A chill wind, redolent with the distant scent of pine and the city’s myriad smokes, stirred the frayed hem of Kaelen’s tunic. He huddled deeper into the common room’s corner, nursing a cup of watery broth. The Black Raven’s Perch, a humble inn near the lower market, offered little solace, but much observation. His ears, ever keen, drew in the murmurs of coin and despair, of hopes whispered and fears proclaimed. He sought naught but knowledge, a ledger of suffering the Chantry would never compile. A whispered snippet from the innkeeper, a stout woman with weary eyes, proved more illuminating than any parchment. If Kaelen desired to learn of the Profane Aberrations plaguing the Guilder’s Ward, he need only present himself at the Sanctuary of Illumination, and petition the assigned Curate. Kaelen knew well of the Sanctuary, the grand edifice of Aldoria’s spiritual and temporal law. He understood the role of the Curates, those austere servants of the Chantry. His inquiry, however, lay in the specifics: the process by which a common soul might address such a grave matter, one usually reserved for consecrated Knights or the Inquisitorial Orders. “Why dost thou seek such things, young scribe?” Lena, a kitchen hand, paused by his table, her eyes alight with a morbid curiosity. “Dost thou fancy thyself an Aberration Hunter?” “An Aberration Hunter?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed, the very concept alien to his studious nature. His internal unease grew, a cold knot beneath his ribs. Lena giggled, a sound that grated in the smoky air. “Aye, those madmen who believe they might wrest some virtue from the beast’s tainted essence. A heresy, the Chantry preaches, yet some cling to it. They claim a man might grow stronger, or even… touch the forbidden wellspring, by slaying these wretched creatures.” Her words ignited a spark of terrible recognition within Kaelen. *Touch the forbidden wellspring.* It resonated with the raw, untamed power that surged within him, a power he had not sought, yet one he bore. A shiver, not of cold, traced his spine. He watched, feigning disinterest, as a man approached Lena, clapping a heavy hand upon her shoulder. “Lena, lass! The forbidden wellspring is no mere superstition. I’ve seen it myself. A glint of true sight in a man’s eyes after he’d carved the heart from a blight-hound. A strange resilience, some say.” The speaker, a man of rough visage and unkempt beard, possessed eyes of disquieting clarity. His clothing, once sturdy, spoke of countless nights spent exposed to the wilds. Three hulking figures, bearing rusted axes and crude pikes, lumbered in his wake. “Master Garon!” Lena exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and relief. Kaelen felt a tremor of apprehension as Garon’s gaze drifted to him, lingering on his slight frame. He felt the weight of Garon's stare, like a physical touch. He instinctively drew back, his hand brushing against the worn leather of his satchel – where he kept a simple lambskin sling, an improbable weapon for one such as him. The taller man, Garon, stepped closer, his presence commanding despite his disheveled state. “Art thou interested in this lore, lad?” Kaelen, though wary, found his voice, a quiet murmur barely audible above the inn’s din. “I… I confess to a certain curiosity, Master. What virtue might one gain from such a perilous act?” His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, fearing the words that might condemn him. Garon grinned, a wolfish baring of teeth. “The Chantry claims the beasts are but conduits of sin, their forms an offense to the Creator. But the old tales, the whispers in the dark places, they speak differently. They say the essence of the Profane, if properly claimed, can mend what is broken, or even imbue one with a measure of its own corrupted resilience.” He paused, sweeping his gaze across his grim-faced companions. “We five, we hunt them. Not for the Chantry’s paltry coin alone, though it feeds our bellies. We seek that very essence. We’ve felled thrice three of the blighted things!” A murmur of affirmation rose from his men, their eyes alight with a zealous fire. “Aye, thrice three!” one rumbled, hefting his poleaxe. “We near the precipice of true understanding!” Kaelen’s mind reeled. *Thrice three?* The one Profane Aberration he had faced, a feral, scaled horror that bore the semblance of a great cat, had possessed a ferocity that would have rent a dozen armed men asunder. To hunt nine such creatures… “And… has any amongst you achieved this understanding?” Kaelen asked, his voice barely a breath. The question was not entirely innocent; he sought to gauge the efficacy of such claims against the harsh reality he knew. Laughter, harsh and derisive, erupted throughout the common room. “Nay, lad!” Garon bellowed, clutching his gut. “If one of us had touched the wellspring, our burdens would be eased! No, the only ones who command true power in this wretched city are the Inquisitor-General and his three Captains of the Holy Guard. The rest of us merely scrabble in the dirt, hoping for a sliver of that divine light.” Kaelen felt a pang of sorrow. So few true wielders of power, even in a city of tens of thousands. It echoed the hushed laments he sometimes overheard from the older scribes, whispers of a world fading from grace, its protectors diminishing. Garon’s gaze fell upon Kaelen’s satchel, then his slender hands. “Thou art a hunter too, perhaps? Though thy arms seem… light for such a trade. Where is thy weapon, lad?” Kaelen hesitated, then reached into his satchel. He produced the small, lambskin sling, its leather worn smooth from use. He expected scorn, mockery at its humble appearance against their formidable steel. Instead, a peculiar interest flickered in Garon’s eyes. “A sling, then?” Garon murmured, a slow nod. “To launch stones, I presume? The marks of use are clear upon it. What size of pebble dost thou favour?” “Stones of an egg’s size, Master.” Kaelen replied, his voice regaining a measure of steadiness. “Aye,” Garon mused, his hand stroking his beard. “Enough to shatter the skull of a blighted fox, or a cursed hare. Those, at least, we know. The smaller, less mutated creatures. The ones that might be quelled with a well-aimed blow, if one possessed sufficient courage.” Kaelen understood. These men did not seek the great, monstrous aberrations, but the lesser, more common ones—creatures that, in their uncorrupted forms, would be naught but nuisance animals. His own encounter had been with a beast of far greater malice. “Wouldst thou care to join us, young marksman?” Garon’s voice was surprisingly earnest. “We ever seek a keen eye, one who can strike from a distance.” “Nay, Master Garon,” Kaelen said, his refusal firm despite the flutter in his stomach. “My path lies elsewhere.” He could not, would not, risk revealing his own forbidden gift to these desperate men. His purpose was singular, his quest for justice too personal to share. Garon merely grunted, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “A pity. But the offer stands, should thy mind change.” ---

Chapter 7: Echoes of the Forbidden