A chill, like the breath of the Murmur itself, settled deep within the bones of the Arcane Cellar. For years, the only sound had been the rhythmic hum of ancient mechanisms, the low incantations of the Artificer-Adept Yorven, and the quiet whimper of children. Routines here were as fixed as the stars, each day a slow, grey slide into the next. Until now.
Then, a crash. A violent tremor ran through the aged stone, rattling the vials on the distant shelves. Shouts, coarse and unfamiliar, echoed from the corridor, disrupting the cellar’s carefully curated silence. It felt like an eruption, something raw and untamed tearing through the carefully constructed façade of order.
Glass, thick and enchanted, exploded inward. Shards spun like glittering daggers, then scattered across the cold floor with a chime.
“Children, are you unharmed?”
A figure filled the gaping maw of the broken window. Tall, broad, his silhouette a stark block against the sudden, unfamiliar light. A hand, scarred and powerful, waved them forward.
“Safe now. Come forth.”
Others followed, their heavy boots thudding on the flagstones. Oathguards, judging by their grim visages and the heavy, runic steel girding their forms. Every glance they cast towards the cloaked figures of the Artificer-Adept’s apprentices sent shivers through the older scholars. No one spoke, no one moved. Fear, cold and palpable, locked their tongues.
Strong arms lifted Elias from the very front of their huddled group. The world tilted, the sterile grey tiles replaced by a looming chest wrapped in dark leather. Near the shattered frame, the Artificer-Adept Yorven lay, a crumpled heap of embroidered robes and terror-stricken features. He had been so imposing, so absolute in his petty cruelties.
The Oathguard’s boot descended, precise and firm, crushing Yorven’s outstretched hand as he passed. A sharp, muffled gasp escaped the Artificer-Adept, but no more. His face, usually contorted in anger or disdain, now held only a desperate, silent plea. Those eyes, which had always glared down, now watched with abject terror.
That moment unfolded like a revelation for Elias. The once unchallengeable master, now a whimpering dog beneath a heavy boot. Raw power, unburdened by ceremony or status, held its own undeniable truth.
“A moment, now. Any injuries? Hold fast, child.” The Oathguard’s voice was rough, but not unkind, his gaze sweeping over Elias.
No, that wasn't it. Elias looked up, his small face unreadable. “No… but, sir, you’re an Oathguard, aren’t you?” His voice, thin from disuse, felt strangely detached. “How does one become so formidable?”
“Ah, you wish to join the Oathguard?” A deep chuckle rumbled in the man’s chest. “You’ll need to undergo the Calling first, won’t you? Awaken your innate resonance.”
Another Oathguard, passing with a captured apprentice clutched by the scruff of his neck, scoffed. “Kaelen! Don’t fill the boy’s head with such notions!”
“Notions! Pah.” Kaelen, the lead Oathguard, scratched his chin. “The Calling is essential, yes, but that’s for later. For now, let’s focus on seeing you home.” A rough pat landed on Elias’s head, jostling him slightly.
Kaelen carried him out into the unfamiliar sunlight. It had been years since Elias had felt the open air, the distant rumble of the city, the scent of damp earth rather than reagents and fear. Several healers, robed in pale linen, attended other children, rescued from other hidden chambers, their small faces streaked with tears and dirt.
“Tell me, what is your name?” Kaelen asked, before handing Elias over to a gentle acolyte.
Briefly, Elias hesitated. “Just… Elias.” He expected a scolding, perhaps a demand for a full family name, a lineage. Eleven years of life had taught him that answers were often insufficient. His expectation proved correct.
The Oathguard’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Then, his attention shifted. Kaelen had seated Elias within the back of a creaking transport cart, where a kindly healer examined his limbs. Elias watched as the Artificer-Adept Yorven and his remaining apprentices, shackled and pale, were led towards a different vehicle. Yorven’s eyes darted around, desperation etched into his features.
Then, Kaelen moved. A blur of power, too fast for any lesser man to intercept. Before anyone could react, he surged forward, a righteous storm unleashed. Elias blinked. Kaelen was already upon Yorven, a heavy boot connecting with the Artificer-Adept’s ribs. A sickening crunch echoed.
“P-please! Mercy!” Yorven choked, collapsing to the dusty ground.
Absolute, untamed power. It brooked no challenge, acknowledged no restraint. It simply existed, imposing its will.
“Oathguard Kaelen! What exactly do you think you’re doing!”
A clear, ringing voice, sharp as fractured ice, cut through the clamor. Kaelen, mid-kick, froze. His shoulders drew inward, an awkward, sheepish smile twisting his face as he turned.
“Ah, Censor-Magistrate Maev. A… surprise to see you here.”
“Surprise? Kaelen, you pulled this stunt only last moon-cycle! This cannot continue!”
