Fenwick approached the inert form of the Shadow-Stalker, a small, polished obsidian shard clutched in his palm. Blood still pooled, dark and viscous, staining the broken flagstones where the creature had fallen. He had acted without conscious thought, a raw impulse guiding his hand, a deep resonance thrumming through him. Indeed, aiding Sir Kaelan, a knight from the sunlit strata of Veridia, was a profound risk. Were Kaelan to speak of a capable glyph-weaver dwelling in the forgotten under-levels, Fenwick would need to vanish. Such latent power was a prize, often violently claimed. Still, something in Kaelan’s quiet courtesy, his unyielding respect despite his wounds, had stirred Fenwick. Hospitality, even in this forgotten place, demanded action. “Are you… well?” Fenwick’s voice was a low murmur, a question almost lost in the stale air. Instead of answering, Kaelan’s gaze remained fixed on the Shadow-Stalker. His eyes were wide, a stark dread stealing the color from his already pale face. “Fenwick, look out!” No words were needed to explain. The Shadow-Stalker, its skull a pulped ruin, lurched. It began to rise, an unnatural puppet on invisible strings. Where its head had been, a swirling void now pulsed, radiating a sickly, pale green luminescence that seemed to drink the light around it. Fortunately, Kaelan’s sharp cry gave Fenwick a split-second advantage. He kicked, sending the reanimated bulk sprawling back. It tumbled across the jagged floor, scraping against ancient debris. Yet, the creature simply re-coiled, seemingly unharmed. “Physical force is useless!” Kaelan gasped, pressing a hand to his bleeding brow. “It’s a revenant! A corrupted spirit animating the corpse!” “How is it stopped?” Fenwick asked, his mind racing, dissecting the situation. “Energy! Raw, primal force! Fire, lightning… anything to sever the spirit from its anchor!” Fenwick extended a hand. He focused, drawing on the deep, dormant energies that always whispered beneath his skin. He sought to manifest a focused burst of primal heat, a searing wave. But the subtle hum he usually commanded faltered, dissipated, leaving only a faint warmth on his palm. Kaelan watched, a strange understanding dawning in his eyes. He must now be certain Fenwick had felled the beast earlier. For any adept, direct application of primordial energy without a conduit was difficult, often ineffective. Fenwick, self-taught, had never learned such intricate principles. “Not just… release it,” Kaelan urged, struggling to his feet. “Guide it! Give it form, purpose!” Kaelan’s words hung in the air, weighted with doubt. He knew that guiding raw energy required years of rigorous discipline. But Fenwick had always found his own path. He did not “guide” energy; he etched intent into matter, allowing the energies to flow through it. He pulled another small, polished shard of obsidian from his belt pouch. With a rapid, almost imperceptible motion, he etched a tiny, intricate glyph onto its surface. A silent prayer to the primordial, a plea for focus, for severing. He channeled the frustrated heat, the primal decay that had failed him moments ago, into the obsidian. It pulsed, a dull red glow blossoming within the stone. With a flick of his wrist, Fenwick launched the obsidian shard. It streaked across the dark space, a focused crimson spark. The projectile struck the swirling void where the Shadow-Stalker’s head had been. It latched on. A sickening shriek tore through the silence. The revenant thrashed, its headless form twisting, slamming against the stone. The red glow spread, an insidious corruption, unraveling the pale green essence that powered it. It tried to scrape the burning glyph against the ground, but the energy, now given form and purpose, clung relentlessly. It fed on the revenant's stolen vitality. Fenwick fixed his gaze, pouring every ounce of his will into maintaining the glyph's destructive purpose. The air shimmered around him, charged with unseen power. After what felt like an eternity, the pale green distortion let out a final, chilling wail. The glowing corruption intensified, then imploded. The Shadow-Stalker’s body collapsed, dissolving into a fine dust that scattered across the floor. Both Fenwick and Kaelan sagged, exhaling ragged breaths. “Is it… truly done?” Kaelan murmured, wiping blood from his eyes. “Yes.” Fenwick nodded, a strange fatigue settling over him. “For now. Absorb the