.” The voices of Kaelen’s men, once boisterous, were now laced with thinly veiled mockery. It was a familiar sting, one he’d felt often in the archives, deemed too quiet, too soft. He merely sighed. Such was the way of people, ever quick to judge, ever quick to dismiss what they didn’t understand. Then, Kaelen’s gruff voice. “Quiet, you louts. He reminded me of myself, back when I was a greenhorn. Out there with nothing but guts and a dream. The world’s a cruel place, and he’ll learn that quick enough.” Roric closed his eyes. The world was indeed cruel. He knew that now, in the deepest, most visceral part of his being. And he was learning that his own power, a thing he feared, might be the only weapon he had. --- The next morning, the city was already alive with the clang of gears and the hiss of steam. Roric, after a breakfast of stale bread and bitter tea, navigated the labyrinthine streets toward the Guildhall of Records. It rose, a monolithic structure of dark, ancient stone, nestled amongst the newer clockwork marvels. Its imposing facade spoke of centuries of guarded knowledge. Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the scent of aged parchment and dust. Scriveners, their faces pale and serious, moved between towering shelves. Roric found a reception desk, behind which sat a man with spectacles perched on his nose, his quill scratching rhythmically. “Errant-Creature reports,” Roric stated, his voice quiet but firm. The scrivener peered over his spectacles, his gaze dismissive, taking in Roric’s simple clothes. “Another thrill-seeker, eh? You lot never learn. We only log verified incidents. No fanciful tales.” He slid a grimy, stiff sheet across the counter. “Look, but don’t touch. And bring it back when you’re done with your imaginings.” Roric picked up the sheet, careful not to crease it. It listed various creatures: their crude sketches, approximate sizes, known behaviors, and the ‘Rewards for Containment or Neutralization.’ The weaker ones, indeed, required capture. The more aggressive, those hostile to humans, could be killed. “Remember,” the scrivener droned, without looking up, “if you do manage to fell one of these… anomalies… don’t leave the carcass. Bring it to a Guild Station immediately. The Residual Essence, if left unchecked, can… destabilize. Spawn something far worse. It’s city law. Abandon a neutralized Erratic-Form, and it’s a capital offense.” Roric’s blood ran cold. *Residual Essence.* *Spawn something far worse.* The scrivener's words confirmed his deepest fears – the Guilds understood the danger of raw Aether. His own power, the one he’d used against the bandits, could be that very force. The memory of the bandit’s corpse, of the ground trembling around it, flashed in his mind. He’d fled, panicked, leaving it behind. A capital offense. The weight of his unwitting crime pressed down on him. “These creatures,” Roric said, his voice a strained whisper, “some seem… quite dangerous. Do the Vanguard Captains not deal with them?” The scrivener snorted, adjusting his spectacles. “The Captains protect the Inner Ring, maintain order. They don’t have time for every stray beast that wanders in from the wastes. That, my young friend, is left to the… enterprising individuals. Like yourself.” Roric looked down at the paper, his jaw tight. The Guildmasters, the so-called Awakened, who secretly wielded the Elder-Echoes, deemed themselves too important for such tasks. It left a bitter taste. He read the entry for the most recent threat: **Steel-Feather Crow** *A large corvid, its wings and tail feathers hardened into razor-sharp, metallic barbs. Known to dive from high altitudes, releasing a deadly shower of these quills. Preys on small animals and unattended children at the city’s fringes, scattering their remains for scavengers…* The description chilled him to the bone. Children. A primal need to act, to protect, stirred within him, battling his deep-seated fear. If those with power wouldn’t protect the innocent, who would? He felt a flicker of defiance, a nascent resolve. He left the Guildhall, the heavy stone door thudding shut behind him. Veridia’s outer districts blurred into the familiar, sparse wilderness. He stopped, a lone figure silhouetted against the encroaching twilight. The air here was cleaner, less suffocating. *Steel-Feather Crow.* A man-eating anomaly. A child-hunter. He closed his eyes, focusing. Not a spell, not a conscious incantation, but a deep resonance, a listening. He opened himself, just a fraction, to the Aether that permeated all things. He sought the whisper of metal against air, the flutter of wings unique to this mutated bird. A strange pressure built behind his eyes. Hundreds of sensations flooded him. The rustle of dry leaves, the distant caw of ordinary crows, the beat of countless tiny hearts. He winced, clamping down on the surge. Too much. A headache bloomed behind his temples. He needed to refine his senses. Filter it. *A crow, but with a discordant hum of Aether…* Again, he reached out. This time, nothing. The distinction was too subtle, or his control too crude. He couldn’t discern the presence of raw Essence within a creature. It all just felt like… life. *A crow that has consumed human flesh…* This time, a dizzying wave of hits. Too many. Scavengers. All of them. His abilities, untamed and misunderstood, were clumsy instruments in this harsh, unforgiving world. But a seed of determination had taken root. He would learn. He had to.

Echoes in the Stone