A woman stood, clad in a precise, jet-black tunic and trousers, her posture radiating an unseen authority. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, impaled Kaelen. The Oathguard’s mighty frame seemed to shrink further, his bravado evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
“Release him, at once!”
With an embarrassed grimace, Kaelen stepped away, allowing Yorven to sprawl unceremoniously. The Artificer-Adept, blood trickling from his nose, scrambled backward, eyes wide with a terror that superseded even pain.
The Censor-Magistrate sighed, a faint ripple of displeasure crossing her composed features. “Your aid is appreciated, Kaelen, but your methods complicate matters for the Archival Council. Exercise more care!”
“Well, Censor-Magistrate, it’s not really something that ‘care’ can solve…” Kaelen mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You have no intention of being careful, do you!” Her voice remained level, yet it carried an undeniable sting.
Kaelen scratched his head, eyes darting to her expression, trying to gauge her mood. Elias watched, a curious parallel forming in his young mind. Kaelen, the powerful Oathguard, now mirrored the Artificer-Adept Yorven, observing Kaelen’s mood earlier, trembling in uncertainty. All human lives, no matter how powerful, clung to their own existence. When someone could extinguish that life with a thought, careful breathing became an instinct.
But Censor-Magistrate Maev was no Oathguard. She was smaller, lacked their imposing stature, the raw force of their Calling. What power, then, made the formidable Kaelen so utterly subservient to her?
“Who is that person?” Elias asked the acolyte, who was carefully bandaging a small scrape on his arm.
“The lady in the dark robes.”
“That’s Censor-Magistrate Maev,” the acolyte whispered, a hint of reverence in his tone. “She oversees these recovery operations.” He cleared his throat. “She ensures the Oathguard fulfill their duties properly. To verify no details are overlooked.”
“Is she like the Artificer-Adept?” Elias asked, drawing a new connection.
“The Artificer-Adept? Well, perhaps similar in… scope, in a way. Are you injured anywhere else, little one?” The acolyte’s distraction was evident.
“Where are we going now?” Elias pressed, ignoring the question.
“A physician will examine you thoroughly. Then, new quarters will be arranged.”
Maev, having finished her quiet reprimand of Kaelen—who now stood behind her, looking utterly subdued—approached the transport cart. She offered a gentle smile, a warmth Elias hadn't often seen directed his way.
“Soon, you’ll see your parents again, perhaps,” she said, her voice soft, devoid of the sharp edge she’d used on Kaelen.
Her words held little resonance for Elias. ‘Parents’ were a distant, hazy concept, a whisper from another life. But the other children in the cart, their eyes still wide with fright, stirred with a hopeful murmur. Ignoring their quiet cheers, Elias looked directly at Maev.
“Are you that man’s master?” he asked, a directness that belied his age. It seemed the logical conclusion, after all. Someone who could scold with such effect, surely held superior rank.
Maev’s smile remained, a quiet, knowing thing. “I am not his master, no. But I am tasked with correcting him when he deviates from the Archival Council’s dictates.”
“Isn’t that the same as being his master?” Elias countered, the memory of Yorven’s absolute command fresh in his mind. “The Artificer-Adept always corrected the other scholars. We never liked him.”
“…I will ensure that bad man faces proper justice for his actions,” she said, her gaze holding his. Her words held no empty promise, but a quiet, firm resolve.
“But you don’t look strong,” Elias observed, scrutinizing her slender frame. “You’re not an Oathguard.”
“No, I am not an Oathguard. And in their way, I am not ‘strong’ like Kaelen. But what you perceive isn't the complete picture. There are myriad methods to address transgressions, beyond mere physical force.”
“Like sending them to a prison, so they can’t emerge for the rest of their lives?” Elias offered, an early spark of his future pragmatism igniting.
Maev merely patted his head. Her touch, unlike Kaelen’s rough hands, was incredibly soft, almost feather-light.
Elias looked up again, his eyes fixed on her. “Then how can one become like you? To properly correct someone like the Artificer-Adept, must I become a Censor-Magistrate?”
“Well,” Maev replied, her smile widening slightly, “you would need to dedicate yourself to rigorous study.”
“To achieve my position, one must first pass the Grand Archival Examinations, sanctioned by the Imperial Registry. Even after that, years of diligence and adherence to the scholarly path are required to ascend to a position of influence.”
“Grand Archival Examinations…” The words resonated, a new, distinct form of power suddenly made visible. It was only much later that Elias would truly comprehend the depth of her statement.
He had witnessed the overwhelming, visceral power of the Oathguard. But here, before him, was another, invisible yet undeniably potent, that could guide and restrain such might without ever needing to wield a blade. It was the instant his life’s trajectory shifted, settling upon a different, quieter path to control.
---