A cool, autumn wind whispered across the Scribe’s Knoll, rustling the sparse, amber-colored grass. Kaelen stood amidst the scattered flock, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent command forming in his mind. “Gather, now,” he willed, his voice unheard save for the resonance within his own skull.
Without a bark or a staff’s tap, the woolly creatures, previously dispersed in leisurely grazing, began to converge. Their soft bleats blended into a single, murmuring tide as they flowed towards the narrow wooden pen, moving with an unnatural, yet gentle, synchronicity.
Such control, Kaelen knew, was the gift and the curse of his hidden power. Eight years had taught him its unpredictable nature. First, a potent desire could bridge the gap between intent and reality, though it drained him considerably. Second, a spoken utterance, even a whisper, lent the magic an anchor, making it easier to wield and less taxing upon his spirit.
Finally, the most vexing truth: difficulty remained an elusive mistress. Some feats, like guiding a hundred sheep, felt as effortless as a breath. Other, seemingly simple, commands would crumble to dust in his grasp.
Only a few weeks prior, when the blight had stalked the foothills, a simple mental plea for it to ‘still’ had been futile. Yet, the same nascent power had allowed him to imbue a jagged stone with the force to shatter wood, launching it with alarming precision. The cost for such a potent strike, he’d realized later, was barely a tremor in his reserves; he could have unleashed a dozen such blows.
His gaze followed the last sheep into the enclosure, a faint, metallic tang reaching his nostrils. It was a familiar scent, reminiscent of the day the blight had fallen, yet distinctly different. Not human, not sheep, nor the musk of the great predatory beast. A colder, wilder note.
‘Wolf,’ a quiet instinct murmured, stirring a flicker of unease.
---
Before long, a figure emerged from the descending twilight, a dark silhouette against the fading crimson horizon. Brother Malachi, the retired Vigilant, strode towards Kaelen’s hermitage, a bulky, limp form draped over one broad shoulder. His gait was tireless, unburdened by the weight, an old oak indifferent to the wind.
“Good evening, Kaelen,” Malachi’s voice carried on the chill air, a low rumble. “Might I beg lodging for the night? This wolf, a bounty for your kindness, should suffice for our supper.”
Kaelen inclined his head. A wolf was a worthy offering. Its pelt would fetch a modest price in the nearest hamlet, and though its meat was lean and stringy, it was sustenance nonetheless. More than enough payment for a cot and a bowl of stew.
“Wolves are scarce in these parts, Brother,” Kaelen observed, his voice a quiet murmur. His own clandestine patrols had ensured the Knoll remained mostly free of such predators. “How far did you range for this quarry?”
His gaze drifted to the distant, jagged peaks that clawed at the western sky—the Dragon’s Spine. The range was an insurmountable wall, a legend of sharp stone and eternal snow, forming the Dominion’s impassable western boundary.
Malachi’s lips quirked upwards. “Indeed. I found this one ranging near the foothills of the Dragon’s Spine.”
“To reach its lower slopes and return within the span of a day… that is a journey of leagues,” Kaelen replied, a hint of genuine surprise in his tone. Even with his own forbidden strides, the distance was formidable.
“With a Vigilant’s stride, the sun scarcely had time to climb,” Malachi countered, a subtle glint in his eyes. Kaelen made no reply, merely nodding. He had already suspected the older man was more than he seemed; this only confirmed it. A cold knot tightened in Kaelen’s gut, a reminder to guard his own secrets ever more fiercely.
---
Later, a fire crackled before Kaelen’s small hermitage, its hungry flames licking at the night’s encroaching darkness. A rich aroma of wolf-meat stew, thick with wild herbs and root vegetables, steamed in the crisp air. The silence between them was not oppressive, but companionable, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional pop of burning wood.
Malachi gazed upward, his weathered face illuminated by the dancing firelight. “The stars here, Kaelen, they burn with an uncommon brilliance.”
