Cool evening air, thick with the scent of roasted street nuts and damp stone, clung to Fenwick. Oakhaven’s sprawl felt different from the Barrens, a suffocating embrace of noise and hurried lives. He sought information, not conversation. His gaze drifted across a public ledger, a relic of polished darkwood set against a gleaming new data-slate display near a busy thoroughfare. Ancient, etched glyphs highlighted particularly urgent notices. His eyes narrowed on a recurring symbol – a stylized, fractured bird. It denoted bounties for what the city called Chimeric Blights. A young woman, Lyra, with a smudge of flour on her cheek from the nearby bakery, paused by the ledger, her laughter bubbling over a nearby joke. Fenwick watched, observing the rhythm of the city around her. “Curious about the blights, eh?” Lyra offered, catching his quiet intensity. “They say if you slay enough of ‘em, you can draw the raw energy right out. Some folk think it makes you a Channeler, like the city’s sworn ones.” A familiar superstition, twisted for Veridia. The notion of absorbing chaotic energy without proper attunement was folly, a path to self-destruction. Fenwick gave a noncommittal nod, his features unreadable. Lyra leaned closer, her voice dropping. “To find the big ones, the ones worth proper coin, you need to speak with Archivist Caelum at the Citadel Archives. Center of the city. He lists all official notices.” She giggled. “Unless you’re from the deepest Barrens, everyone knows that.” Night descended in a rush of indigo and flickering lamplight. It would be best to approach the Archives in the quiet of morning. Fenwick found a modest room in a back alley inn, the low hum of the city a distant thrum against the thin floorboards. --- Before dawn, Fenwick found himself in the common room. Steam rose from a bowl of thin gruel. The room was mostly empty, save for a group of men gathered by a sputtering hearth. They were broad-shouldered, their worn leather armor scarred, their voices rough and boisterous. Gorok, the largest, thumped a fist on the scarred table. “They say the Veridian Sky-Stalker’s nest is near the old aqueducts. Good hunting there.” Fenwick picked at his gruel, listening. These were Chimeric Trackers, drawn by the same lure of bounties, but for different reasons. They sought raw power, glory, perhaps a better life. Gorok’s eyes, sharp amidst his unkempt beard, snagged on Fenwick. He strode over, a casual hand falling heavily on Fenwick’s shoulder. “Hey, stranger. You eyeing the blights too? Don’t tell me you’re one of those self-proclaimed Channelers.” Fenwick’s spine straightened, a faint shiver, not of fear, but of primordial chill, passing through his skin. Gorok’s hand recoiled slightly, a subtle flinch, as if the touch had been unexpectedly cold. Fenwick merely turned his head, a silent question in his steady gaze. “My apologies,” Gorok muttered, rubbing his hand. “Just making an introduction.” He grinned, an expansive, almost predatory expression. “You interested in those blights Lyra was talking about, eh? The ones that give you raw power?” Fenwick inclined his head. “I seek information.” “Information leads to power, friend! My crew here, Rix, Borin, Kael—we’ve brought down three minor blights already!” Gorok gestured to his companions, who grunted in agreement. “Three?” Fenwick’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. The Manifestations he knew were entities of considerable, volatile energy. “Has one of you… successfully channeled this power?” Laughter erupted from the other tables, a mix of pity and derision. “Channeler? Us?” Rix guffawed, wiping his mouth with a calloused hand. “Only the Lord and his three sworn Channelers have that kind of might in Oakhaven. We’re just trying to get by, kid.” Borin added, “We nearly got ourselves torn apart by a Scaled Weasel. Raw energy, they say, but it ain’t easy to get!” Four Channelers in a city of tens of thousands. The scarcity of true elemental connection was stark, a recurring lament Kaelan often voiced. Gorok’s gaze fell to Fenwick’s hands, then his simple, utilitarian clothing. “You look a bit light for blight hunting, friend. No blade? No glyph-staff?” Fenwick slowly withdrew a slender, polished obsidian stylis from his inner pocket. It was a tool for etching, for precise channeling of energy, not combat. It looked utterly innocuous. “Oh, a scribe’s tool,” Gorok noted, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “For precise strikes, I suppose. What sort of… ‘projectiles’ do you use with that?” “My focus is on the inherent resonance of the subject,” Fenwick stated, offering no further explanation. Rix snorted. “He probably throws rocks. Good for taking down those mutated field mice, I guess. Or maybe a Festering Beetle.” Their blights were far removed from the predatory horrors Fenwick had encountered in the Barrens. “Say, you seem observant,” Gorok said, a flicker of calculation in his eyes. “We could use another set of eyes for the next hunt. A marksman, maybe. Interested?” “I appreciate the offer,” Fenwick replied, his voice even. “But my path diverges.” To reveal his own nascent abilities, or to engage in such crude methods, served no purpose. Their targets were minor disturbances, not the profound echoes of primordial power he sought. Gorok