Ashfall Bluffs hummed with a thousand tiny mechanisms, a constant metallic thrum beneath Kaelen’s skin. For three days, he moved through its fringes, hunting. Each time he reached out, drawing the raw elemental energy from a felled creature, a shiver traced his spine. It wasn't pleasure, not exactly, but a deep, resonant hum, a dangerous song only he could hear. The earth responded to his will, the flame of life within a creature flickering out as he claimed its essence. He watched the energies drain, a faint, almost invisible current flowing into him. His own core pulsed, momentarily brighter, steadier. The exhilaration was potent, a sharp, cold satisfaction. But even as his internal reserves swelled, he sensed a growing resistance. The weaker creatures, their elemental pulses faint and fleeting, offered less with each successive absorption. It was like siphoning water from a shallow pond; soon, it would run dry. Such small increments wouldn't suffice for long. The Cinderwing, he knew, would be different. Its power would be a roaring furnace, not a dying ember. He captured two of the smaller creatures alive. A burrow-mole with surprisingly resilient earth-attuned claws, and a skitter-hare whose fur shifted like a forest shadow. Their energies were too insignificant to claim, barely a whisper. Binding them with sturdy cord, he carried them to the Guildhall. The clerk behind the counter, a man with ink-stained fingers and spectacles perched on his nose, blinked at the sight. “Two, unharmed?” The clerk peered over his desk. Kaelen nodded. “As specified on the bounty list. Twenty-five Iron Shards, correct?” The man’s lips thinned, a hint of disdain in his eyes. “Well, typically we prefer… verification of the species.” He gestured vaguely at the captive creatures. The mole squirmed, its nose twitching. Kaelen’s gaze hardened, a silent weight settling in the air. His hand, calloused and quiet, rested lightly on the hilt of his concealed knife. He didn't speak. The clerk cleared his throat, his posture straightening. “Ah, yes, quite right. Unharmed. Here you go.” He counted out the coins with brisk movements, the metallic clatter a dull punctuation in the quiet hall. Kaelen pocketed the money, its weight a new sensation. --- Back at The Cog & Kettle, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and cheap ale. Anya, the server with the quick smile, greeted him. “Back again, stranger? More stew and bread?” Kaelen usually chose the cheapest option, blending into the background. But the coins in his pocket felt… different. He had earned them, not through hiding, but through action, however discreet. A flicker of curiosity stirred within him. “No,” Kaelen said, his voice low. “What’s your most… elaborate dish?” Anya’s eyes widened, a genuine grin spreading across her face. “Oh! Someone’s had good luck! I’ll tell Cook right away! Our Veridian Smoked Ribs, with hearth-baked tubers and spiced mountain berries!” The wait was longer than Kaelen expected, the kitchen a hive of clanging pots and sizzling. He sat, observant, letting the inn’s cacophony wash over him. When the plate finally arrived, it was an artifice of culinary skill. The ribs, dark and glistening, released a plume of savory steam. Hearth-baked tubers, golden and crisp, nestled beside a small, vibrant mound of berries, their aroma sweet and tangy. He cut into the meat. The first bite was a revelation. Rich, smoky, tender, a complex array of flavors that banished the memory of dry rations and bland porridge. He ate slowly at first, savoring each mouthful, then with increasing urgency, a primal hunger asserting itself. The plate was clean in short order, a testament to the meal’s unexpected delight. “Did someone… take my plate?” Kaelen asked, looking up at Anya as she returned, a slight flush on his cheeks. Anya laughed, a bright sound. “No, you ate it all! Never seen such a thin man put away a meal like that! Cook says it’s a rare treat to see someone enjoy it so much!” Kaelen felt a faint warmth, a simple, unfamiliar pleasure. There were more things in this world than survival and secrecy, he realized. A surprising thought. --- Three days passed this way. Kaelen tracked and hunted over two dozen Arcane Creatures. Only a handful were presented for bounty, but the Iron Shards accumulated quickly. He exchanged a portion for heavier Iron Marks, more convenient to carry. His awareness of elemental energies had sharpened. The chaotic thrum of the city still tried to overwhelm him, but he was learning to filter it, to pick out individual threads. He found he could discern residual elemental traces, like a scent in the air. Instead of blindly searching, he could follow the faint imprint a creature left on the stone or earth, guiding him to its lair. He tracked a Grayspine Stalker by its minute earth-energy displacement, a shifting pattern of disturbed ground-essence. Meanwhile, Thane’s Ash-Hunters were struggling. He saw their faces at the inn, drawn and shadowed, their complaints about meager pickings echoing through the common room. They barely seemed to be making their room rent. One evening, as Kaelen ascended the stairs to his room, two of Thane’s men blocked his path. Burly, unkempt figures, their eyes glinted with a mixture of envy and aggression. “Hey, quiet one.” One of them, a man with a scarred cheek, stepped closer. “Heard you’ve been doing well. Sharing is caring, eh? With your fellow hunters.” The other man cracked his knuckles, a low, menacing sound. “Yeah. We could use a bit of your luck.” Kaelen felt a familiar, cold stillness descend. His hand moved, not to his knife, but to a precise point on the first man’s arm. A sharp, focused pressure, disrupting the flow of blood and nerve. The man cried out, his arm going limp, useless. Kaelen pivoted, his foot sweeping low, catching the second man’s ankle. He went down hard, a grunt escaping him. Kaelen stepped back, his expression unreadable. Both men lay groaning, clutching at suddenly painful limbs. It had taken less than a breath. The commotion drew Thane, who appeared quickly, his face a mask of concern. “What in the blazes—?!” Thane knelt, assessing his men. He looked up at Kaelen, his brows furrowed. “I apologize, friend. My men are fools. I’ll see to them.” “Are you struggling?” Kaelen