Eight years had passed since the winter when Kaelen, barely ten years of age, first felt the pulse of something ancient stir within him.
He had been in the scriptorium, a small, drafty annex to the main Chantry library, tasked with illuminating a particularly intricate prayer scroll. A chill had seeped into his bones, and Kaelen, without thinking, wished for warmth as he eyed the sputtering lamp. A sudden, hungry flicker blossomed from the wick, the flame reaching unnaturally high, casting dancing, elongated shadows across the vellum.
Soon, Kaelen learned the truth: thoughts alone could twist the very fabric of the world. A loose inkwell, a heavy tome, a stray gust of wind from an open window – all bent to his unspoken will. Once, in a moment of solitary frustration, he’d felt the very flagstones beneath his feet tremble with a nascent tremor, an earth-shaking rumble that he had desperately stifled.
“Mother, look!”
Returning from the village with thread and dried herbs, his mother found him in their humble croft, a small wooden spoon hovering in the air before him. Her weary face, usually a map of quiet endurance, drained of all color.
She did not marvel, nor did she rejoice. She simply reached out, her hand trembling as she gently guided the spoon back to the rough-hewn table. A deep sigh escaped her, heavy with resignation.
“Kaelen, you must promise me,” she whispered, her voice brittle. “Promise you will never use this… gift… carelessly. Never, especially, in the sight of others.”
Young Kaelen, obedient and earnest, pouted. Such a wondrous thing, this power, a secret joy in his quiet life. Why must it be hidden?
His mother warmed a cup of weak broth over the embers. She spoke, for the first time, of the world beyond their isolated valley, a world ruled by the Holy Chantry.
“Below the hills, the Chantry holds dominion,” she explained, her gaze distant. “They are the keepers of the True Faith, chosen by the Arch-Seraph to guide humanity. Their monastic orders teach the blessed rituals, the sacred glyphs, the only forms of power deemed righteous.”
She described the Chantry’s Vigilants, zealous warriors who served the Faith, rooting out heresy and ‘wild’ magic. This 'wild' magic, she explained, was the raw, untamed power that simmered in forgotten bloodlines, a blasphemous echo of an age before the Chantry. These were the ‘Pagan’ magicks, the powers of the ancient earth and sky, condemned as demonic corruption.
“Your father,” she confided, her voice barely audible, “carried such a bloodline. And now, so do you.”
If ever he journeyed down from their remote dwelling, she warned, the Chantry’s Inquisitors would find him. They would brand him a heretic, a vessel of infernal power, and drag him to the pyre. Or worse, bind him in chains, forcing him to serve their arcane rituals, a living tool for their own dark ends.
“They are like the shepherd, Kaelen, tending their flock,” his mother said, stirring the broth. “But you, my son, would be the wolf, marked for slaughter or, if useful, tamed and collared. They might feign benevolence for a time, but they would dispose of you when convenience dictated.”
As she spoke, her face bore a desolation Kaelen had never witnessed, a profound, aching sorrow that settled deep within his young heart.
“Kaelen, do you wish to remain with your mother, safe and free?”
“Aye,” he murmured, clinging to her hand.
“Then you must veil this power. Else, the Chantry’s wrath will find you. And you will never see me again.”
“I promise! I will not use it before anyone!”
And so, eight years had passed since Kaelen, with earnest conviction, uttered that promise. His mother, God rest her soul, had succumbed to the wasting sickness a few years past. Kaelen remained in the humble croft, bound by his vow, now apprenticed to the local Chantry scribe, his days filled with ink and parchment, his nights with silent dread.
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“Fools.”
Kaelen shut the rough-hewn door with a soft thud, the faint tremor of his anger barely contained. Earlier, before matins, the junior acolytes had confronted him. Brother Anselm’s prized illumination, a rare copy of the Arch-Seraph’s Lament, had been found marred, a strange, earthy stain upon its gilded edge. They had pointed fingers, their young faces alight with malice, accusing Kaelen of ‘unclean practices,’ hinting at a pact with unseen forces. The 'blight' in the northern copse, they’d whispered, the strangely withered trees, must surely be his doing.
Their fear, he knew, sprang from his quiet nature, his solitary habits, his aptitude for learning that seemed to chafe against their sluggish minds. They would twist this incident, fabricate further slights, perhaps even attempt to sabotage his work for Brother Anselm, hoping to see him cast out.
His hands clenched, a spark of suppressed power making his knuckles ache. He pushed it down, deep, deep within. Violence was not his way, nor was exposure. Instead, he had met their accusations with calm, reasoned answers, quoting scriptural passages on the nature of purity and the folly of suspicion. His composure had unnerved them more than any outburst. They had retreated, grumbling, for now.
Lost in thought, a sharp rap echoed from the door. *Bang. Bang. Bang.*
Kaelen released a slow breath, forcing the tremor from his frame. “Who now? Has insolence truly blinded you?” His voice, though quiet, held an unusual edge.
No, their memories could not be so fleeting. Had they truly returned to provoke him again?
The figure beyond the door was not one of the resentful acolytes. A man stood there, cloaked in dust-stained grey, his face weathered, though not unkind. He appeared in his mid-forties, perhaps a little more. An awkward smile touched his lips.
“Ah… my apologies, young brother,” the man spoke, his voice surprisingly soft. “I am but a traveler, seeking a brief respite, but it seems I’ve arrived at an inopportune moment.”
A traveler. Kaelen’s eighteen years had seen few strangers in this isolated valley. His mind, accustomed to the predictable rhythms of Chantry life, momentarily stalled.
To find leisure enough to wander to such a desolate hermitage was remarkable. Kaelen, regaining his composure, stepped aside, gesturing for the man to enter.
