“Our son-in-law displays a rather reckless, if effective, bravery,” the senior Warden’s voice was strained, a tight smile on his face. “However, the warlords of Shadowfen Ward rarely let such slights pass. It would be… prudent for you to remain within the Sky-Spire Enclave for the foreseeable future, Kael.” Roric, inhabiting Kael’s body, merely grunted. The absurdity of these current-world squabbles, even as he’d just demonstrated power that should leave them quaking, was a familiar weariness. He’d killed Ser Ulfric, the Shadowfen scion, in plain sight. Proved Kael was no longer the witless fool they’d dismissed. The old rules, the old attitudes, no longer applied. For him, they never truly had. “For those who disregard the sacred rites of the Order,” Roric drawled, a dry edge to his voice that Kael would never have possessed, “exile from its protections should suffice.” The Warden, Guard-Captain Vorlag, a man whose shoulders had seen too many battles, seemed to lose the words he was preparing. He shook his head slowly, a wry smile deepening the lines around his eyes, then merely offered a curt bow to Keeper Borin before he and the other two Wardens took their leave. They understood, or thought they did, the impossible simplicity of Roric’s declaration. From an ancient Archon’s perspective, things often were simple. From the perspective of humanity scrabbling in the ruins of the Sundered Lands, caught in webs of kin-feud and political maneuvering, simplicity was a luxury. If it were truly so simple, the Sky-Spire Order would not be cleaved by factions, nor would it be a pale shadow of the grand institutions Roric remembered from a forgotten age. “Come on, Kael. Let’s go home,” Lyra said, her hand on his arm, her grip surprisingly firm as she tugged him gently towards the Sky-Spire Enclave. Guard-Captain Vorlag followed a respectful distance behind, his silence speaking volumes. As the trio departed, the Crucible of Reckoning, still faintly scented with ozone and spilled blood, erupted into a cacophony of voices. The initiates, the lesser acolytes, the curious onlookers — all spoke in hushed, then increasingly excited, whispers. “By the Void! Ser Ulfric is actually… dead!” “Indeed! An Aether-Weaver, laid low! His very Aetherial Core shattered, his essence dispersed. Kael’s methods were… ruthlessly efficient.” “From now on, we must not cross Kael. Whatever happened to him, he’s become a godsdamned terror!” “Ser Ulfric is dead, who among the Shadowfen will dare challenge him now?” “I sense a tremor in the fabric of the Order. After today, something significant is going to shift within the Sky-Spire.” While the whispers coalesced into fervent discussions, Roric, Lyra, and Guard-Captain Vorlag had already reached the lower halls of the Sky-Spire Enclave. At the same time, Lady Aerion, Kael’s mother-in-law and a formidable figure within the Order, hurried into the same hall, her gaze immediately finding Lyra. Her steps quickened, clearly eager to understand what had transpired. Lyra, still flushed with a mixture of shock and exhilaration, quickly recounted the events at the Crucible. She spoke with vivid emotion, her voice rising in pitch as she detailed how Roric, in Kael’s body, had effortlessly, lethally, defeated Ser Ulfric. Lady Aerion’s face shifted through a spectrum of emotions as she listened, ending on a mask of profound disbelief as she stared at Roric, standing impassively beside Lyra. This… this was Kael? The man who had been a source of constant disappointment, a cipher, a shadow? Today, he had shocked her again and again. First, he’d defied and harmed Lord Theron in the Grand Hall, a bold act of blasphemy against the Shadowfen leader. Then, he had emerged from his seclusion to tend to Elara in the sacred Crystal Vein Sanctum, seemingly restoring her to health. And now, he had killed Ser Ulfric, Lord Theron’s favored kin, with his bare hands on the Crucible of Reckoning. Was this truly the same useless, broken bond-mate they had been saddled with? After a moment of silent contemplation, Lady Aerion waved a dismissive hand, signaling for Lyra and Guard-Captain Vorlag to leave them. The great hall, with its towering arcane sigils etched into the very stone, suddenly felt vast and empty, leaving only Lady Aerion and Roric. Lady Aerion studied him, her sharp gaze trying to pierce the calm exterior. “For what you have done for Elara,” she began, her voice softer than Roric had yet heard it, “thank you.” Roric remained unperturbed. “I’ve stated my reasons before,” he said slowly, his eyes holding an ancient, unreadable light. “I acted solely because Elara is my bond-mate. Such sentiment as ‘thanks’ is unnecessary.” Lady Aerion paused, a flicker of something unidentifiable in her eyes. She looked