residual energy, or more may be drawn to this place.” Absorbing the residue was not difficult. Fenwick had learned it early, a natural instinct. He stretched his hand over the dissipating dust, visualizing a slow intake. A faint, almost imperceptible current, the same sickly green as the revenant, flowed out, seeping into his skin. It coursed into his body. A profound chill settled deep within him, not unpleasant, but alien. He felt a foreign presence, a raw, untamed power gradually accumulating, coiling. It transformed him, subtly, making him something more. An unsettling thrill, an eerie pleasure, rippled through him, making his entire frame shiver. “Is this… truly your first time absorbing a revenant’s essence?” Kaelan’s voice was laced with disbelief. “Yes.” Fenwick’s voice was hoarse. “Unbelievable.” Latent power typically grew slowly, a gradual awakening with age. But true growth, Kaelan knew, came from absorbing the essence of other magical creatures or adepts. The power Fenwick wielded, the ease with which he claimed a revenant’s residue, spoke of innate strength beyond measure. Considering the potential for growth was tied directly to one's inherent power, Fenwick’s capacity was extraordinary. Kaelan cleared his throat, a light cough. His tone shifted, becoming more formal, deferential. “I have been… entirely disrespectful until now, young master. May I inquire to which House you owe your allegiance?” Fenwick shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t quite articulate why, but Kaelan’s sudden reverence felt wrong. He didn't want this old, honorable knight to lower himself like that. “Let us tend your wounds first. Then we can speak.” Kaelan was still bleeding freely from the deep gouge above his eyebrow, a cruel memento of the Shadow-Stalker’s initial attack. --- Kaelan groaned softly, a low rumble in his chest, as Fenwick carefully applied a paste of crushed herbs to his head wound. He bound it with strips of clean cloth, torn from an old tunic. His dwelling, a quiet alcove carved into the forgotten substructure of Veridia, held a small store of such remedies, remnants from his mother’s time. Instantaneous healing, Fenwick knew, was a luxury. Based on past experiences treating his own cuts, or the occasional scrape his mother had endured, mending another's flesh consumed an exorbitant amount of primordial energy. It would likely drain him completely just to close Kaelan’s torn scalp. “My apologies, young master. To think I caused someone of your obvious distinction such trouble.” “I have told you,” Fenwick replied, his voice clipped. “I am not ‘distinguished.’ I am merely Fenwick, a glyph-weaver who lives in the shadows. I do not know my father, nor do I serve any House.” He stared sharply at the knight, trying to convey the depth of his discomfort. After a brief, tense silence, Kaelan offered a small, conceding nod. “Alright, alright… I will cease.” Fenwick let out a small, almost inaudible sigh, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “But why is someone with your… gifts,” Kaelan continued, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow, “a glyph-weaver of such raw potential, living in this forgotten place? No disrespect, but it seems… ill-suited.” It was a mirror to Fenwick’s own unspoken question from yesterday: why a knight like Kaelan was hunting alone in these dangerous depths. Fenwick couldn't answer with Kaelan’s easy pride. He held no pride in his isolation. “It is a long history.” Fenwick began to recount his childhood in an even, detached tone. His early, unsettling connection to the dormant energies beneath the city. His mother’s whispered tales of the surface world, of the ruthless Houses, the endless, grinding wars, and the brutal exploitation of those without power. She had taught him to hide his gift, to live unseen. Kaelan listened, his gaze steady. When Fenwick finished, the knight nodded slowly. “Your mother was wise.” “Do you truly think so?” Fenwick raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. He had expected Kaelan, a man of such evident status, to dismiss his mother’s fears as provincial, to declare the world above less hellish than described. “Twenty years ago, the House Valerius I served went to war with the great House Krell. Three thousand Valerius knights rode. Over nine hundred were slaughtered.” Fenwick’s breath caught. “Nearly a third.” “The true tragedy,” Kaelan’s