A whisper through the Veil, thin as a spider silk, startled Kaelen from his shallow slumber. It was a disturbance, a ripple in the omnipresent mist that usually sang him to sleep. His eyes snapped open, a silent predator in the gloom. He lay still on the rough-hewn stone floor, feeling the damp chill seep into his bones. His hollow, a cramped recess carved into the side of a forgotten ruin, barely contained his frame. No window pierced the eternal grey outside, only a heavy, rusting metal plate serving as a door. It was his only barrier against the world. Held breath, Kaelen focused his unique senses. The mist, usually a benign blanket, now pulsed with a foreign presence just beyond the door. It shifted, agitated, whispering of encroachment. *Click.* A faint, scraping sound. A crude hand working the door's rusted latch. Kaelen pressed himself against the cold wall. Every nerve thrummed. His heart, a silent drum against his ribs. *Clunk.* The latch gave way. A sliver of deeper grey, barely discernible from the room's interior, widened as the door cracked open. A figure peered in, a jagged, dark silhouette. In its hand, a shard of scavenged metal, sharpened into a crude dagger. It gleamed faintly, catching what little ambient light seeped through the Veil from outside. Shuffling footsteps. Intruder hesitated, eyes unadjusted to the crushing darkness of Kaelen’s hollow. Man moved slowly, cautiously, feeling his way further into the confined space. Kaelen remained utterly still, part of the shadow, part of the mist itself. Observing. Waiting. Intruder stepped deeper. *Snap!* A tiny, sharp sound. Something beneath the man’s worn boot gave way. Kaelen’s trap. A fine length of processed spider silk, nearly invisible, strung across the floor. Tied to it, a sharpened fragment of petrified wood, balanced precariously. *Thwack!* A dull impact. "Gah!" A choked cry. Fragment of wood, propelled by the sudden tension of the silk and a concentrated burst of mist Kaelen subtly manipulated, struck the man’s leg. Not a killing blow, but a vicious surprise. Man stumbled, clutching his thigh. Blade clattered to the floor, forgotten. "What in the...?" he snarled, voice thick with pain and confusion. Kaelen moved. Silent. Fast. A blur in the mist, he was already airborne. Landing hard on the man’s chest, breath driven from his lungs. Kaelen snatched the fallen blade. Pointed its tip at the man’s throat. A single bead of sweat traced a path down Kaelen’s temple, visible only in the sudden, frantic rush of his blood. Eyes widened, betraying a flicker of recognition. "You... you little rat!" "No rat," Kaelen’s voice, a low rasp, barely a whisper. "Just a neighbor, Mael." Mael. The man from the next hollow. He had passed Kaelen’s doorway yesterday, his gaze lingering with an unpleasant hunger. His eyes had fallen upon the glimmerstone Kaelen had been polishing, a small, vibrant fragment of solidified Veil, pulsating with soft inner light. "Robbing your own, Mael? Even in the Fringes, some lines remain," Kaelen murmured, pressing the blade a fraction closer. "Lines? What lines, boy? You flaunt a Glimmerstone in this dog-eat-dog murk, you invite the hungry wolves!" Mael’s voice strained, desperation rising. "You best let go. My brother... he’s a Storm-Weaver." "A Storm-Weaver? Living in these Fringes? You lie poorly." Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. "It’s true! Temporarily, he is here. For a task." "A task that sends his brother to crawl for scraps from a child?" Kaelen’s breath hitched, the raw bitterness stinging his tongue. His own folly. He had been so mesmerized by the stone's luminescence, forgetting the ever-present hunger of the Fringes. In this place, where the Veil was thickest and the law of the strong reigned, weakness was a death sentence. "Damn it! What did you expect? A real Glimmerstone, just lying there for the taking!" Mael spat, a sudden glint of cunning in his eye. A blur. A second blade, smaller, materialized in Mael’s hand, slipping from his sleeve. "Die, you wretched thing!" Mael bellowed, twisting violently, aiming the hidden dagger at Kaelen’s side. Kaelen recoiled, a surge of adrenaline sharpening his senses. The world seemed to slow. He rolled off Mael, the smaller blade slicing air where his ribs had been moments before. Mael scrambled to his feet, eyes wild, pursuing Kaelen with rabid intent. The Fringes taught one absolute truth: take or be taken. Blades clashed. Metal against metal, a grating shriek. Kaelen, smaller, swifter, used the mist to his advantage, blurring his outlines, making himself harder to track in the dimness. Mael, larger, stronger, but clumsy. A misstep. Mael lunged, overextended. Kaelen twisted, mist swirling around his arm, adding strength to his parry. The borrowed dagger, still in his hand, found its mark. *Squelch!* The sound was sickening. Wet. Final. Mael froze, a look of disbelief etched onto his face. His eyes, fixed on Kaelen, slowly glazed over. He began to tremble, a shiver that had nothing to do with cold. Then, a gasp. A gurgle. He collapsed, a dark stain blossoming on his chest, where Kaelen's blade had plunged deep. Silence descended, heavier than the Veil itself. Kaelen stumbled back, collapsing against the damp wall. His own breath ragged, echoing too loudly in the sudden void. He stared at the lifeless form. The first. He had killed. The scent of fresh blood, metallic and hot, bloomed in the air, a stark contrast to the usual earthy musk of the Fringes. *Damn you, Mael.* The thought was a raw, aching wound. *Why did you have to come in here?