directly at him, her gaze unwavering, and asked, her tone grave, “Are you truly Kael?” Roric turned to face her fully, his expression a peculiar mix of earnestness and subtle mockery. “Mother-in-law,” he replied, “do you not recognize me?” It was a question delivered with the precise intention of being unanswerable. “That isn’t what I mean,” Lady Aerion said, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. She continued to stare, as if trying to peer into the very fragmented soul that resided within Kael’s form. The foolish woman, Roric mused, she would shatter if she truly saw what lay beneath. Roric shook his head in turn. “You’re inquiring about the sudden surge of strength, the swift shift from… indolence?” he supplied, using a word that would fit Kael’s reputation, “to capability, after my senses returned, correct?” Lady Aerion nodded, a slight inclination of her head. Roric pushed himself up from his seated position and began to walk towards the hall’s entrance. “Regrettably,” he stated, his voice carrying through the vast space, “that question is one I cannot answer for you. However, you should not feel that Elara’s bonding with me is any kind of loss. Indeed, in time, you will perceive that Elara is the most fortunate being in these Sundered Lands. For her man, is Kael.” He spoke his temporary name with a quiet, arrogant conviction that left no room for doubt, though the irony of the statement, given his true nature, was a private jest. Lady Aerion watched his departing figure, a strange sense of peculiarity washing over her. In Kael, her despised son-in-law, she saw an invincible confidence, an absolute certainty that she had never even witnessed in her own husband, the revered Master of the Sky-Spire Order. It was unnerving. “Strange, utterly strange…” Lady Aerion murmured, shaking her head as if to dislodge the troubling thoughts. She stopped pondering the matter, though the seed of unease was firmly planted. Then, as if struck by a sudden, inconvenient realization, she slapped her forehead in annoyance. “No, that’s not right — I needed to ask him about Elara’s Soul-Echo Affliction, about its cure! How could I have forgotten such a vital question?” She looked towards the archway, but Roric was already out of sight, lost to the labyrinthine passages of the Enclave. “Let it be,” she sighed, her mind already shifting gears. “I’ll ask later. Those ancient, grasping warlords from the Northern Blight-Scars are already thinking of whisking Elara away; I have more pressing concerns!” Lady Aerion did not linger in the hall. Her steps now purposeful, she returned to the Crystal Vein Sanctum. The preceding magical anomaly, the strange resonance that had covered ninety thousand miles of the Sundered Lands, accompanied by the eerie alignment of the twin moons, had alerted every powerful entity, every surviving ancient lineage across the Ashfall Wastes and beyond. Countless old warlords and keepers, often little more than animated dust held together by sheer arcane will, had come to visit the Sky-Spire Order, each intent on claiming Elara for themselves. The venerable ancestors of the Sky-Spire Order, ancient spirits bound to the Enclave’s core, had emerged from their stasis to block these interlopers. Yet, after today’s events—Elara’s sudden healing, the awakening of her Aether-Twin Avatar—her potential had become terrifyingly undeniable. Even though these major powers knew Elara was the Holy Daughter of the Sky-Spire Order, they still schemed and maneuvered to take her away. Such was the pull of true power, a rare commodity in these blighted times. Yet, apart from Elara herself, who truly understood that all of this was thanks to Kael? Whether it was the anomaly that had spanned vast distances or Elara’s astonishing activation of her formidable Aether-Twin Avatar, it was all due to the fragmented Archon’s presence, to Roric. A secret, like so many others, he kept locked away, observing the futile struggles of these lesser beings. Beyond Elara, the matter regarding Ser Ulfric also caused no small stir within the Sky-Spire Order. The notorious “idiot” Kael, who had been scorned and dismissed, had not only killed Ser Ulfric, an Aether-Weaver of considerable renown, but had done so with a single, devastating strike. According to the whispers, Kael now possessed a cultivation of Third Sigil Mastery, a leap in power that defied all known understanding. All this news had shaken the very foundations of the Sky-Spire Order, casting long, uncertain shadows across its ancient stones. At this time, Roric, oblivious to the furore he had stirred, returned to his personal chamber in the Sky-Spire Enclave, moving with a leisurely grace that belied the urgency of his long-term goals. Surprisingly, Guard-Captain