A stillness settled over the hidden glade, broken only by the rasp of Sir Kael's breath. Ly, fingers still faintly tingling from the precise disruption of primal energies, stepped closer. The thing lay still, a mere husk where a moment ago a distorted entity had snarled. It had been an echo, a spectral reverberation from the Sundered Reach's forgotten past, drawn to the knight's presence. Ly felt a familiar weariness, a deep-seated fear of what his actions might provoke. Helping the knight had been an instinct, a quiet compulsion to mend the fractured fabric of local reality. But the act itself was a gamble, exposing a flicker of his true self. If Sir Kael, a man of martial prowess and evident influence, were to speak of the quiet archivist with his impossible luck, Ly's meticulously constructed invisibility would unravel. Still, the knight had maintained his decorum, his thanks sincere even in pain. A quiet respect had formed between them, despite the stark difference in their worlds. “Can you stand?” Ly asked, his voice low, a habit ingrained from years of quiet study. Sir Kael pushed himself onto an elbow. A new tension gripped him, his gaze fixed on the still form of the phantom. “Behind you!” No words were needed. The distorted thing, though its physical anchor was unmade, began to twitch. From the point where Ly had disrupted its core, a pale green luminescence pulsed, an unmaking trying to remake itself. It shuddered, then lunged, a headless, formless malice. Ly moved. A swift kick, honed by necessity more than training, sent the reanimated mass tumbling across the overgrown grass. It rolled, unsettling the dew-kissed leaves, but seemed to absorb no lasting harm. “Raw force won’t unmake it!” Sir Kael shouted, struggling to gain his feet. “Residual distortions persist beyond mere physical anchors!” “What then?” Ly’s mind raced, recalling fragmented texts. He understood the *what* of his power, not always the *how*. “You must unravel it, Ly, channel a pure pulse!” Ly stretched out a hand, a flicker of his ability manifesting as a barely visible ripple in the air. He willed the entity to dissipate, to simply cease. But the raw power, unchanneled, merely brushed against the phantom, causing it to glow brighter, feeding on the unformed attempt. Sir Kael watched, a knowing apprehension in his eyes. This young man, this quiet archivist, possessed a primal, untamed strength. No Weaver of the modern age commanded such raw energy, unconstrained by dogma or formal training. “Shape it!” Sir Kael urged, his voice strained. “Focus your will, then *release*!” Shape it. Ly closed his eyes for a heartbeat. His days were spent with precise movements, sifting through delicate fragments of ancient lore, carefully mending brittle parchments. He envisioned that same meticulous focus, not on physical things, but on the raw threads of reality itself. A concentrated point of influence, then a sudden, outward expansion. His hand snapped open. A thin, searing beam of concentrated force, a silent, primal shriek of reality *unmaking*, shot forth. It wasn’t fire or lightning, but something more fundamental, an anathema to the phantom’s essence. The beam struck. The phantom shrieked, a sound that scraped against the very air. It writhed, consumed by the concentrated influence, a virulent green light flickering erratically as its very being was unspun. It tried to smother the disruptive force, to twist away, but Ly, with a sharp focus born of years suppressing his power, poured more of his raw, unbidden energy into the point of contact. The spectral form burned, not with flame, but with an internal dissolution. Its luminescence intensified, then collapsed inward, imploding into nothingness. After a long moment, the air cleared. All that remained was a faint scent of ozone and something akin to damp earth. Ly let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sir Kael exhaled too, a ragged sound. “Is it truly quelled?” Ly asked, his voice rough. “For now,” Sir Kael replied, pushing himself fully upright. He winced, clutching his gashed temple. “But it leaves behind residual energies. Reclaim its essence, or the distortion merely returns, perhaps stronger.” Reclaim. It was a strange concept. Ly extended a hesitant hand toward the spot where the phantom had vanished. He thought of drawing breath, of inhaling the air itself. A faint, pale green hum began to coalesce, an ethereal mist that drifted, then flowed toward his outstretched palm. It wasn't a physical sensation, but an internal one, a chilling expansion within his core. The primal energies seeped into him, cool and vast. It felt as though a chasm within him had widened, ready to contain an ocean. A shiver coursed through Ly's body, exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. This was the 'more' his mother had warned him against, the raw, untamed power that changed him, threatened to consume the quiet man he sought to be. “Have you truly never done this before?” Sir Kael asked, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Never,” Ly confessed, withdrawing his hand, trying to calm the sudden thrum beneath his skin. “Incredible.” Sir Kael shook his head. Primal power grew with age and experience for most Weavers, but to manifest such raw potency without formal absorption or training… Ly's innate capacity must be monumental. Sir Kael cleared his throat, his earlier gruffness replaced by a studied deference. “Forgive my earlier disrespect, young Thane. To what House do you owe allegiance?” Ly stiffened, the sudden shift in tone grating. He didn't want this. He wanted the quiet, the anonymity. He didn't want a battle-scarred knight bowing to him. “Let's see to that wound first.” --- Ly meticulously dabbed the herbal salve onto Sir Kael's wound, his movements precise and practiced. He’d learned to tend scrapes and minor gashes in his lonely retreat, preparing for the inevitable mishaps of life. The knight's scalp was torn, bleeding freely. Ly bound it with strips of clean linen, each knot tied with careful efficiency. An ironic thought pricked him: his ability could mend the fabric of reality, yet healing a physical wound on another person would consume a staggering amount of his stored power. It was a strange asymmetry, a boundary he hadn't fully understood or dared to push. “My apologies, Ly,” Sir Kael said, groaning softly as the cool salve bit into the wound. “Forcing a Weaver of your caliber to such a task.” “I am no Weaver, Sir Kael,” Ly countered, his tone firm. He avoided the knight’s gaze, focusing on the careful wrap. “Just an archivist, a keeper of forgotten scraps.” He wanted the old knight to understand. *Don't treat me like that.