A single mug of Veridian ale, dark and frothy, bought Lysander the information he sought. Pale lamplight pooled on the worn tabletop, illuminating the faint sheen of sweat on Elara’s brow as she leaned in conspiratorially. He needed to find a Distorted Beast with a bounty. She pointed him toward the District Consulate, to the section handled by a Registrar. Elara’s laugh, a bright, surprising chime, cut through the tavern's drone. “You don’t know about the Consulate? Or a Registrar, Ly? You really are fresh from the wildlands, aren’t you?” She smiled, wiping down the counter with a practiced motion. Veridia’s central administrative hub, she explained, was where the city’s many decrees and declarations were cataloged. Registrars were simply the public servants of the ruling council. Night had settled fully outside, a deep indigo blanket draped over the city’s spires. Best to wait until morning. A quiet nod acknowledged her words. He nursed his ale, the bitter tang a counterpoint to the quiet hum of the tavern. “But why are you looking for Distorted Beasts?” Elara’s voice lowered, a hint of curiosity. “You’re not one of those... Echo Hunters, are you?” “Echo Hunters?” He met her gaze, his own eyes holding a peculiar stillness. “They’re the folk who chase after the wild things. They believe if they kill enough, they’ll become Weavers.” She lowered her voice further, as if speaking of a taboo. A superstition had spread through the Outer Districts, she explained, claiming that consuming or absorbing the remnants of a Distorted Beast could awaken dormant primal energies, transforming an ordinary person into a Weaver – a myth Ly knew was both profoundly true and terrifyingly misconstrued. Most considered them deluded, she added. Yet, enough risked their lives, driven by the desperate hope of rising above their station, to make their presence a common sight in these borderland taverns. A heavy hand clapped down on Lysander’s shoulder. His muscles tensed, a faint tremor of suppressed power rippling just beneath his skin, but he kept his face impassive. Kael, the speaker, looked to be in his late thirties. Hair like a bramble patch, a beard matted with dust and dried ale. But his eyes, beneath the gruff exterior, held an unsettling clarity. “Lena, sweetling, it’s no superstition. You *can* become a Weaver, hunting the Echo-spawn. I’ve seen it.” Elara, startled, spun around. “Kael! You’re alive!” “Did you think a few overgrown shadows could take old Kael down?” Kael grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. “Not until I’m a Weaver myself!” Behind him, three men approached. Sturdy, broad-shouldered, armed with rough-hewn spears, salvaged steel hatchets, and a hammer that looked more suited for demolition than combat. Ly subtly shifted, his shoulder brushing Kael’s hand away. Kael flinched, taking a half-step back, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “My apologies,” Kael said, his grin fading slightly. “No offense taken,” Ly replied softly. “But tell me more of what you spoke of.” “What?” Kael blinked. “Becoming a Weaver through hunting Distorted Beasts.” “Ah, so the young cub is interested too?” Kael’s grin returned, wider now, a predatory glint in his eyes. He seemed pleased by Ly’s curiosity. Weavers, Kael elaborated, consumed or refined the primal essence of these creatures to amplify their own powers. By the same logic, ordinary folk could harvest that raw power, hoping to ignite their own dormant abilities. He swore he’d witnessed the change himself in several individuals, though they were rarely seen in Veridia’s teeming streets. “That’s why the four of us,” Kael gestured to his companions, “are out there, chasing the Echo-spawn, to earn our place among the Weavers.” “We’ve already brought down three,” one of Kael’s men boasted, thumping his chest. “Almost there now,” another chimed in, his eyes gleaming with ambition. Ly felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Three? The single Distorted Beast he’d encountered had radiated a primal force capable of tearing apart a dozen armed men. These men were either incredibly powerful, incredibly lucky, or hunting something far less potent. “Three? Does that mean one of you has already achieved the weaving?” Ly’s question hung in the air. The tavern erupted in laughter. Patrons at nearby tables, eavesdropping, joined in. A wave of raucous mirth washed over Ly. His