Eight years had peeled away since Kaelen Thorne first felt the world shift under his touch. It was winter, a frigid wind howling down from the Whisperwind Crags, when the stove in their small cabin sputtered with damp kindling.
His mother had left with the flock. Kaelen, ten years old and shivering, simply *willed* warmth into being. A sudden spark, then a burst of flame, devoured the kindling. He remembered the smell of burning pine, the sudden heat on his cheeks.
Soon, he learned he could do more than ignite a hearth. Lifting the heavy bucket of water, coaxing dust from unseen corners, even strengthening a brittle roof beam against the wind’s assault – all answered his quiet focus. Reality felt like a loose knot he could subtly tighten, a frayed edge he could re-bind.
“Mother, look!”
That evening, he’d eagerly demonstrated. A piece of firewood, still smoking, hovered just above the rough-hewn table. His mother, her face etched with the bite of cold and fatigue, didn’t marvel. She didn’t cheer. Her gaze fixed on the floating wood, a profound weariness settling deep in her eyes.
Slowly, she reached out, her fingers closing around the wood, grounding it. The despair on her face was a new, frightening thing.
‘Kaelen, you must promise me. Promise you’ll never use this… this gift carelessly. Never in front of others.’
‘Why?’ Kaelen had pouted. He was a quiet child, always obedient, but this newfound power was exhilarating, a secret game.
She warmed a cup of ewe’s milk, steam curling like a wispy thread. For the first time, she spoke of the City-State of Veridia, a place far below their remote crags.
‘Down in Veridia, there are those called Guild Masters.’
These Masters, she explained, were said to be distant descendants of the Sky-Weavers, ancient figures who had once understood the very fabric of existence. They inherited formidable control over reality’s underlying patterns, ruling Veridia as both protectors and sovereigns.
Among them, those born from the mingling of Guild Master and common bloodlines were known as Artisan Captains. These Captains also possessed powerful abilities, though lesser than their Masters. They were treated as invaluable tools, loyal servants, their lives bound to the will of the great Guild Houses.
Kaelen’s mother confessed that his own father had been an Artisan Captain. She warned Kaelen that if he ever descended the mountain, the Guild Masters would find him. They would capture him, bind him into servitude, twisting his ability to their own ends.
‘If Guild Masters are like the shepherds of Veridia, then Artisan Captains are their guard dogs. Sometimes, they might be treated with a semblance of affection. But they can also be sold off. Sacrificed whenever necessary.’
The Guild Masters, for all their power and wealth, constantly vied for more, she said. And in these silent conflicts, it was often the Artisan Captains who were broken. It was like a shepherd sending his dog to face a pack of wolves, while he remained safe, throwing stones from a distance.
Her face, as she spoke, held a desolation Kaelen had never witnessed. A fear colder than the winter air.
‘Kaelen, do you want to live with Mother for a long, long time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must hide your power. Otherwise, the Guilds will find you. They’ll take you away. And you’ll never see me again.’
‘Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!’
Eight years. Eight years had passed since Kaelen, with the earnest conviction of a child, made that promise. Even after his mother fell ill, her light dimming like a fading ember, he continued to live alone on the Whisperwind Crags, tending the small flock.
He avoided the City-State, those who might one day seek him out. He refused to become their tool.
---
“Fools.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He pulled the cabin door shut with a solid thud. Not long after dawn, before the morning mist had fully lifted, the young men from the settlement at the base of the Crags had come. They accused him of Old Man Garris’s death.
The signs of an Ironfang Ravager attack were clear to any with eyes, its jagged marks scarring the earth. Yet, they insisted Kaelen had killed the old man himself, then thrown him to the beast as bait. Their claims were as absurd as they were vicious.
Reasoning behind their accusations was plain. They simply sought an excuse.
Of course, Kaelen had dispatched the instigators with swift, precise blows. He sent them stumbling back down the crag path, their shouts echoing into the wind.
Next time he descended to trade, they would undoubtedly try to lower the value of his goods, or tamper with his supplies. Such was their predictable pattern. If that happened, Kaelen would simply ensure a fairer deal through a few more well-placed reminders.
It was a familiar, annoying cycle. He had grown accustomed to their small-minded hostilities.
Lost in thought for a moment, a sudden knock rattled the door. A harsh, demanding *thump-thump-thump*.
Kaelen let out a slow breath, a faint plume of mist in the chill air. He opened the door, his voice a low growl.
“Who is it now? Do you seek another lesson?”
Surely, their memories weren't so short? Had they already forgotten the morning’s encounter?
Man at the door was not one of the villagers. He was a man in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, cloaked in dust-stained travel gear. A faint, awkward smile touched his lips.
“Ah… pardon me, young friend. I’m merely a traveler. I hoped to impose on you for a while, but it seems I’ve chosen an inopportune moment.”
A traveler? Kaelen, in eighteen years, had never seen such a person. His mind momentarily seized. Someone with such leisure, enough to venture into this desolate countryside.
His body, stiff with readiness, slowly relaxed. Kaelen stepped aside from the doorway. He gestured the man in.
“No, not at all. Please, enter. Some… unpleasant individuals had been here earlier.”
