Aethelgard’s lower districts breathed a constant damp chill, a breath drawn from ancient, forgotten abysses. Joris navigated the labyrinthine passages, his steps light, ears attuned not to sound, but to the city’s deeper pulse. Today, the subtle thrumming led him to the abandoned utility conduits, where stray magic often coalesced into strange, transient life.
He found seven such creatures within the winding metal veins and crumbling brickwork. Each time, Joris extended his hand, letting his own resonance meet the wild, chaotic energies of the beast. It wasn’t a forceful absorption, but a gentle coaxing, a harmonizing that calmed the creature’s agitated core and drew the excess, discordant magic into himself.
A profound clarity washed over him, spine-chilling in its intensity. He felt the creature’s lingering memories, its brief, vibrant existence, folding into his own awareness. This wasn’t just power; it was a deeper connection to Aethelgard itself, a taste of its living history. The sensation was addicting, a quiet ecstasy that hummed in his bones.
Oddly, a melancholic thought surfaced. Soon, this raw, unfiltered insight would diminish. Once his own internal resonance reached a certain equilibrium, these casual attunements would no longer yield such a potent thrill.
Yet, the process offered more than just primal satisfaction. By the fifth creature, the subtle currents of echo-energy within Joris had deepened, a quiet strength settling in his core. It felt as though the very stones of Aethelgard sang a clearer tune to him, their silent histories now a little less opaque.
Logically, he could continue this, day after day, and grow exponentially. But the city, even Aethelgard with its endless layers, wasn't inexhaustible.
Growth in resonance became harder with each weaker creature, like trying to draw light from a dying ember. Moreover, hunting the same conduits repeatedly would inevitably deplete the anomalous fauna in the immediate vicinity.
Whispers among the Scavengers of the Deep spoke of distant districts, of pilgrimages to forgotten under-vaults where the city’s wild magic still ran untamed, seeking richer, more complex echoes.
With this in mind, Joris made a choice. He captured two of the weaker creatures alive. Their faint, almost imperceptible resonance offered little to reclaim, but their oddities were undeniable.
One was a gleam-rat, its whiskers crystalline and faintly luminous, twitching with residual energy. The other, a scuttling rock-lizard, whose scales shimmered with the color and texture of broken street-pavement, a perfect urban camouflage.
He tied them carefully, gently, with thin cord. Then, he delivered them to the City Reclamation Office, a dust-choked chamber beneath a crumbling clock tower. Grimsley, the Reclamation Officer, a man whose face was a roadmap of cynicism, merely grunted.
“Two, then?” Grimsley’s eyes, rheumy and distant, barely focused.
“Captured unharmed,” Joris stated, his voice even. “The gleam-rat and the rock-lizard. That’s twenty-five Shards, correct?”
“Hmm, well…” Grimsley picked at a loose thread on his tunic, his gaze sliding away, a transparent attempt to shave a few coins from the bounty. The air in the office felt thick with unspoken corruption.
Joris simply waited, his attention unwavering. A quiet intensity, a deep stillness radiated from him. Grimsley met his gaze for a flicker, then looked away, a small tremor running through his shoulders. He didn’t try to bargain.
“Here you go.” Grimsley pushed a small pouch across the counter, its weight clinking with silver Shards.
Earning money like this, through the precise application of his unique ability, was a strange, new pleasure. Joris slipped the twenty-five Shards into his own pouch, the coins cool against his palm.
---
Returning to the Dust Moth, the inn’s rough-hewn doors creaking a welcome, Elara, the innkeeper’s daughter, offered a tired smile. “Back in one piece, Echo Weaver? Dinner, as usual? Soot-bread and broth?”
Joris had grown accustomed to the cheapest fare, a habit from his meager upbringing in the city's forgotten crannies. But a quiet hunger, not for food but for experience, stirred within him. The silver in his pouch felt heavy, substantial.
“Tonight,” Joris said, his voice soft, “I’ll have the most expensive thing you’ve got.”
Elara’s eyes, usually clouded with weariness, widened. “By the Deep! You’ve struck a vein of old copper! I’ll tell Da right away!”
He hadn't realized how long such a meal would take to prepare. Nearly an hour passed, filled with the distant clatter of pots and the rising scent of roasted herbs. But when the food finally arrived, laid out on a clean, if scarred, wooden tray, the wait dissolved.
Fresh-baked soot-bread, still warm, with a tangy fruit preserve Joris had never tasted. A roasted cliff-grouse, glazed with a dark, aromatic seasoning. Beside it, a steaming bowl of spiced tunnel-root stew, rich with meat and earthy vegetables. Sizzling pork ribs, crowned with melted, pungent cheese.
For someone whose early life had known only hard, tasteless rations and whatever meager scraps could be foraged from the city’s underbelly, this was a feast beyond imagining. Each bite was a revelation. The tender meat, the burst of fruit, the complex warmth of the spices. He ate with a quiet focus, savoring every texture, every flavor. The heavy, melancholic weight he often carried seemed to lift, if only for a short while.