* He knew this day might come. Survival in the Fringes demanded a ruthlessness he had long suppressed. But the cold finality of it, the way life drained from a man... it clawed at something deep within him. Kaelen forced himself to move, shaking. If Mael’s boast was true, if he truly had a brother, a Storm-Weaver, then Kaelen was in grave danger. A powerful Veil-Touched like that would not care for justification. He would only see his kin, fallen. Hiding the body? Impossible. The Fringes were a warren of eyes, of hungry shadows. Better to flee, to vanish into the deeper Veil before the alarm could be raised. With swift, practiced motions, Kaelen dragged the heavy metal plate shut, forcing the rusted latch back into place with a shuddering click. He secured it as best he could, a flimsy barrier against the coming storm. Then, he slipped out into the labyrinth. --- Mist-shrouded alleys. Twisted pathways of corroded metal and crumbling stone. The Fringes unspooled before him, a nightmare made of shadows and whispers. Structures leaned against each other, haphazardly built, a maze that swallowed light and sound. Kaelen melted into it, moving with the practiced ease of one born to its convolutions, his form barely a flicker in the omnipresent grey. Hours later. Cramped, suffocating space. Kaelen sat hunched within a Mist-Hauler, its reinforced plating rattling with every jolt. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp wool, stale fear, and unwashed bodies. Other figures, mostly older, gaunt men with hardened faces, swayed with the rhythm of the journey. They were heading to the Deep Scar, the Glimmerstone mines far beyond the Ember Enclave. *Cyrus.* Mael’s brother. A Storm-Weaver. The name felt like a brand on Kaelen's skin. "To think he was truly Veil-Touched, a Storm-Weaver. My luck, a cursed thread woven through the Veil itself." Kaelen muttered, a silent curse. Cyrus was no mere thug. A B-rank Veil-Touched, a master of static mist, capable of rendering the Veil into crackling chains or blinding bursts of force. There were perhaps a hundred such individuals in the entire Ember Enclave, figures of immense power, almost legendary. To them, Kaelen was nothing. A ghost, a shadow. Expendable. Cyrus, enraged by his brother’s death, would hunt. He wouldn't care that Mael had been the aggressor. Kinship was a powerful claim, even in this fractured world. And Kaelen, the murderer of his blood, would pay. *Today I run like a terrified fox, but know this, Cyrus: I will return. And the Veil will remember.* Cyrus, Kaelen knew, understood the Fringes. He had come from such places himself, clawed his way into the Enclave’s grace. He would anticipate every hiding spot, every escape route. Kaelen had been cornered, leaving only one option. The Mist-Hauler. "Never thought I’d willingly board one of these," Kaelen thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. Beyond the Ember Enclave lay the Murkland. A vast, desolate expanse of perpetually swirling, corrosive mist. No blade of grass, no living thing that didn't claw its existence from decay and despair. Beneath the swirling grey, Gloom-Crawlers stirred, their armored carapaces scraping against the hidden earth. Through the upper layers, Wind-Serpents slithered on unseen currents, their hunger a palpable vibration in the Veil. Worse, packs of Veil-Stalkers, half-beast, half-mist, hunted in the shifting haze. And always, the desperate bands of scavengers, human or twisted by the Veil, preying on any who dared venture out. Nowhere was truly safe. Only near the Ember Enclave did the Veil thin, its most dangerous creatures pushed back by ancient wards. That was why Kaelen, despite the misery of the Fringes, had clung to its fringes. But Cyrus’s wrath was a greater terror than the Murkland’s beasts. "Damn it! If only my own connection to the Veil was recognized..." A century past, the world had been swallowed by the Great Veil. Civilizations vanished. Humanity, decimated, clung to isolated enclaves like Ember. Those who survived, a fraction, found themselves "Veil-Touched." Unnatural abilities manifested. Some gained physical prowess, others could bend the mist to their will in powerful, destructive ways. They became the new rulers, the architects of a fractured world. Even a low-rank Veil-Touched lived a life of privilege within Ember Enclave. Kaelen, with his silent, subtle mastery, was merely a peasant. His death, a forgotten whisper in the vastness of the Veil. His only choice, the Deep Scar. Seventy kilometers into the Murkland, the Deep Scar ripped through the earth. A gaping maw where Glimmerstones, fragments of pure, solidified Veil, were ripped from the earth’s raw core. Every shard fed the Ember Enclave, powering its wards, its dwindling light. Mining Glimmerstones demanded lives. Tunnels were narrow, cramped, collapsing. Pickaxes wielded by desperate hands. Constant death, constant need for fresh bodies. The Enclave asked no questions. Identity, past, none mattered. Only willing hands. And so, Kaelen was here. *I will survive the Deep Scar. I will hone my power. And then, Cyrus, the Veil will grant me vengeance.* Kaelen’s gaze fixed on the endless grey outside the reinforced viewport, a silent fire hardening his resolve. "Hey, kid! Heading to the mines, too?" A gruff voice rumbled beside him. A man, burly, muscles straining against patched cloth. He looked like a beast of burden, built for the crushing work of the Scar. Kaelen didn’t turn. "What of it?" His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Kid’s got teeth, eh? Just watch your back once we’re down there." A low chuckle. "Why?" Kaelen’s eyes, still fixed on the Veil, narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Plenty of men down in the Scar, starved for more than just a meal. Pretty boys like you..." A leer accompanied the words, a predatory glint in the man’s eyes as he swept Kaelen's lean frame. "They get taken care of." *This animal.* Kaelen felt a cold, familiar anger stir within him. The Fringes had been full of such men. He had learned to be quick, to be silent, to be deadly. The Veil itself had been his shield, his weapon. His hand instinctively tightened around the small, smooth stone he kept hidden beneath his tunic – the glimmerstone. A quiet hum resonated from it, a silent promise. A future yet unwritten.

The Shard's Price