No miner returned that night. Kaelen heard the distant, guttural rumble of a drill, a sound that promised no end, only deeper descent into the rock. The bunks around him remained empty, cold hollows in the darkness. Silence, heavy and pervasive, filled the cramped space he now had to himself. It brought a strange comfort, a temporary reprieve from the strained presence of others.
He pushed himself from the cot, a whisper of old fabric. No fatigue clung to him. The Silent Veil, ever-present, pulsed just beneath his skin, a steady thrum that bypassed the body’s lesser demands. It wasn't rest he needed, but communion. His connection to the ethereal plane, a silent river of power, kept the weariness at bay. It was a blessing and a curse, setting him apart, yet demanding constant vigilance.
A pale, bruised light seeped through the Perpetual Mist, staining the world in shades of ash and muted gray. It was morning in the Ethereal Shard Quarry, a dawn without a sun. He felt no discomfort from it, no prickle on his skin. The Veil’s essence, a subtle film, seemed to guard him, or perhaps his very being had adapted, becoming part of the hazy landscape.
Kaelen moved through the sparse lanes of the Quarry Outpost. This was less a settlement and more a scar etched into the edge of the Shrouded Expanse. Its structures were squat, reinforced against the constant pressure of the mist, utilitarian in their grim purpose. Smoke, thin and acrid, curled from vents, dissolving quickly into the low-hanging Veil.
Outposts like this were grim nodes in a decaying world. They existed only to claw Veil Shards from the earth, the glittering fragments of crystallized ether that powered the last enclaves of humanity. Caravans, heavily armed and armored against the Veil’s monstrous denizens, occasionally traversed the treacherous paths, trading meager supplies for the precious Shards. They brought news, goods, and sometimes, desperate souls seeking fortune or refuge.
Valerius’s Veilborn party, or others like them, would have paused here, preparing for deeper forays into the unknown. Kaelen understood their drive, their grim determination, though he saw the desperation underneath.
His steps were measured, his gaze sweeping, absorbing every detail. He trusted nothing that wasn’t seen, felt, or verified. It was a lesson learned hard, hammered into him by years of navigating a world that sought to deceive and consume. He passed by empty stalls, their canvas flaps tied down against the pervasive dampness. Early morning, few stirred. Most miners would already be deep within the Quarry, their lamps mere pinpricks against the vast darkness, weeks or even months passing before they saw the hazy light of the surface again.
He pictured their lives: a constant grind, bodies pushed past limits, minds frayed by isolation and the endless drone of drills. It was a fate he had to prevent for himself, a future he would reshape. His abilities, his connection to the Veil, offered a different path, but it was one he currently had to keep hidden, a secret held tight against suspicion and greed.
His stomach growled, a jarring sound in the quiet. He hadn’t eaten properly since the single, bland ration from the previous day. Hunger, a simple, primal demand, pulled him toward a faint aroma, savory and rich, wafting from a sheltered corner of the market.
There, beneath a sagging canopy, an old man hunched over a crackling grill. Skewers, dripping with grease, sizzled over a glowing bed of embers. He was a figure of the Outpost, seemingly as ancient as the rocks themselves. Deep furrows carved his face, a white beard tangled down to his chest, and spectacles, cracked on one lens, perched precariously on his nose. Age had weathered him, but his eyes, though watery, held a surprising sharpness.
Kaelen sat on a rough-hewn bench opposite the old man. “What sort of meat is this?” he asked, his voice low.
A raspy chuckle escaped the old man. “Best not to ask, boy. Best just to eat.”
Kaelen gave a small nod. He knew the world beyond Emberlight, a place where the source of sustenance was often best left unexamined. Lab-grown protein was a luxury of the inner enclaves. Out here, survival meant accepting what the Veil provided, or what scavengers left behind.
He took a skewer offered by the old man, the meat surprisingly tender beneath a crisp exterior. Its flavor was earthy, smoky, a fleeting pleasure.