brow furrowed. He understood little of its cause. “Not a chance!” Kael roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “In all Veridia, there are only four true Weavers – the Council Lord and his three Wardens. If any of us had turned, believe me, we’d be celebrating in the high halls, not this dingy tavern!” “Aye, if one of us had the gift, it’d make it easier for the rest of us,” a companion grumbled. “Almost died a few times just taking those beasts down.” Only four Weavers in a city that housed tens of thousands? Ly felt a familiar weariness settle over him. It underscored the profound loss of the Sundered Reach, the magic that had once been so prevalent now a mere ghost, a fragmented memory. Kael’s gaze drifted to Ly’s travel-worn pack. “By the way, young one, you mentioned hunting. But your gear seems... sparse. No weapon?” “A weapon?” Ly reached into his coat, retrieving a small, well-used slingshot crafted from cured hide. He expected mockery, a sneer at its simplicity compared to their formidable steel. Yet, Kael’s men reacted with surprising interest. “Ah, a stone-sling,” one observed, his eyes tracing the worn leather. “Seen a lot of use, that has.” “What size stones do you favor?” another asked. “Egg-sized, mostly,” Ly replied. “Enough to crack the skull of those overgrown hares or foxes, then,” Kael mused, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. It became clear. They weren't hunting the monstrous predators Ly envisioned, but rather lesser Distorted Beasts – creatures that, in their un-tainted forms, might be handled by an ordinary human. Even these, Ly knew, could be deadly if they possessed an unexpected primal ability. “Tell you what,” Kael said, leaning closer, his voice conspiratorial. “Fancy joining our hunt? We’re always looking for another marksman.” “No,” Ly said, without hesitation. His goals diverged too greatly. He had no intention of revealing his subtle manipulations of primal energy, nor did he wish to waste precious time chasing lesser distortions. Kael merely shrugged, a hint of regret in his expression. “Pity. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.” Kael moved back, rejoining his companions. Ly finished his ale, collected a key from Elara, and ascended the creaking stairs to his room. Later, as he lay in bed, the murmur of voices from below drifted through the rough floorboards. Kael’s men spoke, their words clear in the quiet night. “Kael, why bother with that scrawny youth? He looks like he’d shatter with one good punch.” “Aye, a good scare would have him weeping for his mother.” Their earlier friendliness had evaporated. Ly had encountered such two-faced behavior countless times in his wanderings. It didn't sting, merely confirmed a pattern. A soft sigh escaped him. *People are simply people*, he thought, his gaze fixed on the shadowed ceiling. Moments later, Kael’s voice answered them, gruff but softer. “Foolishness. Just reminded me of my own young days. Wandering out there with nothing but a leather sling? Ten lives wouldn’t be enough to survive. He needs a guiding hand.” “Hyungnim, you’re too kind,” one of his men said, a note of exasperation in his tone. “And who’s arguing?” Kael retorted. Lysander closed his eyes. The world, indeed, held both shadows and faint light. --- The next morning, Ly consumed a breakfast of hard bread and thin broth. Then, he moved through the waking city toward the District Consulate. It dominated Veridia’s central plaza, a blocky, four-story edifice of weathered grey stone. Citizens bustled in and out, their faces etched with purpose, dealing with the daily grind of city life. He navigated through a minor dispute between an elderly couple over a rental contract, the air thick with muttered grievances. Finally, he found the Registrar’s counter. The man behind it, middle-aged and portly, eyed Ly with undisguised disdain. Ly simply stated his purpose: he sought information on Distorted Beasts with bounties. A small, dry cough escaped the Registrar, a sound of mild contempt. If Ly revealed even a flicker of the primal energy that coiled within him, the man would fall to his knees in obsequious terror. But Ly preferred invisibility. To pose as some capable Warden might invite the city’s council to enlist his services, a fate he assiduously avoided. To reveal himself as a Weaver of noble caliber would condemn him to endless rituals of Veridian