asked, his gaze steady. Thane hesitated, then sighed. His shoulders slumped. “Aye. It’s been lean. Ashfall Bluffs is picked clean. Not like the old days. We might have to pack up soon.” He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We followed a rumour here, thought the Cinderwing bounty would turn our fortunes. Foolish hope.” Kaelen remembered the conversation in the common room. Thane’s ambition to become 'magic-sensitive,' the journey with his crew. They had been thugs, Thane admitted, seeking a new life after hearing tales of individuals gaining innate abilities through hunting. Two years of hardship, of chasing shadows, of scraping by. It painted a bleak picture of the precarious lives of Ash-Hunters, often dismissed as little more than glorified bandits by the Barony’s officials. “It’s almost impossible to live like this, without luck or skill,” Thane continued, a weariness in his voice. “Just another few days, and we won’t have the Iron Shards for the rooms. Don’t worry, we won’t ask you. After this… it would be shameful.” Kaelen reached into his pouch. He pulled out a small stack of Iron Shards, ten of them, glinting dully in the dim light. He held them out. “Here.” Thane stared, dumbfounded. “What… why?” “You offered me a place in your crew,” Kaelen replied. “When I was new here, and you believed I was lost. Consider this repayment for that kindness.” Kaelen’s mother had instilled a simple code: kindness repaid, debts settled. The fists had dealt with the aggression. The coins settled the good will. “Still,” Thane protested, a flush rising on his weathered cheeks. “I can’t just—” “If it troubles you, then offer something in return,” Kaelen interrupted. “Information. Other cities. Where the hunting might be better.” Thane’s face brightened. “Now that I can do! We’ve wandered half the Barony looking for something to hunt! I can tell you stories, give you routes, anything you need!” He spoke for a long time, sketching rough maps on a scrap of parchment. He recounted details of cities Kaelen hadn't known existed. The sprawling forge-city of Cinderbrook, where smoke billowed from arcane forges and the air pulsed with heat. The ancient forest of the Whispering Woods, rumored to hold remnants of an older magic. He spoke of creatures unique to certain regions, and of routes to avoid, territories guarded by reclusive noble houses with their own arcane traditions. What truly piqued Kaelen’s quiet interest, however, was the mention of the Grand Arcane Repository in Oakhaven, a relatively close major city to the northeast. “Thousands of tomes, you say?” Kaelen asked, his voice softer than usual. “That’s the legend,” Thane confirmed. “Never been myself. Only certain people can enter, they say. Scholars, artificers, anyone with a… well, a documented sensitivity to raw magic. Or so I hear.” Kaelen had learned to read, taught by his mother in hushed tones during long, hidden nights. But he had never seen a book, not a true one. The villages near his secluded home were too poor, too afraid of anything resembling ‘arcane’ to possess such things. His mother had sometimes spoken of books, her eyes distant, filled with a wistful longing for stories she could no longer recall. He had always imagined them as repositories of forbidden knowledge, whispered secrets. Now, Thane described a place with thousands of them. A new desire, potent and unexpected, bloomed within Kaelen. A hunger not for power, nor for food, but for understanding. He wanted to know more about this world, the history of his own raw, dangerous abilities, the true nature of the ash and gears that defined Veridia. “Is this enough?” Kaelen gestured to the maps, the routes, the detailed descriptions of creatures and territories. “More than enough, friend. More than enough.” Thane smiled, a genuine, tired smile. Kaelen had planned to leave Ashfall Bluffs the next day. Now, he knew where he would go. --- The following afternoon, Kaelen ventured out for one last, quick sweep of the bluffs before departing. The air was still, quiet, the usual metallic hum muted by a strange stillness. He followed a faint trace of earthy energy, leading him into a secluded ravine, away from the usual hunting paths. He found him there. One of Thane’s subordinates, the smaller, wirier man with the nervous twitch, lay slumped against a rock. A crimson stain bloomed across his tunic, and his breath came in ragged, gurgling gasps. His eyes, already glazing over, sought Kaelen’s. “What happened?” Kaelen knelt, his pulse quickening. “Rabbit…” The man coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Monster… red eyes…” His finger, trembling, pointed deeper into the ravine. “Thane… over there…” Kaelen pushed himself up, following the man’s gaze. A familiar shock of dark, matted hair lay on the rocky ground. Thane. His eyes were wide, staring, a mask of disbelief and indignation frozen on his face. Behind him, two more bodies were scattered, grotesquely torn apart, limbs akimbo, blood painting the stone a dark, sticky crimson. The stench of iron was overwhelming. Then Kaelen saw it. A rabbit, unnaturally large, the size of a small hound, its fur a mottled gray-red. Its incisors, long and curved like obsidian blades, were stained with blood, chewing something with a sickening wet sound. Its eyes, a vivid, terrible crimson, locked onto Kaelen. This was no ordinary creature. This was a Cinderwing. With a powerful twitch of its grotesquely muscled hind legs, the beast launched itself forward, a blur of motion. It was impossibly fast, a living missile. Kaelen threw himself sideways, a desperate scramble. The creature shot past where he had stood, slamming into a thick ironbark sapling. A sharp *crack* echoed through the ravine. The sapling didn't just break; it was severed, cleanly sliced through by the Cinderwing’s teeth. This was far beyond a simple hunt. This was a predator of terrifying efficiency, fueled by raw elemental fury. Kaelen felt the deep pull of its power, dangerous and alluring. He braced himself, his mind already reaching for the earth, for the flame, preparing to meet its onslaught with everything he had. The quiet life, the carefully constructed facade, threatened to shatter under the weight of this raw, untamed force.

Crimson Ash and Broken Gears