shrugged, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. “Pity. But the offer stands if you change your mind.” He returned to his companions, their voices quickly resuming their boisterous volume. Later, as Fenwick lay on his narrow cot, the rough cadence of the Trackers’ voices drifted up through the floorboards. “Gorok, why did you even bother with that scrawny kid?” Borin’s voice, thick with derision. “He looks like one gust of wind would topple him.” “Yeah, what use is a rock-thrower to us?” Kael chimed in. Midan’s voice, a low rumble, followed. “He reminded me of myself, once. Young, wandering, nothing but raw nerve. Some people, they need a hard lesson the world gives.” Fenwick closed his eyes. The world, indeed, was a complex, self-serving mechanism. He was merely an observer, for now. --- The next morning, following the scent of ozone and stale parchment, Fenwick walked to the Citadel Archives. It was a sprawling, four-story edifice of reinforced synth-stone and ancient granite, bustling with petitioners, scribes, and minor officials. Citizens moved through its halls, navigating disputes over energy allocations and land claims, the murmur of their concerns a constant undertone. Fenwick found Archivist Caelum in a dimly lit annex, surrounded by towering stacks of digital data-slates and parchment scrolls. Caelum, a man with thin, precise lips and tired eyes, looked up as Fenwick approached. His gaze lingered on Fenwick’s plain tunic, then his empty hands. “What do you want?” Caelum’s voice was clipped, dismissive. He saw a drifter, another commoner seeking easy coin. Fenwick offered no explanation. Revealing his innate abilities would only invite unwelcome scrutiny, perhaps even forced service. He sought efficiency, not recognition. Caelum slid a polished data-slate across the counter. “Don’t touch it. Read, then return.” The slate glowed with lists of Chimeric Blights: their observed traits, estimated threat levels, locations of sightings, and the corresponding bounties. Weaker blights, those resulting from minor primordial eddies, required live capture. The truly hostile ones, those that posed direct threats to human life, warranted outright elimination, their remains to be presented for verification. “Listen closely,” Caelum warned, his voice sharpening. “Even if you kill a blight accidentally, you bring the carcass back. If its residual energy isn’t properly nullified by the sworn Channelers, it can cause unstable resonance surges. Abandoning a blight carcass is a capital offense in Oakhaven. Understood?” “Understood,” Fenwick replied, the gravity of the warning sinking in. He had witnessed firsthand the destructive potential of uncontrolled elemental energy. Fenwick’s gaze returned to the slate. “Some of these seem… highly dangerous for commoners. Do the sworn Channelers not prioritize these?” Caelum scoffed, a dry, rasping sound. “Do you think they have time for every mutated rat or overgrown beetle? Their duty is city defense, maintaining the stability of the Veridian Grid, not culling every minor manifestation. That, drifter, is for people like you.” His eyes scanned the listed dangers, a bitter taste rising in his throat. One entry, in particular, caught his attention: * **Shardwing Corvid** * A large avian blight, its feathers hardened to razor edges by localized energy fluctuations. Capable of deflecting plasma bolts and dropping sharpened quills from high altitudes. Known to prey on stray domesticated animals and unattended children near the city’s outer districts, leaving behind scattered remains… If the sworn Channelers were the city’s protectors, should they not be safeguarding its most vulnerable? Yet, the indifference was palpable, a chilling echo of the Barrens’ harsh lessons. Fenwick turned from the Archives, heading towards the city’s periphery. The towering structures of Oakhaven gradually gave way to crumbling outbuildings and then the familiar, untamed wilds. He was alone now, the city’s clamor fading behind him. He recalled the blight from the slate: Shardwing Corvid, a predator of the innocent. ‘Begin,’ he thought, a focused intent blooming in his mind. “Corvid Resonance.” An immediate deluge of sensory data flooded Fenwick’s awareness. The faint psychic calls of hundreds of common city corvids, the rustle of their feathers in distant nests, the low thrum of their collective life-force. It was an overwhelming static, too broad, too diffuse. Fenwick winced, his senses reeling, and cut the connection. ‘Ineffective. Too many echoes.’ How to pinpoint a single, altered creature amidst such a multitude? He needed to refine his focus. ‘A corvid imbued with latent primordial energy.’ He attempted to filter the resonance by this criterion. Nothing. The ability to detect direct elemental infusion wasn’t a fine enough filter; all creatures carried some minute, ambient charge. It wouldn’t isolate a specific blight. Next, Fenwick tried to narrow the search: ‘Corvids with consumed sentient bio-signatures.’ His mind flared, a torrent of frantic, desperate echoes. Far too many. It was likely that countless common corvids had scavenged the remains of those lost or unfortunate, their faint residual energies now part of the birds’ own. The search proved more complex than anticipated. He would need a different approach. ---

Echoes in the Citadel