A decade ago, the chill of winter on the Silent Ridge bit deeper than usual. Cormac, barely ten cycles old, shivered beside a hearth reluctant to catch. He yearned for warmth, a quiet thrum beneath his skin, and then— It stirred. A tremor, not of cold, but of something nascent and alive. It sang through the very stone of the hearth, a low, resonant chord. Cormac reached out, fingers tracing the rough rock. A spark, then a lick of orange, then a roar of fire bloomed from the kindling, too sudden, too bright for mere friction. Fascination warred with a prickle of fear. Cormac found he could hum along to the underlying vibrations, coaxing a pebble from the dirt floor to float, a spiral of dust motes to dance. Invisible barriers shimmered in the air, woven from dense, resisting tremors. Evening brought Aella back, her breath pluming, the scent of sheep and cold wool preceding her. Cormac, bursting with discovery, beckoned her to watch. “Mama, look!” A pebble, light as ash, drifted between them. She watched it, her shoulders slumping. A tightness gripped the corners of her mouth. No wonder, no joy, only a profound weariness. She reached out, her fingers closing around the stone, pressing it back to the earth. A deep sigh escaped her. “Cormac,” she murmured, her voice thin. “Promise me. Never use this carelessly. Never in front of others.” “Why?” He pouted, a question that tasted like ash. This power was a vibrant hue in his drab world. Aella knelt, her hand cool against his cheek. “Far below the Ridge, in the Sunken Spires, live the Lords. Descendants of the Primordials, who first sang reality into being. They wield great power. They rule as protectors, as sovereigns.” She spoke of Echo-Servants, born of mixed blood, tethered to the Lords. Weaker echoes of the same ancient song, bound to servitude. “You carry this power, Cormac. Like your father. They would take you. Make you a servant.” Aella’s voice dropped, a desolate whisper. “Sunken Lords are shepherds. Echo-Servants are their hounds. Sometimes, a shepherd cherishes their dog. But they will just as quickly sell it, or send it to fight a Delta Predator, watching safe from behind.” Her face was a ruin of sorrow. “Don’t you want to live with Mama, always?” “Always,” he promised, throat tight. “I’ll hide it. I swear.” Eight years spun by, seasons blurring on the Silent Ridge. Aella, weakened by a cough that would not yield, passed with the spring thaw. Cormac remained, a solitary shepherd, his secret coiled tight within him, a silent, vibrating hum he dared not let loose. --- Cormac slammed the cabin door shut, the sound echoing in the pre-dawn stillness. Idiots. Just an hour ago, the young men from Cairn’s Edge had come, their faces twisted with accusations. Kael’s death, they insisted, was his doing. Not the gnawed bones, the ripped hide, the scent of the Delta Predator that clung to the air. No, Cormac had killed the old man, then fed him to the beast. His jaw ached from clenching. Knuckles still throbbed from the swift, precise blows that had sent them sprawling. They would remember, for a time. But in the marketplace, when he bartered his wool and cheese, they would try to cheat him. He would simply remind them, with a well-placed fist or a sharp kick, the cost of dishonesty. A sudden, resonant thud vibrated through the doorframe. Not a fist, but something heavier, more deliberate. Cormac’s brow furrowed. Had their memories truly dulled so fast? His voice a low growl, he pulled the door open. “Who the hell wants a lesson?” No villager stood there. A man, mid-forties, cloaked in dust, offered an awkward smile. “Ah, young friend. My apologies. I am a traveler, seeking shelter. Perhaps I’ve chosen a poor moment?” A traveler. For eighteen cycles, Cormac had seen only the grubby faces of Cairn’s Edge. His mind froze, a sudden, unfamiliar sensation. Someone existed beyond his isolated world. Cormac stepped back, opening the door wider. “No. Please, come in. Some unpleasantness earlier, nothing more.” The formal words felt strange on his tongue, a relic from Aella’s teachings. He hadn’t spoken so politely since he learned that every elder, every