The formal tone felt strange on his tongue. It was a manner of speaking his mother had insisted upon for elders. When had he last used it? It must have been before he realized most people, including Old Man Garris and the other villagers, were little more than grasping fools.
“If you’ll excuse me, then.”
Truthfully, to maintain his hidden life, Kaelen should have turned the stranger away. But the man carried no immediate hostility. He simply looked tired.
Long had it been since Kaelen had spoken with another human without the bitter undertow of suspicion or aggression. He yearned for even a brief, peaceful exchange.
Besides, if this traveler proved to have ill intent, Kaelen felt a quiet confidence he could handle him.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor have I. Join me, if you wish.”
Kaelen motioned the traveler to the table. He laid out freshly churned ewe’s milk, a wedge of firm cheese, porridge made from dried grain, a lump of rock salt, and strips of cured mountain lamb. Even in such a remote place, hospitality was a principle his mother had instilled. Treat a guest with respect, and they would be less inclined to harm you.
“This is a meager place, so I have little to offer.”
“What are you saying? This is a feast! Thank you for the meal.”
No empty words. The man ate with fervent hunger, as if he hadn’t seen food in days. Even in his haste, he displayed proper table manners, a quiet decorum Kaelen had never observed among the villagers. He didn’t speak with his mouth full, turned his head slightly when drinking.
Perhaps the traveler noticed something similar in Kaelen. After a deep drink of milk, he offered a kind remark.
“You possess good manners. Your parents must have taught you well.”
“My mother taught me.”
Noticing Kaelen’s omission of his father, the traveler paused. A brief flicker of consideration crossed his face before he continued.
“And… is your mother in the settlement? It doesn’t seem you live with others, judging by the cabin.” The single bed would have been obvious.
Kaelen nodded. His voice was calm, almost flat.
“She passed from illness a few years ago.”
The traveler’s face briefly clouded. He bowed his head slightly, making a gesture with one hand Kaelen had never seen—a gentle sweep, as if smoothing an unseen fabric.
“My condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she must surely dwell now within the Great Weave.”
“I hope so.”
When he first lost his mother, the mere thought of her had stolen his appetite, filled his days with tears. To speak of it now, with only a faint ache, was it because Kaelen had matured? Or had time truly dulled the sharp edge of her absence?
A sudden, unwelcome gloom settled. Kaelen forcibly changed the subject.
“More importantly, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?”
“I passed through a nearby outpost. Heard an old merchant lamenting that an Ironfang Ravager had appeared near his village, that he sought a Loom-Binder to deal with it. I decided to offer my services. I’m quite proficient in such matters.”
“Alone?”
A middle-aged man, not yet in his true prime, one whose back might give out any day, confronting an Ironfang Ravager without so much as a proper weapon? Kaelen’s astonishment brought another awkward smile to the traveler’s face.
“I am an Artisan Captain. I served House Valerius for sixty years. I can manage most such threats.”
At the word ‘Artisan Captain,’ Kaelen’s eyes widened. His body stiffened, every muscle tensing. A being he had only heard of in his mother’s desperate warnings, a tool of the Guild Masters. A Loom-Binder, like himself.
His tension was short-lived. There was no malice in the man’s eyes, only quiet confidence. Kaelen slowly, carefully, relaxed.
“Is something amiss?”
“Only… this is my first time meeting a Loom-Binder. But you don’t look as if you’ve worked for sixty years.”
“Loom-Binders age more slowly, live longer than ordinary folk. I’m seventy-five this year. For an Artisan Captain, I’ve aged like this. But I’ve heard that powerful Guild Masters can easily live two or three centuries.”
This information, entirely new, sent a jolt through Kaelen. He observed the man, a kindred spirit, with renewed intensity. Outwardly, he appeared no different from any sturdy traveler. Strong build, healthy complexion, a robust bearing.
This was profoundly important. It meant that Kaelen, too, could stand in the middle of a crowded Veridian market. As long as he refrained from obvious displays of his ability, no one would ever discern his true nature.
The realization was like a heavy thread, pulled taut for years around his chest, suddenly snapping. He could breathe.
“To be a Loom-Binder truly is incredible.”
“Incredible? Not at all! I believe people like you are far more impressive. To live in such a rough place, where threats like the Ravager appear, without relying on hidden abilities? I couldn’t imagine such a life.”
Contrary to the man’s assumption, this was the first time a truly dangerous creature had appeared here. Not in Kaelen’s lifetime. If it had been otherwise, his mother, despite her extraordinary resilience, could not have raised him alone on these Crags. His mother, who had faced every harsh winter and every hungry season with only her own strength, was the one truly deserving of praise.
“Now that I think of it, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Joric. Joric of Valerius – though, I suppose, I no longer carry that formal claim. Just call me Joric the Wanderer. And you?”
“I am Kaelen. Sole shepherd of the Whisperwind Crags.”
“A fine name.”
“You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a Guild House. Does that mean you no longer do?”
“I officially ended my vassal contract a month ago. House Valerius offered to care for me until my last breath, but… I wanted to spend my later years traveling, seeing the edges of the Compact. After all, I’ve been bound to a single House since I was hired at the age of fifteen.”
Kaelen watched Joric, a man who had freely cast off his chains. A tiny thread of an idea, tenuous but persistent, began to weave itself through Kaelen’s mind.
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