voice dropped, raw with ancient pain, “is that every soul I held dear was among that third. My two closest companions. My wife. My son. Only I returned.” Kaelan’s face twisted, a complex mosaic of grief and resignation. Fenwick could not begin to grasp such sorrow. He could only guess it was a wound as deep, perhaps deeper, than his own loss of his mother. After a long, heavy silence, Kaelan seemed to force himself to brighten. He shifted the subject, his voice firmer. “Your mother’s fears, while understandable, were founded in brutal truth. The life of a knight is fleeting, fragile. But if she erred, it was in this: your inherent talent far surpasses that of any mere knight.” “Does it?” Fenwick asked, a knot forming in his stomach. “It pains me to admit this in my current state,” Kaelan said, gesturing to his bandaged head. “But I am a knight of considerable experience. Yet you, without proper tutelage, without even consciously absorbing power until today, swiftly defeated a revenant that would have tested my full skill.” He paused, taking a slow sip of the goat’s milk Fenwick offered. “That level of ability, Fenwick, qualifies you as a noble. Not merely a noble, but one from the highest echelons.” The words felt unreal, a distant echo. Perhaps it was because he had spent a lifetime believing his mother’s assessment that his gift, if ever revealed, would only invite peril. Or perhaps Kaelan simply overestimated him. “My mother said my father was a knight. Could she have… misled me?” “Exceptions exist, Fenwick. Not all children born to adept parents inherit their full scope. Sometimes, a high-tier glyph-weaver emerges from common lineage, or a noble produces a child less capable. These instances are rare, but they happen.” Fenwick thought of the families he occasionally saw in the lower markets – a stout merchant and his small wife, yet their youngest son was a giant, broad-shouldered man. Of course, that son bore a striking resemblance to a certain burly guard captain from the upper tiers... “For that reason,” Kaelan pressed, his gaze piercing, “I believe it would be better for you to ascend from these depths.” “Why?” “Humanity needs more like you. We are not yet the masters of Veridia, Fenwick. The Shadow-Stalkers, the ancient races pushed aside in forgotten ages, they bide their time, waiting to reclaim what was theirs. Meanwhile, the Houses squabble, wasting lives and power on petty wars. A strong, virtuous noble, even one more, is desperately needed.” Ancient races… Beings Fenwick had only ever heard of in his mother’s old tales, fantastical and distant as the gods themselves. Yet, Kaelan spoke of them as a tangible, immediate threat in the world above. “Besides, it is a shame to see such potential wasted here. You are not truly content, are you, living as a hidden glyph-weaver?” Kaelan’s question hung in the air, echoing Fenwick’s own avoidance earlier. Fenwick remained silent for a long moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Your mother’s fears are understandable. But for someone of your power, they are largely unfounded. Common folk, minor adepts, even ordinary knights might be at risk. But the great Houses, even in their endless rivalries, show a certain measure of respect toward their equals. And someone as powerful as you… there is no question.” “So I would not be… dragged off by some House against my will?” “As with all things, Fenwick, there are no absolute guarantees.” A torrent of conflicting thoughts raged within Fenwick. A part of him longed to trust Kaelan’s words, to believe in a world beyond the shadows. Yet, the fear of the Houses, deeply ingrained by his mother’s warnings, refused to vanish entirely. The opposing emotions created a heavy, almost suffocating tension. While Fenwick wrestled with his internal conflict, Kaelan sat patiently on the narrow cot, his bandaged form still, quietly waiting for a decision. Tens of minutes passed, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Fenwick spoke, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “What could I gain… if I were to go?” Reading the determination, the nascent spark of a new path in Fenwick’s quiet words, Kaelan offered a small smile. He leaned forward, his voice a hopeful murmur. “That depends, Fenwick, on what you truly desire. Wealth, renown, influence… or perhaps deeper things. Family. Friendship. Purpose.”

A Spark from the Primordial