Soon, the plates lay clean, remnants scattered. Joris blinked, almost surprised.
“...No one stole it while I wasn’t looking, did they?” he murmured.
Elara, clearing the table, chuckled softly. “Of course not! But for someone so quiet, you certainly put it away! It’s rare to see someone enjoy Da’s cooking like that.” Even the innkeeper, Da himself, a gruff, flour-dusted man, emerged from the kitchen, a rare, pleased glint in his eye.
Through this simple act, Joris had discovered a new kind of satisfaction: the joy of fine, nourishing food.
---
Three days passed swiftly. Joris hunted more than thirty of the city’s strange, resonant creatures. Only five were significant enough to claim bounties for, but even that modest sum allowed him to exchange some Shards for a few heavier Runes, easier to store.
The efficiency came from a deeper understanding of his resonance-tracing. He'd learned that even when a creature was beyond the immediate sphere of his perception, its faint echo lingered on the stones, in the damp air, in the subtle shifts of ambient magic.
He could set his inner sense to ‘trace the lingering resonance of a skitter-rat with heightened bio-luminescence,’ then follow the almost imperceptible trail of energy it left behind. The city’s low hum became a map, revealing hidden paths and fleeting presences.
Meanwhile, Kaelen’s group, the Scavengers of the Deep, seemed to be struggling. Joris observed their darkening expressions, overheard their hushed complaints about dwindling finds, about barely scraping together enough Shards for their meager room at the Dust Moth.
One evening, as Joris ascended the creaking stairs to his room, Varr and Bren, two of Kaelen’s burly companions, blocked his path. Their faces were grim, shoulders hunched with frustrated hunger.
“Hey, quiet one,” Varr rumbled, his voice low, edged with menace. Bren stood behind him, fists loosely clenched.
“Heard you’ve been pulling in more than scraps lately,” Bren added, stepping forward. “Share some with your fellow Scavengers.”
Joris met their gazes. He didn’t glare, didn’t raise his voice. He simply shifted his weight, his internal resonance flaring, a sudden, precise surge of energy aimed not at violence, but disruption. Varr stumbled, his own feet betraying him as if the very ground had tilted. Bren, caught off-balance by his companion’s unexpected lurch, found Joris’s hand unexpectedly firm on his wrist, twisting subtly.
A sharp, almost inaudible crackle of displaced air. Bren gasped, his arm pinned, then twisted. In less than a minute, both men found themselves tumbling down the stairs, cursing loudly, more surprised than truly harmed.
After the brief commotion, Kaelen appeared, his face etched with shame. He bowed his head low to Joris. “I apologize, truly. My men, they’re… I’ll scold them thoroughly. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you having a hard time?” Joris asked, his voice softer than the echoes in the wall.
Kaelen hesitated, then sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Yeah, Joris. We’re tight. Real tight.”
Kaelen and his companions weren’t thugs. They were men from the Forgotten Weaves, one of Aethelgard’s lowest, most forgotten districts. Two years ago, they’d heard rumors of Echo Weavers finding incredible artifacts, of ancient magic that could change lives. They'd abandoned their arduous, poorly paid labor in the Deep-Drills to become Scavengers, hoping to find similar wonders.
But the city’s true magic, its vibrant echoes, were elusive. Most artifacts were inert, most creatures insignificant. Unless a find possessed a potent enough resonance to verify its magical origin, no Reclamation bounty was paid.
They had wandered from district to district, barely surviving on odd jobs, still searching. “Took us two years to find three notable curiosities,” Kaelen confessed, his voice heavy with resignation. “Not enough to live on.”
Joris understood. They were neither trained Echo Weavers nor seasoned artifact hunters, just desperate men trying to make a living from the city’s promises. Without full dedication, constantly needing to find side jobs, their chances were slim.
It painted a stark picture of why city officials often viewed Scavengers as little more than vagrants. People gambling their lives on fleeting chances while others toiled steadily, it wasn’t hard to see why they weren’t looked upon kindly.
“Honestly, another few days, and we won’t be able to afford the room,” Kaelen continued, his gaze distant. “This part of Graveholm is played out for us, not enough work. But don’t worry, we’re not asking you, Joris. Not after… after this.” He gestured vaguely at the stairs, wincing.
“Here.” Joris reached into his pouch, extracting ten gleaming Silver Shards. He pressed them into Kaelen’s calloused hand.
Kaelen stared at the coins, then at Joris, his expression dumbfounded. “Why? What’s this for?”
“You offered me advice when I first came to Graveholm,” Joris replied simply. “Told me where the safer routes were, what to look out for in the Deep. Consider this repayment for that kindness.”
