A chill wind whispered through Dust-Mote Hollow, carrying the scent of pulverized granite and distant ozone. It was the eve of the Sky-Serpent’s Stirring, a night when ancient lore claimed the colossal World-Spine shifted in its slumber, sending tremors through the Aetherium. Old traditions in this canyon-side settlement called for vigilance.
Kael, lean despite his years of toil, moved with quiet purpose through his small, rock-hewn dwelling. A single, glowing lumen-moth, cupped in his left hand, cast dancing shadows. Its soft light illuminated the rough, pitted stone of his walls and the worn timber of his sleep-shelf.
In his right, he gripped his sky-chisel, a simple tool of obsidian and polished meteor-iron. He tapped its blunt end against the ceiling, then traced quick, warding glyphs along the uneven surfaces. Each tap resonated with a low thrum, a silent prayer.
Simultaneously, he hummed an ancient mantra, passed down through generations of Sun-Carvers in the hollow: “On the night of the Sky-Serpent’s Stirring, light touches stone, steel taps wall. No refuge for gloom-scuttlers, no haven for rift-leeches, no den for aether-worms.”
Kael’s parents vanished into the Aetherium’s higher reaches when he was a mere child, leaving him to the care of the canyon. Dust-Mote Hollow, carved into the side of a colossal petrified titan, was renowned for its Sky-Carver Guilds, creators of intricate Aether-Runes for the floating citadels above. Since the Age of Binding, the hollow held the critical task of producing these runes, watched over by Sky-Carver Officials.
Without family, Kael became an apprentice Ley-Sculptor young. He began with menial tasks, hauling rough-cut stone, polishing tools, learning the rhythm of the living rock. Years passed under the demanding gaze of Master Orin, a gruff but revered elder.
Just as Kael began to understand the subtle art of channeling ley-lines into rune-craft, calamity struck. The Sky-Carver Guilds lost their charter. Overnight, the hundreds of glowing Ley-Nodes, once humming with arcane energy, were ordered silenced. The reason remained a whispered mystery.
Kael laid his sky-chisel on a cracked stone table. He extinguished the lumen-moth, plunging the room into near darkness.
He stepped out onto his stoop, the coolness of the night air a familiar balm. Up above, the vast, splintered expanse of the Aetherium was a riot of scattered starlight and swirling nebulae.
Master Orin. He could still see the old man, slumped in his favorite rock-seat, eyes closed, facing a dormant Ley-Node on a cold autumn morning. He had passed peacefully, a carver until the end.
Yet, few shared Orin's devotion. Most Ley-Sculptors had no other trade. They dared not continue crafting forbidden Aether-Runes, nor sell their existing stock to common folk. They had to adapt, or starve.
Kael, at only fourteen, was cast out like the others. He returned to his dilapidated dwelling in Dust-Mote Hollow. Poverty clung to him like the canyon dust. There was no legacy for him to squander, only the silence of lost purpose.
He had drifted, seeking any means to survive. His meager savings dwindled. Just days ago, he heard whispers of Forgemaster Thane, a renowned Glimmer-Forgemaster, arriving in Sky-Spark Alley, a few rifts over. Thane sought apprentices – no wages, but meals guaranteed.
Kael went, hopeful. Thane merely glanced at his slender frame, then waved him away. Kael had been baffled. Did forging not rely on strength, but some secret, invisible aura?
Kael might appear frail, but his years spent hauling raw ley-stone and meticulously carving glyphs had granted him surprising endurance. He had traveled extensively with Master Orin, performing the most arduous tasks without complaint. Still, Orin never truly favored him.
His master always found Kael lacking compared to Jorin, Orin’s most prized apprentice. Jorin could master complex rune-patterns in months that took Kael years of relentless practice. Talent, Orin would often say, was a rare blessing. Hard work could only carry one so far.
Despite the irrelevance of his old craft, Kael performed his routine. He closed his eyes, envisioning a pristine slab of raw ley-stone, his sky-chisel poised. He began to simulate carving, his fingers tracing imaginary glyphs in the cool night air, honing a skill that might never again earn him a single sun-shard.
Every quarter-bell, he paused, shaking out his wrists. He repeated the process until exhaustion finally claimed his muscles.