“My mother, may her soul find peace, always said this Knoll was one of the highest points in Aldoria, save for the Dragon’s Spine itself,” Kaelen replied, stirring his wooden bowl. The memory of his mother brought with it a familiar pang of longing, swiftly followed by the sting of ancient grief.
“Compared to the Spine, what is anything else?” Malachi mused. “I saw it today, truly. Even the most formidable Chantry Potentates would find its crossing a daunting task.”
Kaelen looked up, a question in his meek eyes. “But surely, the heads of the Great Houses, those who possess powers akin to the gods, could surmount such a barrier with ease?” He remembered his mother’s warnings about the Chantry Lords, their ruthlessness, their insatiable greed for power.
Malachi chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Not all, my boy. Though the most ancient bloodlines… the Arch-Templars, the very potentates of the Chantry’s will… they might well be gods manifest.” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “Once, I witnessed the head of House Valerius, during my Vigilant’s tenure, cleave a small hill in two with but a gesture, to clear a path for his legion. A mere whim.”
Kaelen swallowed, the wolf stew suddenly tasteless in his mouth. A cold wave of shame washed over him. Sometimes, in the quiet solitude of the Knoll, he entertained a dangerous delusion: that his burgeoning power, crude and unpredictable as it was, might one day rival those whispered of in legends. Malachi’s casual anecdote shattered that fragile fantasy, exposing the true insignificance of his own abilities.
“By the way,” Malachi said, breaking the silence, his gaze softening as he looked at Kaelen, “does living alone in a place such as this not breed a profound loneliness?”
Kaelen shrugged, his shoulders hunching slightly. “It does, Brother. Yet, I have grown accustomed to it.” His mother had been his only true companion, her absence a gaping wound that time had scarred but never truly healed.
“Why not seek a girl from the nearest hamlet? Bring her to share your hearth?”
Kaelen offered a strained smile. “Who would choose a life of solitude, herding these sheep on the Dominion’s farthest edge?” He remembered the children who had once followed him, their curious gazes. After his mother’s passing, and the… incident with the blight that had strained his standing with the village elders, all contact had withered. They understood the reality: to be bound to Kaelen was to be bound to isolation, to suspicion.
“Well, do not despair so readily,” Malachi said, his voice gentle. “Life weaves curious threads. A chance encounter, a sudden connection… who can say?” The words felt like a prophecy unlikely to be fulfilled. In eighteen years, Malachi was the only traveler who had graced the Knoll.
They fell into a contemplative silence, the fire’s warmth a small comfort against the vast indifference of the night.
“Brother Malachi,” Kaelen finally began, his voice barely a whisper, “I confess I am perplexed. Why such diligence for such meager recompense? A Vigilant of your former standing could command far greater." He thought of the paltry sums the hermitage received for the Knoll’s modest wool, compared to the risks Malachi undertook.
Malachi turned, his expression serious, like a seasoned scholar addressing a novice. “They are souls adrift, Kaelen. Living each day trembling at the frontier’s edge, bereft of watchful eyes.”
Kaelen furrowed his brow. “In what way?”
“The rich lands beyond this barrenness, the fertile valleys the Chantry claims… they teem with beasts of the wild, preying upon the common folk,” Malachi explained, his tone measured. “It is the sacred duty, the very pride, of one blessed with the Old Powers to shield these helpless souls. Even if one no longer serves a House or a Temple, that calling endures.”
Kaelen’s mind reeled. His mother’s lessons had painted a starkly different picture: Chantry Lords were exploiters, their knights mere lackeys, instruments of oppression. But Malachi spoke of duty, of protection, of a noble purpose that transcended personal gain. The stark contrast left him adrift.
Noticing Kaelen’s bewildered expression, Malachi simply smiled, pushing a bowl of warmed sheep’s milk towards him. “Well, not every heart sings the same hymn, boy. There are as many creeds as there are souls in Aldoria.”
---
The next morning, Kaelen stood in the sheep pen, his mind a quiet whirlwind. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the accumulated dung and refuse lifted as if by an unseen hand, drifting towards a compost pile at the edge of the hermitage grounds. The Knoll’s arid winds would swiftly dry it, transforming it into fuel for winter’s hearth.