Vorlag, the same Warden from the Crucible of Reckoning, was waiting patiently at the door. Upon seeing Roric, Vorlag immediately bowed, a deep, formal genuflection, one that carried the weight of absolute subservience. “This old servant pays respects to the Master.” If this scene were to be witnessed by any other member of the Sky-Spire Order, it would undoubtedly shock them to the core. Guard-Captain Vorlag was a respected Protector, his strength on par with the highest-ranking Wardens, and yet he called himself an “old servant” and displayed such profound deference towards Kael, the former wastrel. Roric uttered a light ‘hmm’, a sound of mild acknowledgement. “You acquitted yourself adequately just now, at the Crucible of Reckoning.” “Thank you for the compliment, Master!” Guard-Captain Vorlag replied, his voice laced with genuine respect. “I have certain inquiries for you,” Roric stated, his tone brooking no argument. “Master, please speak. This old servant will conceal nothing and recount all that he knows!” Vorlag declared, his loyalty absolute. Roric considered for a moment, his gaze distant, as if sifting through layers of forgotten knowledge. Then, raising his eyes to meet Vorlag’s, he asked, “The Obsidian Imperium demands resources from the Sky-Spire Order every three years. How long until their next collection?” “Replying to Master,” Vorlag answered truthfully, without hesitation, “at most half a month from now, the Obsidian Imperium will dispatch envoys to collect their due.” “Half a month, then…” Roric murmured softly, a glint of sharp calculation flashing in his eyes. He posed his next question. “Does the Ashfall Dominion hold any significant connection with the Obsidian Imperium?” “The Ashfall Dominion is, in essence, a tributary state to the Obsidian Imperium,” Guard-Captain Vorlag explained. “Its current Master, Lord Theron, when younger, spent some years training under the Imperium’s tutelage. Thus, he is considered by many to be half a disciple of their order.” “I see.” The corner of Roric’s mouth lifted in a faint, knowing smirk. Finally, he understood the full scope of Lord Theron’s little game. After learning about the Obsidian Imperium from Master Lyris, a merchant with surprisingly accurate tidings, Roric had already been on alert. Now, with Vorlag’s confirmation, his nascent plans solidified into a precise course of action. “You may leave. I shall summon you if there is anything further,” Roric waved a dismissive hand, signaling Guard-Captain Vorlag to depart. Vorlag bowed deeply once more, then turned and exited the chamber, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft thud. Roric was alone. He settled upright on the simple cot, his mind a maelstrom of ancient knowledge and contemporary concerns. “I cannot yet venture to the Obsidian Imperium,” he mused, the thought forming clearly in his fragmented consciousness. “It would be prudent to await the further maturation of this Arcane Vessel.” This body, Kael’s body, was an astonishing specimen, but it was still nascent, still far from fully capable of containing the true power Roric could wield. “But, with the Obsidian Imperium’s envoys arriving in at most half a month, and Lord Theron here, sowing dissent and instability, the Sky-Spire Order may not be able to withstand the pressure.” The implications were clear. The Sky-Spire Order, for all its current failings, served a purpose. It was Elara’s home, and more importantly, it held secrets, remnants of a bygone era that Roric needed to access. “Whether it is for the sake of Kal-Dur, that fledgling fragment of my true self, or for Elara, my temporary bond-mate, I cannot permit the Sky-Spire Order to fall into ruin.” With that thought, Roric hesitated no longer. His divine soul stirred, sending out a silent, compelling command, instructing Guard-Captain Vorlag to procure several rare and specific items for him, a task to be completed within seven days. Having arranged these immediate matters, Roric turned his attention to his own cultivation. The strength of this Arcane Vessel was, even in its unawakened state, beyond imagination. It presented an unusual dilemma for one as ancient as Roric. “In my true form, the Archon’s Form, cultivation was an almost innate process, requiring little conscious effort. Now that I possess this once-in-an-epoch Arcane Vessel, which of the myriad cultivation techniques would be most suitable…?” Roric was not lacking in knowledge; he had access to all of the top-tier, soul-forging techniques from every era he’d witnessed, but finding the truly *appropriate* one was key. “The Archon’s Path, the one Kal-Dur is attuned to…” he began to consider, a flicker of memory stirring from the deep recesses of his fragmented being.

Whispers of the Ancient Hand