* Sir Kael met Ly's eyes, a silent challenge passing between them. After a long moment, the knight smiled, a weary, knowing grin. “Very well, very well. Your point is made.” A small, involuntary huff of amusement escaped Ly. The tension eased slightly. “But Ly, a talent like yours? Why hide it in these quiet halls?” Sir Kael asked, gesturing vaguely to the surrounding wilderness and the small, stone structure that served as Ly’s home and library. “I mean no disrespect to scholarship, but it doesn't quite fit.” Ly’s gaze drifted to the dusty shelves, to the meticulously organized scrolls that were his world. Pride was not the emotion that came to mind. “It's… complicated.” He began to speak, his voice soft, recounting the strange incidents of his childhood, the subtle shifts in reality he'd inadvertently caused, the quiet dread that had blossomed in his guardian’s eyes. His mother—his foster mother, truly—had told him terrifying tales of the Houses, of what happened to those with unbidden power, those who drew too much attention. She’d hidden him, taught him to be small, to be invisible. Sir Kael nodded slowly when Ly finished. “Your guardian was perceptive.” “You believe so?” Ly asked, surprised. He’d expected the knight to scoff, to dismiss his mother’s fears as peasant superstitions. “Indeed.” Sir Kael’s expression darkened, his gaze distant. “Two decades past, the Great Houses of the North bled. I saw three thousand sworn blades of House Varrin shatter against House Solara's ambition. Nine hundred fell.” “A third, gone,” Ly murmured, the scale of loss unfathomable. “My closest companions. My wife. My son. All in that shattered third. I alone remained.” A tremor ran through Sir Kael’s voice, a deep, ancient sorrow. Ly could only imagine a grief so profound, a chasm as vast as the fear he himself carried. After a long silence, Sir Kael visibly brightened, shaking off the weight of memory. “Your guardian's caution held truth. A knight's life is a flickering flame. But she mistook your gift, Ly. It dwarfs any blade or shield. That power… it is meant for more than quiet mending.” “Does it truly?” Ly asked, a seed of doubt his constant companion. “A proud boast from a bloodied man, but I am no novice. That distortion would have claimed me, yet you unmade it. Untrained, unburdened by proper absorption, you wrestled reality itself. That potency, Ly, marks you as a Weaver of the highest order. A lineage for the Great Houses themselves.” The words felt unreal, echoing hollowly in Ly's ears. He’d spent a lifetime minimizing his power, fearing its chaos. “My guardian spoke of my father as a simple knight. Could she have been… mistaken?” “Life is rarely so neat. The deepest currents can rise from unexpected springs. A powerful Weaver from common blood, a dullard from a storied House. Anomalies exist. For that reason, Ly, you must leave this quiet existence.” “Why?” Ly asked, the word a whisper. “Because the Sundered Reach bleeds. Not just from squabbling Houses, but from the forgotten things stirring below – the Whispering Blight, the Veiled Ones. We need Weavers like you. Ones with the strength to mend, not merely disrupt. The Houses war amongst themselves, blind to the true threats that gather in the shadows.” Sir Kael’s voice took on a fervent edge. “A strong, principled Weaver, even one more, could shift the balance.” The Veiled Ones. Ancient tales, whispered in his guardian’s hearthside stories. To Ly, they were as distant as the gods, as fanciful as dragons. “And frankly, Ly,” Sir Kael continued, his gaze piercing, “a life hidden away, even one of quiet scholarship… it doesn't quite fit. You yearn for more, don't you?” Ly gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. A secret flicker of restless yearning he usually stifled. “Your guardian's fears, while born of harsh truth, don't fully apply to you. A true Weaver commands respect, even from the most ruthless Houses. Especially one with your raw power.” “So I wouldn't be… a pawn?” Ly asked, a sudden boldness in his tone, a direct challenge to the fear that had defined his life. Sir Kael’s expression softened. “Guarantees are for the dead. But your path would be your own. Your power would ensure it.” A torrent of conflicting thoughts raged within Ly. The deep-seated dread of exposure, of the chaotic consequences his power might unleash, wrestled with a nascent, unfamiliar hunger. A chance to understand, to *control*, to perhaps even find a purpose beyond mere hiding. The tension was a physical ache in his chest. Sir Kael sat patiently on the narrow cot, his bandaged head resting against the rough stone wall, granting Ly the space he needed for this monumental decision. After tens of minutes, Ly finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “What awaits me, out there?” A smile bloomed on Sir Kael’s weary face. “What do you seek? Knowledge? Influence? Understanding of your gift? Perhaps a kinship, a purpose beyond these quiet halls.”

A Pulse Unbidden