villager, was an empty husk beneath their rough manners. “Thank you, then.” The man ducked inside. Cormac knew, deep down, he should turn away a stranger. But the craving for a peaceful voice, for conversation untainted by hostility, gnawed at him. And if this man proved ill-intentioned, Cormac held little doubt he could handle it. “Eaten yet?” Cormac asked. “Not yet.” “Nor I. Join me.” He pulled out his small table, setting fresh sheep’s milk, a wedge of brined cheese, coarse porridge from dried grains, a chunk of rock salt, and dried lamb jerky. Aella had taught him to treat guests with utmost hospitality; it bred peace, discouraged ill will. “Little to offer in this poor place.” Cormac gestured with a spread hand. “A feast!” the man exclaimed, his eyes alight. He ate with gusto, as if starved, yet observed flawless manners—no talking with a full mouth, a slight turn of the head when drinking. Villagers knew no such grace. Perhaps the man sensed a similar civility in Cormac. He paused after a sip of milk. “You know good manners. Your parents taught you well.” “My mother did.” The traveler’s gaze sharpened, lingering on the single bed, the solitary nature of the cabin. “And… your mother? Is she in the village?” Cormac nodded, his voice calm. “She passed some years ago, from illness.” A brief cloud crossed the man’s face. He bowed his head, making a strange, looping gesture with one hand Cormac had never seen. “My condolences. Having raised such a fine young man, she surely rests in the Celestial Heart of the Primordials.” “I hope so.” The words felt hollow. Once, merely thinking of Aella had been enough to unravel him. Now, he could speak of her with a quiet smile. Had he truly grown so adult? Or had time simply dulled the edges of his grief? Cormac pushed the thought away, changing the subject. “What brings you to such a remote place, sir?” “I passed a town nearby. Heard an old man speak of a Delta Predator, menacing his village, looking for someone to deal with it. My talents lie in combat. I felt I should offer them.” “Alone?” Cormac blinked. A middle-aged man, with the slight stoop of years, no obvious weapon, against a beast known for tearing sheep to shreds? The man offered an awkward smile. “I am an Echo-Servant. For sixty years, I served the Glimmerglass Dominion. Most beasts are no match for me.” Echo-Servant. Cormac’s body tensed, a ripple of fear from Aella’s old warnings. These were the hounds, the servants of the Sunken Lords. His eyes widened. But the man’s gaze held no malice, only a placid kindness. Slowly, Cormac relaxed. “Something wrong?” Jorek asked. “My first time meeting one. You don’t look sixty years old.” “Echo-Servants age slowly. We live longer than others. I am seventy-five cycles. Lords, with their purer blood, can live for two, three hundred years.” Cormac studied him, a fellow traveler of the hidden path. Outwardly, the man looked no different from any sturdy herdsman, perhaps a little healthier, a little less worn. But no glowing eyes, no shimmering aura. Nothing to mark him as special. This was crucial. A chain, tight around Cormac’s chest for years, loosened its grip. He could walk among the Sunken Spires, among the Lords, and no one would know his secret. As long as his whispers remained unheard, his song unsung. “Incredible,” Cormac whispered, a genuine awe in his voice. “Incredible? No. You are far more incredible, young Cormac. To live in such a wild place, to face down beasts, without the aid of whisper-singing? I could never.” Cormac almost laughed. This was the first Delta Predator in his lifetime. Aella, living here alone with him, defenseless, *she* had been the incredible one. “I never introduced myself,” the man said, rising from the table. “I am Jorek. Jorek of Glimmerglass – though I suppose Jorek the Wanderer is more fitting now. And you?” “Cormac. Keeper of the Silent Ridge.” “A fine name.” “You said ‘served’ the Dominion. You no longer do?” “My vassal contract ended a month ago. They offered me care until my last breath, but… I wished to see the wider Delta. I was bound to them since I was fifteen.” ---

Whispers of Silent Stone