The old man peered at him through his broken lenses. “A new face, then? You arrived yesterday.”
“Just yesterday.” Kaelen chewed slowly, savoring the warmth. “This is good.”
“Yesterday, yes. The one who walked out of a Veil Serpent’s gut, eh?”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “News travels fast here.”
“Hah! Faster than a Veil-spider on a fresh kill. By midday, your story will be twisted into a legend, then forgotten. But for now, you’re prime bait.” A sly grin stretched the old man’s lips, revealing a few missing teeth. “Plenty here will eye a lone one, a fresh one, like you.”
Kaelen met his gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. He understood the implication. A solitary survivor with an unusual tale was either a threat or an opportunity. In this place, it was usually the latter for those with ill intent.
“Be wary, boy. No comfort to be found in this corner of the Expanse. Don’t know why you fled to it, but it offers little in the way of refuge.”
“Refuge? No. I came to earn my keep.”
Another cackle. “Earn your keep? Without so much as a proper pickaxe? That’s no way to speak of wealth in the Quarry.” The old man’s eyes held a knowing glint, as if seeing right through Kaelen’s carefully constructed façade.
Kaelen shifted, the truth of his unpreparedness stinging. He could not carry tools and weapons of a miner without attracting suspicion about his lack of prior experience. He was playing a part, and the old man saw the cracks.
“You’ve been here a long time, then?” Kaelen redirected, changing the subject.
“Since the very first prospecting drills bit into the rock,” the old man said, a prideful gleam in his eyes. “An old-timer. Yes.” He gestured with a greasy hand toward the shadowy interior of his stall, crammed with an array of forgotten objects: rusted tools, tarnished trinkets, brittle maps, and strange, unidentifiable parts.
“That lot there,” he continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. “Traces of those who came before. Just like you. They resist the Quarry’s pull. At first. Spend their last Cinder, then sell off what they have. Worthless scraps first, then the precious things. Only when everything is gone, do they descend.” He laughed, a dry, rattling sound that sent a shiver through Kaelen. “The good stuff, the useful bits, Emberlight devours. What’s left? The leavings of desperation.”
The old man’s gaze lingered on Kaelen, a silent promise that he, too, might join that collection of forgotten things. Kaelen’s appetite withered. The remaining mouthful of meat turned to ash in his mouth.
He pushed himself to his feet. “How much for this?” He held up the skewer, trying to keep his voice level.
“Ten Cinder.”
Kaelen’s eyes flared. “Ten Cinder? For a single skewer? Are you mad?” A thousandth of a Veil Shard for a single bite of meat? Even in Emberlight, such profiteering would be met with swift, brutal justice.
“Everything holds its value here, boy. Food, gear, even a miner’s dull blade. This isn’t Emberlight.” The old man’s expression remained utterly indifferent, as if Kaelen’s outrage was expected, a familiar song.
“What if I refuse to pay?” Kaelen asked, a dangerous edge in his voice. He reached for the hilt of a phantom blade, a muscle memory that died an instant later as he remembered his true predicament.
The old man’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “There’s a reason an old coot like me has survived so long in this rough place.”
Across the small, dusty plaza, a few shopkeepers turned their heads, their faces impassive but their eyes sharp, fixed on Kaelen. A chill, colder than the perpetual mist, prickled his skin. The old man wasn’t just a lone vendor. He was a nexus, a spider at the center of a forgotten web. Defying him here meant defiance of the entire Outpost, an act of suicidal folly for a man feigning weakness.
“Damn it,” Kaelen muttered, his teeth grinding.
“Your wits still serve you, at least. Some fresh arrivals try to make a ruckus.”
“I don’t have Cinder on me.” It was a half-truth. He carried only a few pieces.
“Then you have something else. Perhaps a Veil Shard? Small one, perhaps?” The old man’s gaze sharpened, piercing, expectant.