His mother had instilled a simple code: repay kindness in kind, and enmity in equal measure. Kaelen’s early goodwill, small as it seemed, was worth more than a few Shards. As for Varr and Bren’s brief aggression, Joris had already settled that with a swift, silent gesture.
“Still, I can’t just take this…” Kaelen stammered, looking uncomfortable.
“If you feel that way,” Joris suggested, “then share some information. Tell me about the other districts you’ve visited, anything useful you’ve learned.” Information, he'd quickly discovered, was a currency of its own.
Kaelen’s face brightened. “That? That’s no problem at all!” Having spent two years scrounging through Aethelgard’s myriad layers, Kaelen knew a great deal. He quickly scratched out a rudimentary map on a scrap of parchment, pointing to various nearby districts, detailing the different types of resonant anomalies found there, the specific dangers, and areas best avoided.
With the creatures in Graveholm thinning out, this knowledge was invaluable. Joris had no desire to wander aimlessly again, as he had when first arriving in this sprawling city.
Kaelen spoke of the ancient 'Conduit-Labyrinths' where the air itself vibrated with forgotten spells, of 'Glass-Veins' in the upper mid-layers where fragile, luminous flora grew, and of certain 'Custodian Houses' in the Spireside district that guarded their territories jealously, allowing no unregistered Echo Weavers passage.
One detail, in particular, caught Joris’s profound attention.
“There’s a library,” Kaelen said, tracing a finger towards the upper layers on his crude map, “in the Spireside. The Archives of Lumina. They say it holds… thousands of books.”
“Thousands?” Joris breathed, the word a soft echo in the small room.
“That’s what I heard. Never been myself, of course.” Kaelen shrugged. “Only registered Echo Weavers or Spireside Scholars are allowed in.”
Joris had learned to read and write from his mother, a skill she'd passed down in their hidden cranny, but he had never held a true book. His isolated childhood, far from any settlements, had offered no such luxuries. He remembered his mother’s wistful laments, her desire to read stories she could no longer recall. He had always imagined books as mystical vessels, holding the very wisdom of the world.
Now, a new desire sparked within him, a quiet, fervent hunger for knowledge, eclipsing even his need for resources or the pleasure of a good meal. He wanted to know more about this layered city, about the world beyond Aethelgard. He wanted to unravel the countless forgotten histories embedded in its stones.
“Is this enough?” Joris asked, gesturing at the map and Kaelen’s words.
“More than enough, Joris. Thank you. Truly.” Kaelen’s voice was thick with genuine gratitude.
Joris had planned to conduct one last sweep of Graveholm before leaving. Thanks to Kaelen, he now knew exactly where his next journey would take him.
---
As if to mock the quiet resolution, the following afternoon, during his final hunt in the whispering lower conduits, Joris stumbled across a horror.
Bren, one of Kaelen’s companions, lay slumped against a corroded pipe, clutching his stomach. Blood, black in the dim light, gushed between his fingers. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. Half-lidded eyes, glassy with approaching death, flickered up at Joris.
“What happened?” Joris knelt, his resonance reaching out, seeking to understand, to soothe, but Bren’s life-echo was already a fading ember.
“A… rabbit…” Bren choked, a gruesome cough wracking his body. “Shard-fang… monster…”
“Kaelen? Varr?” Joris pressed, his voice low with urgency.
“Over… there…” Bren’s weakening finger trembled, pointing deeper into the shadowed passage.
Joris followed the silent, dreadful summons. Past a jutting wall of broken masonry, he saw it. A familiar tuft of Kaelen’s thinning hair, detached, lay on the grimy floor. Further on, Kaelen himself, his body grotesquely torn, a look of profound indignation frozen on his face, eyes wide with raw, uncomprehending regret.
Varr lay beside him, equally mangled, ripped in half, his hand still clutched around the hilt of a rusty carving knife. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and a chaotic, discordant resonance that made Joris’s teeth ache.
And then, movement. A flash of vermilion fur. A creature, no larger than a house cat, sat amidst the carnage. Its long incisors, razor-sharp and gleaming, almost touched the ground as it chewed methodically on something wet and dark. Its blood-red eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, fixed on Joris.
It was a shard-fang. A terrifyingly mutated rabbit, its hind legs grotesquely muscular, poised to spring. Its resonance was a spike of pure, predatory chaos.
With a soundless blur, it charged, an arrow of muscle and teeth. “Ugh!” Joris threw himself sideways, instinct overriding thought. The creature, unable to halt its momentum, shot past him, slamming into a thick, ancient support pillar.
With a deafening crack, the pillar didn’t just splinter. It sheared cleanly in two, a smooth, impossibly precise cut, as if sliced by a master blade. The shard-fang’s incisors had done the work.
He had underestimated its power. There was no time to test subtle approaches. Joris reached for his hip, pulling out the well-worn sheepskin slingshot he always carried, the smooth river stones already nestled within its pouch.