hospitality, a polite cage of expectations. Refusal, in such circles, was seen as a grave insult. Quietly hunting his target and then departing quickly remained his best course. No need to risk exposure. “Don’t touch it,” the Registrar grunted, sliding a thick parchment across the counter. “Read it and return it.” On the aged paper, Ly saw meticulous descriptions: appearances, sizes, peculiar traits, last known sightings, and the corresponding bounties. Weaker, less hostile Distorted Beasts required live capture. The truly aggressive ones, those that posed a threat to citizens, could be killed, their remains brought back for reward. Weakened creatures, the parchment explained, often suffered less visible mutation. Their corrupted forms could be indistinguishable from ordinary animals. This led to frequent fraudulent claims, with scavengers attempting to pass off common animal carcasses as Distorted Beasts. A cold fact that reflected the desperate underbelly of Veridian life. “And be warned,” the Registrar added, his voice sharp, “even if you accidentally kill one, don’t leave the remains. Bring it back, no matter what. If the Wardens don’t disperse its primal resonance, it can coalesce into a Void-spirit. Abandoning a Distorted Beast’s corpse is punishable by death under Veridian law. Keep that in mind, drifter.” Ly’s gut tightened. He’d witnessed firsthand the necrotic horrors that bloomed from unchecked primal remnants. The warning resonated, etching itself into his memory. “But some of these creatures,” Ly noted, his gaze sweeping over the descriptions, “seem quite dangerous for ordinary citizens to handle. Don’t the Wardens dispatch them?” The Registrar scoffed, a look of incredulity on his face. “Do you think they have such leisure? The Wardens’ role is to maintain the city’s public order, defend against incursions from the Blighted Lands, protect the elite. Hunting trivial creatures is left to folk like you, seeking a meager coin.” Ly’s gaze fell back to the parchment in his hand. One entry caught his eye, chilling him. *~~~~~~~ Shadowwing Stalker A corvid creature, its feathers partially hardened and sharpened to a metallic edge. It uses these blades to deflect ranged attacks and preys by diving from height, shearing flesh with its wings. Known to snatch small pets or unattended children from the city’s fringes, leaving little but scattered bone shards... ~~~~~~~* If Weavers were truly meant to be humanity’s protectors, Ly mused, shouldn’t such threats be their priority? Yet, it seemed few among the known Weavers prioritized the common good. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He relinquished the parchment, thanked the Registrar with a curt nod, and exited the Consulate, heading toward Veridia’s outer districts. Buildings dwindled in number, replaced by ramshackle shanties and then, finally, the wild, scarred landscape of the Sundered Reach. The familiar wilderness, a place where the veil between realms was thin, greeted him with its wild scents and primal hum. *Time to begin*. He confirmed he was alone, then recalled the Shadowwing Stalker from the bounty list. A ravenous, child-snatching Distorted Beast. He closed his eyes, extending his will. “Echo-Sight: Corvid.” Hundreds of sounds erupted, flooding his inner perception: the rustle of feathers, the frantic beat of wings, the sharp pecking of beaks on unseen things. The sheer, overwhelming multitude of mundane noises and sensations, converging from every direction, made Ly wince. He recoiled, retracting his expanded senses. The method was useless. *This approach won’t work.* How could he isolate a single Distorted Beast amidst a throng of ordinary birds? *A corvid touched by primal distortion?* He tried to refine his Echo-Sight, to filter by creatures emanating a specific *taint* or *distortion* of primal energy. But the subtle, pervasive background hum of the Sundered Reach made it impossible. Or perhaps, the primal distortion of the beast was too similar to the ambient decay to be easily distinguished. The ability didn't activate as intended. Next, he attempted to narrow the search: *corvids that had consumed human flesh*. This time, far too many targets registered within his expanded awareness. Scavenging birds, drawn by the same grim hunger. The sheer scale of Veridia’s unseen life, its brutal survival, stifled his subtle power.

Whispers of the Sundered Edge