Cool evening air, thick with the smell of lamp oil and damp stone, clung to Kaelen. Inside the Silver Serpent, the tavern’s warmth was a welcome shield against Veridia’s chill. He nursed a watered-down ale, the small coin he’d traded for it a silent testament to his limited resources.
Elara, the waitress, a woman with quick eyes and a quicker smile, leaned in close. Her voice, a conspiratorial murmur, cut through the tavern’s din. “Blight-spawn, you say? You’ll want the Guildhall for that. See the Ledger Keeper there, up from the central plaza.”
Kaelen nodded, a quiet affirmation. The city’s administrative heart. He pictured its imposing facade, a stark contrast to the crumbling back alleys he'd navigated.
Elara’s laugh, light and genuine, chimed. “You really don’t know? From the deep wilds, are we?” Amusement danced in her eyes. “It’s the grand building, where the Lord’s men manage everything. All the city’s records, all the official business. Ledger Keepers handle the records, for the Lord and his Council.”
He felt the familiar prick of being an outsider, a pang of loneliness he usually ignored. It would be too late to seek the Guildhall tonight. Its heavy bronze doors would be sealed until dawn.
“A Blight Hunter then?” Elara’s tone softened, curiosity replacing her earlier jest. “They say if you kill enough of those twisted creatures, you can become an Aether Weaver.” She sighed, a wistful sound. “A foolish hope, most folks say. But some still chase it.”
Kaelen’s grip tightened on his mug. Foolish hope, she called it. Yet for him, the ‘superstition’ was a truth he grappled with every waking moment. He sensed the world’s hidden flows, the silent pulse of the Aether Veins beneath the city’s forgotten grandeur. His secret. His burden.
A heavy hand clapped Kaelen’s shoulder. He flinched, not in fear, but surprise. His senses, usually attuned to the delicate currents of Aether, had been caught unaware.
“Lena, dear, the boy speaks truth.” The voice was rough, seasoned. “It’s no superstition. You hunt enough Blight-Spawn, you *can* touch the Aether. I’ve seen it myself.”
Kaelen turned. A man in his late thirties stood there. His face was a roadmap of forgotten cares, shadowed by a wild beard and unkempt hair. But his eyes, though bloodshot, held a keen, startling clarity. This was Roric.
“Roric!” Elara gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “You’re back!”
“Did you think the blight finally took me?” Roric boomed, a hearty laugh shaking his broad shoulders. “Not before I weave the Aether myself!”
Three other men, burly and stern-faced, emerged from the shadows behind Roric. They carried notched spears, a heavy crossbow, and a hammer that looked more suited for demolition than combat. Blight Hunters, then.
Kaelen subtly shifted his shoulder, letting Roric’s hand slide away. He didn't enjoy being touched without warning.
“My apologies, young one.” Roric offered a lopsided grin, surprisingly quick to notice. “Rough hands. But tell me, you were asking about the Blight? The Aether Weaver’s path?”
Kaelen met his gaze. “I was. Tell me more about what you saw.”
Roric’s grin widened, a flash of shared ambition in his eyes. “Ah, so you feel it too? That itch, that hunger?” He leaned in. “Weavers say they draw power from the Aether directly. But what is a Blight-Spawn? A creature twisted by too much Aether. We kill them, we take that excess. It builds. Slowly. I’ve seen it. Small changes. Flickers.”
He gestured to his companions. “That’s why we hunt. The four of us. To become Aether Weavers.”
“Taken down three!” one of the men declared, thumping his spear butt on the grimy floor.
“Close to the breakthrough now,” another muttered, his voice thick with anticipation.
Kaelen felt a cold knot in his stomach. The true Blight-Spawn he had encountered could shatter stone with a thought, rip steel like cloth. Three? How could these men, armed with mundane weapons, have survived even one?
“Three,” Kaelen repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “Has one of you… become an Aether Weaver?”
The entire tavern erupted in laughter. Elara covered her mouth, stifling giggles. Roric slapped his knee, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Of course not!” Roric roared, wiping his face. “There are only four Aether Weavers in all Veridia! The Lord of the City, and his three Sentinels! If one of us had the power, we wouldn’t be down here drinking cheap ale, would we?”
“We nearly died on each one,” a companion grumbled, still chuckling.
Four Aether Weavers. In a city of tens of thousands. Kaelen thought of Lysander, his old mentor, lamenting the scarcity of true talent, the dying embers of primal magic. It made sense now.
Roric’s gaze dropped to Kaelen’s worn satchel, then to the sling peeking from his pocket. “Your gear seems light, young one. No weapons for a Blight Hunter?”
Kaelen pulled out his simple leather slingshot, worn smooth by countless hours of use. A river stone, perfectly round and resonant, sat nestled in its pouch. He braced for ridicule, for the comparisons to their gleaming steel.
Instead, Roric’s men leaned in, their eyes surprisingly keen. “A sling? For stones?”
“Aye, seen plenty of use, that one.”
“What size stones?”
“Egg-sized.” Kaelen replied, a hint of steel in his voice.
“Enough to crack the skulls of the skittering things. The rat-blight, or the fox-snappers,” Roric mused, a thoughtful look on his face. He clearly pictured only the weakest, most common Aether-Twisted creatures. He saw Kaelen as another aspiring hunter, chasing after transformed vermin.
Kaelen knew the beasts he sought were entirely different. They were apex predators, suffused with raw Aether, capable of tearing trained fighters to shreds. He had no intention of revealing his capabilities, nor did their ambitions align.