Rising, he stretched, walking a slow circuit around his small yard. No one had taught him these movements. They were simply routines he had invented, rhythms for an uncertain life.
Suddenly, a harsh jeer cut through the canyon's stillness. Kael stopped. Just as he expected, Jaelen, his neighbor, squatted on the low rift-wall separating their homes. Jaelen’s sneer was undisguised.
Jaelen, it was rumored, was the illegitimate son of the former Sky-Carver Official. That official had returned to the capital citadels for a debriefing, fearing censure. He’d left Jaelen with a close friend, his successor.
Now, with the Guilds’ charter revoked, the successor-official had no purpose in the hollow, nor interest in caring for a colleague’s cast-off son. Leaving a pouch of sun-shards, he departed quickly for the capital.
Jaelen, unaware of his abandonment, continued a carefree life. He roamed the hollow with his personal servant, never working, always with coin in his pocket.
Low earthen walls divided the dwellings in Dust-Mote Hollow. Jaelen could easily have spoken from his own side, yet he always preferred to perch atop the wall when addressing Kael.
“Still playing with your pretend rocks, Kael?” Jaelen’s voice dripped with scorn. “Don’t you ever tire of such pointless games?”
Jaelen. A name that sounded important, unlike Kael’s simple, unadorned one. Even his servant, Lyra, had a melodic name, like a whisper of the high winds.
Lyra stood on Jaelen's side of the wall, her wide, dark eyes fixed on Kael, a timid expression on her face.
A voice, clear and resonant, cut through the night from the entrance to Kael’s small yard. “Would you sell that servant girl?”
Jaelen startled, nearly losing his balance on the wall. He turned, finding a brocade-clad boy, utterly unfamiliar, standing with a faint smile.
Beside the boy, a tall, broad elder stood. His face was fair, his expression benevolent. The elder’s eyes, slightly narrowed, swept over the three young figures.
His gaze passed Kael without pause. It lingered on Jaelen and Lyra, and the elder’s smile deepened.
Jaelen eyed the brocade-clad boy. “Why not?” he replied, recovering his bravado.
“What’s your price for her?” the brocade-clad boy asked, his smile unwavering.
Lyra’s eyes widened with disbelief, resembling a frightened cliff-deer caught in a sudden light.
Jaelen rolled his eyes, raising a finger and wagging it. “Ten thousand sun-shards!”
Brocade-boy’s expression didn't change. He nodded. “Agreed. She’s mine.”
The boy seemed serious. Jaelen hastily amended, “No, twenty thousand star-gems!”
An amused chuckle escaped the boy. “I was only jesting.”
Jaelen was not amused. His face soured.
The young boy ignored Jaelen, turning his gaze to Kael. “Thanks to you, I acquired that sculler today. Once home, I found myself quite taken with it. So, I insisted Elder Torvin bring me here to thank you personally.”
He tossed a heavy, embroidered pouch to Kael. The pouch landed with a soft thump. “My thanks. Now we are clear.”
Kael started to speak, but the brocade-clad boy was already departing, followed by Elder Torvin. Kael watched their retreating forms, a furrow in his brow.
Earlier that day, he had spotted a man with a fish-basket, walking through the market. Inside, a Sun-Gleam Sculler, shimmering like liquid starlight, thrashed. It was no longer than Kael’s hand, but its vibrant scales felt auspicious.
Kael had offered ten copper discs. The man, initially planning to eat the fish, saw profit. He demanded thirty. Kael, with his threadbare coin-pouch, couldn’t afford it, yet he couldn't bear to leave the beautiful creature.
He haggled, offering fifteen, then twenty. The man wavered. Just then, the brocade-clad boy and Elder Torvin passed by. Without hesitation, they bought the sculler and basket for fifty copper discs, leaving Kael to watch, wistful.
Jaelen glared at the departing figures, his face resentful. He dropped from the wall. A thought struck him. “Remember that stone-skein from last month?” he asked Kael.
Kael nodded. He remembered it clearly.
Local tradition held that a stone-skein wurm entering one's home was a potent omen, not to be expelled. On the first day of the last month, Jaelen had been sunning himself on his stoop when a segmented, four-legged creature, a stone-skein wurm, began to scurry into his house.
Jaelen grabbed it, throwing it out of his yard. But despite the fall, the creature had seemed only to grow more determined with each attempt.