Malachi’s words had lingered through the night. *Pride. Duty. Protection.* He had never considered such virtues from those who wielded power. His mother had taught him fear, suspicion, and the necessity of concealment. Yet, Malachi, a man of strength and experience, spoke of shielding the weak.
This newfound perspective didn’t ignite a sudden urge to seek service under a Chantry Lord, but it did soften the hard edges of his long-held prejudices. Perhaps, among the powerful, there existed souls like Malachi, who sought not to dominate, but to safeguard.
That matter aside, Kaelen pondered his next move. He had meant to inform Malachi that the blighted creature had already been dealt with. But the beast’s carcass, thrown deep into a ravine, would be putrid by now. Retrieving it would be a foul task, and more damningly, the lingering traces of his unique magic would be impossible to conceal. Any investigation into the beast’s demise would inevitably lead back to him.
Kaelen sighed, his breath pluming in the crisp air. He had heard Malachi speak of patrolling closer to the Knoll today, searching for the beast. Perhaps he could intercept the Vigilant, subtly guiding him without revealing his own hand.
He climbed to the hermitage’s flat, stone roof, settling into a meditative crouch. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep, steadying breath, and focused his will. “Sight of the Unseen,” he murmured, the words barely escaping his lips, yet vibrating with latent power.
A profound shift rippled through him. His ordinary vision, which normally encompassed a mere hundred paces, snapped outward, stretching across leagues. He could discern individual blades of grass on distant slopes, trace the winding paths of subterranean streams. His sense of smell sharpened, picking up the faint tang of formic acid from ants far below, the subtle scent of pine sap carried on the wind. His hearing stretched even further, recording the rustle of beetles in dry leaves, the low thrum of a far-off waterfall.
Yet, amidst this overwhelming surge of sensory data, his intent focused it, filtered it, silencing the irrelevant. His enhanced perception honed in, seeking only the distinctive warmth and rhythm of a human presence.
‘Let’s see… wait.’ His eyes snapped open, turning sharply towards a distant copse of ancient oaks. A desperate cry, ragged and strained, echoed in his newly sharpened hearing. A single figure, small against the vastness of the Knoll, was struggling.
Kaelen’s enhanced sight confirmed it. Brother Malachi, gasping for breath, blood staining his brow and shoulder, stumbled back. Opposite him, with a sickening snarl, stood the very blight Kaelen had slain weeks ago. Its body, half-decayed and reeking of grave earth, pulsed with an unholy, emerald luminescence.
---
‘Who, in Aldoria’s name, would commit such an abomination?’ Malachi gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his concealed blade. He stared at the reanimated corpse of the blighted leopard-beast, its flesh sloughing from bone, yet its eyes glowing with malevolent intent.
When creatures of the wild died, their lingering elemental power, a raw essence that sustained their life, often clung to their remains. In their final moments, this power would twist, striving to fulfill the deceased’s will, forcibly reanimating their broken form into an undead spirit. It was an unnatural, horrific resurrection.
For this reason, every Vigilant, every mage worth his salt, performed the rites of dissolution, absorbing or dispersing the elemental residues within a slain beast to prevent such a blasphemy. Whoever had dispatched this creature had either been utterly ignorant of these sacred laws, or, more sinisterly, had wilfully defied them.
Malachi’s gaze fixed on the gaping hole in the beast’s skull, a precise, circular wound. A potent spell-wielder, then, one skilled in projectile sorcery, or perhaps even a forbidden hand-cannon from the darkest lore. Ignorant of the rites, or willfully neglectful?
[■■■■--!!]
The blight’s rotting maw opened, unleashing a deafening roar that ripped through the morning air, echoing like the wail of the damned across the empty sky. A fitting sound, Malachi thought grimly, for such an unholy abomination.
“Take this, foul spirit!” Malachi bellowed, drawing his blade, its ancient steel gleaming. He braced himself, knowing the fight would be savage.