Kaelen resisted, his mind racing. To part with the Shard, the very thing he guarded, for a meager skewer? It felt like a betrayal of his purpose. But the old man was right. The consequences of refusing were too great. A rumor of him possessing a Shard, spread by this man, would bring every scavenger, every hardened miner, every opportunistic guard down on him.
He pulled a small, rough-hewn fragment of crystallized ether from a hidden pouch in his tunic. It was barely the size of his thumbnail, a pale blue ember against his palm. It was his last true currency, the reason he’d taken this desperate path. He clenched his jaw, the bitter taste of defeat filling his mouth.
The old man’s eyes glinted. “Ah. That size. Worth a hundred Cinder, perhaps.”
“A hundred?” Kaelen scoffed. “In Emberlight, it would fetch three times that!”
“But this is not Emberlight, boy. And you are not in Emberlight.” The old man’s voice was dry, unyielding.
Kaelen wanted to strike him, to silence the mocking wisdom in his words. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that this frail old man was far more dangerous than he appeared. He hadn’t survived decades in this desolate place without allies, without power. Perhaps even among the Veilborn guards, the old man had an ear, a loyal pocket. To move against him now would unravel his carefully constructed cover, revealing the true power he struggled to keep hidden.
A long, heavy sigh escaped Kaelen. All his careful planning, all his risk, for this tiny sliver of hope, now valued so little. The effort felt hollow, pointless.
He pressed the Veil Shard into the old man’s hand. The ancient fingers closed around it with surprising strength.
“Hehe. Don’t despair, boy. I’m not entirely heartless. Ninety Cinder back for your trouble.” The old man produced a small pouch, clinking softly, and pushed it across the counter. “Keep it safe. This place swarms with quick fingers.”
“A wolf pretending concern for a lost lamb,” Kaelen muttered, pocketing the meager Cinder. The irony was not lost on him. He was the wolf, hiding as a lamb, being fleeced by another wolf who wore the skin of an old man.
The old man chuckled, then gestured toward the chaotic heap inside his stall. “For our first exchange, choose something. From that pile.”
“That junk?” Kaelen asked, disbelief coloring his tone.
“If you’d prefer nothing…”
Kaelen felt a surge of stubborn defiance. He had been swindled, but he would not leave empty-handed. He pushed past the counter, stepping into the dust-laden gloom of the stall’s interior. The air was thick with the scent of age and neglect. He ran his hand over corroded metals, brittle parchments, and splintered wood. “There’s nothing here but waste,” he grumbled, more to himself than the old man.
The old man watched, a faint smile playing on his lips. Kaelen’s raw, untamed energy, despite his predicament, was a rare sight in this place of weary spirits. Most newcomers broke, or grew cautious, their defiance slowly eroded by the Quarry’s relentless demands. But Kaelen, even while grumbling, retained a spark, a refusal to completely yield.
Suddenly, Kaelen’s fingers closed around something cool and smooth, buried beneath a tangle of rusted wires. He pulled it free. It was a small hourglass, no larger than his thumb, its glass surprisingly intact, tiny grains of sand—or perhaps pulverized Veil Shard—trapped within.
“This? Why is this still here?” Kaelen held it up to the dim light.
“No one wanted it,” the old man said with a shrug. “A caravan brought it long ago. Useless. A trinket. No one bothers with such things anymore.”
In a world defined by survival, a decorative hourglass was an absurdity. Such luxuries were reserved for the distant, isolated enclaves, where the threat of the Veil felt more abstract. Kaelen tucked the hourglass into his pocket. It was indeed useless, yet it had survived, a fragment of another time.
He walked back out, turning to face the old man. “I doubt we’ll meet again.”
“Hehe. I have a feeling we will, boy.”
“Unfortunate thought.” Kaelen turned to leave.
“Then,” Kaelen paused, looking back at the old man. “I’ll call you Phileas. And I hope to never see you again.”
The old man, Phileas, chuckled, his ancient eyes twinkling as Kaelen walked away, disappearing into the pale mist of the Quarry Outpost.