“Not at all, good sir. Pray, come in. Some… unpleasantries had recently transpired.” The formal address, learned from his mother for elders, felt heavy upon his tongue. How long had it been since he spoke with such unburdened courtesy? Not since his mother’s passing, perhaps.
“If you’ll permit me, then.”
Truthfully, to maintain his carefully constructed anonymity, Kaelen should have turned the stranger away. Yet, a quiet yearning for companionship, for a moment of peace untainted by suspicion, compelled him to offer solace. Besides, if this man proved to harbor ill intent, Kaelen held a grim certainty he could handle him, though the thought sent a shiver through him.
“Have you broken your fast, sir?”
“Not yet, young brother.”
“Nor have I. Will you share what little fare I possess?”
Kaelen seated the traveler at his small, scrubbed table, setting out a modest meal: coarse bread, a slice of hard cheese, and a steaming bowl of thin oat porridge, spiced with a pinch of salvaged salt. Unless one was utterly destitute, hospitality was paramount, his mother had taught him. A well-treated guest seldom wished harm upon his host.
“This is but humble fare for a weary journeyer.”
“Humble? No, no, this is a bounty! My deepest thanks.” The man ate with an earnest hunger, as though he had fasted for days, yet his manners were impeccable – a refined grace Kaelen rarely saw even among the Chantry’s higher ranks. He ate silently, turned his head slightly when he drank, movements precise and deliberate.
Perhaps the traveler noticed Kaelen’s own quiet decorum, for after a sip of water, he offered a kind observation.
“You possess fine manners, young brother. Your parents must have instilled them deeply.”
“My mother taught me, sir.”
His omission of his father’s name seemed to pause the traveler. A brief flicker of understanding crossed his eyes before he spoke again.
“And… your mother? Does she reside within this hermitage as well? Your dwelling appears suited for a single occupant.”
He must have noted the lone pallet tucked into the corner.
Kaelen nodded, his voice level. “She passed from illness some years ago.”
The traveler’s face clouded with brief sorrow. He bowed his head, making a peculiar gesture with his hand, a swift, complex movement Kaelen had never witnessed. “I offer my condolences, young brother. To raise such a fine son as yourself, she must surely dwell in the celestial choirs with the Arch-Seraph.”
“I hope it is so, sir.”
Once, the mere thought of her absence had stolen his appetite and brought forth weeping. To speak of her now with a faint, polite smile… had he truly grown into a man, or had time’s relentless march dulled the sharp edges of his grief? A sudden, leaden gloom settled over him. Kaelen swiftly changed the subject.
“Pray tell, good sir, what pilgrimage brings you to such a remote and quiet place?”
“I chanced upon a small village on the road, where an elder spoke of a blight within the northern woods, a thing of shadow and teeth that preys upon livestock, a ‘demon of the forest’ they called it. I heard their plea and decided to investigate. I am quite confident in such spiritual engagements.”
“Alone?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed. A man of advancing years, whose back seemed weary, venturing forth against a supposed demon with no visible blade or sacred charm? The notion seemed utterly reckless.
The traveler offered an abashed smile. “I am Brother Malachi. I served the Holy Chantry as a Vigilant for sixty years. Most… spiritual afflictions, I can contend with.”
At the word ‘Vigilant,’ Kaelen’s breath hitched. His body tensed, a cold dread snaking through him. These were the Chantry’s witch-hunters, the bane of all ‘wild’ magic.
But the man’s eyes held no malice, only a weary wisdom. Kaelen felt the icy knot in his gut begin to loosen, his muscles relaxing by imperceptible degrees.
“Is something amiss, young brother?”
“It is merely… this is my first encounter with a Chantry Vigilant. But more than that, you do not appear as one who has toiled for sixty years.”
“The blessings of the Arch-Seraph, diligently sought through prayer and asceticism, can extend one’s span of years. I am seventy-and-five this year. For a former Vigilant, this is a common mercy. They say the High Priors, who commune directly with the celestial host, can live two or three centuries.”
Kaelen, hearing this for the first time, studied Brother Malachi with renewed intensity. From his outward appearance, Malachi seemed little different from any other man, perhaps a little more robust, a steady light in his eyes. He possessed no tell-tale mark, no blazing sigil of his calling.
This was profoundly important. It meant Kaelen, too, could walk among men, even within the Dominion’s bustling cities, and remain unidentifiable, so long as he kept his forbidden power veiled. The realization felt like a heavy chain, long wrapped around his chest, suddenly snapping open, allowing a gasp of forgotten air.
“Such blessings are truly wondrous,” Kaelen murmured, a new hope flickering within him.
“Wondrous? Perhaps. But I find your path far more admirable, young brother. To live in such quiet piety, amidst such spiritual threats, without needing the Chantry’s martial might? I could scarce imagine it.”
In truth, since Kaelen’s birth, no 'demon of the forest' had ever threatened the valley. If such things had been common, his mother, with her desperate fear, could never have remained here alone. It was she, Kaelen knew, who truly deserved praise, living a life of courage without a single ward or blessing.
“Now that I reflect, I have not properly introduced myself. My name is Malachi. Brother Malachi – or rather, perhaps I should say, Malachi the Wanderer. And you, young brother?”
“I am Kaelen, apprentice scribe of the Hermitage of Saint Cyprian.”
“A fine name for a seeker of truth.”
“You mentioned serving the Chantry, Brother Malachi. Does this mean you no longer do?”
“My formal vows of service ended a month past. The Chantry offered me a place in an abbey, to live out my final years in contemplation, but… I found I desired to walk a different path. To seek answers beyond the dictated texts. I have been tied to a single holy order since I was accepted into the novitiate at the age of fifteen.”
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