“Fancy joining us?” Roric offered, a hand reaching for a flask on his belt. “Always good to have a steady hand with a sling.”
“No,” Kaelen said, his voice firm, unwavering. “I appreciate the offer, but my path is my own.”
Roric shrugged, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. “Pity. But the offer stands. Should you change your mind.”
---
Kaelen climbed the creaking stairs to his rented room, the faint scent of mildew and stale air greeting him. The bed, though lumpy, was a welcome sight. He sank onto the mattress, listening to the muffled conversation rising from the tavern below.
*“Roric, why’d you bother with that scrawny kid? He’d be no help.”*
*“Aye, one good hit and he’d probably weep.”*
The words were a casual, dismissive current through the thin floorboards. Roric’s men, his sworn brothers, were mocking him. Kaelen felt no sting. He’d heard similar whispers in the hamlet he’d left behind, knew the fickle nature of men. He simply sighed, pushing the thought aside. *Such is the way of people.*
A moment later, Roric’s deeper voice rumbled. *“Tsk, just reminded me of my younger days. Out in the wilds with nothing but a sling? Ten lives wouldn’t be enough. He needs guidance.”*
*“You’re too soft-hearted, boss.”*
*“Who’s arguing?”*
Kaelen closed his eyes, the murmur of voices slowly fading. Good people, harsh people. The world held both.
---
The next morning, Kaelen ate his simple breakfast of dense bread and weak broth, then made his way through Veridia’s awakening streets. Merchants hawked their wares, artisans opened their stalls, and the steady churn of city life began.
Guildhall Plaza, a wide expanse of weathered flagstones, bustled. The Guildhall itself rose four stories, its ancient stones worn smooth, its grand arched entrance a maw swallowing and disgorging citizens. Kaelen wove through the throng – a disgruntled merchant arguing with a city official over lease papers, a nervous young couple seeking marriage records.
He found the Ledger Keeper tucked away in a cramped alcove, a mountain of scrolls spilling from his desk. The man was thin, balding, and wore a permanent scowl. He barely looked up from his ledger when Kaelen stated his purpose.
“Blight-Spawn bounty, you say?” The Ledger Keeper’s gaze finally flicked up, thin lips curling in disdain. He saw Kaelen, in his simple clothes, as another drifter, another ambitious fool. Kaelen felt a surge of cold satisfaction. He could, with a thought, send a ripple of Aether through the man’s inkwell, make it boil over, shatter the glass. But he did not.
Revealing his true nature, even subtly, would bring too much attention. The Lord’s Sentinels might demand his service, tie him to the city. Or worse, treat him as an exalted guest, a noble Weaver, trapping him in endless politeness and expectation. No. Kaelen needed to find his answers, find his quarry, and leave this decaying metropolis as quietly as he arrived.
“Don’t touch it, just read it, then hand it back.” The Ledger Keeper pushed a heavy parchment across the desk. It was an official writ, listing bounties for Aether-Twisted Beasts. Each entry detailed appearance, size, peculiar characteristics, known locations, and the reward offered.
Weaker blights, those less consumed by Aether, required capture alive. Their mundane forms made their corpses indistinguishable from ordinary animals, a common point of fraud. More dangerous ones, the aggressive Blight-Spawn, could be killed, their bodies presented for proof.
“Beware,” the Ledger Keeper warned, his voice surprisingly grave. “If you kill one, bring its corpse back to the city. The Sentinels must perform the dispersal rites. Leave a Blight-Spawn carcass unchecked, and the uncontrolled Aether can twist it further. Aether-Wrought Revenants rise from such mistakes. City law dictates death for abandoning a Blight-Spawn.”
Kaelen felt a shiver. He’d witnessed the horrors of unchecked Aether, the grotesque mockeries of life that could claw their way from such corruption. He etched the warning into his memory.
“Some of these creatures seem dangerous for common folk,” Kaelen observed, his finger tracing the entry for a creature that hunted children. “Do the Sentinels not hunt them?”
The Ledger Keeper scoffed, his disdain returning. “Do you think the Sentinels have time for such common tasks? Their duty is to the city’s order, its walls, its Lord. Hunting Blight-Spawn is left to drifters, to those who seek an easier coin.”
Kaelen looked down at the parchment, his jaw tight. Aether Weavers were supposed to be humanity’s shield. Yet here, in Veridia, they were aloof guardians, their focus on political power, not protection. The familiar bitterness coiled in his gut.
He left the Guildhall, its grand façade mocking his expectations. The city’s tightly packed buildings gradually gave way to scattered farmsteads, then finally, the wild, untamed fringe. Tall grass swayed, kissed by the morning sun, rustling with hidden life.
*Time to begin.*
Kaelen stood on a low rise, the sprawling city a distant murmur behind him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His consciousness reached out, not as a command, but as a subtle tuning. He sought the flow of the Aether Veins, searching for a specific resonance, a unique disturbance.
*Cinder-Wing. Aether-twisted crow. Predator of the edges.* He focused on the writ’s description: a crow, feathers sharp as obsidian shards, preying on the young.
His perception sharpened, extending outward through the unseen network of Aether. A sudden, overwhelming chorus assaulted him. Hundreds of minute disturbances, the flutter of countless wings, the rustle of feathers, the sharp tap of beaks against stone, filled his awareness.
“Ugh.” He recoiled, his concentration shattering. The sheer, mundane *number* of ordinary crows near the city overwhelmed his senses. It was like trying to hear a single whisper in the roar of a waterfall.
*This approach won’t work.*
How could he isolate the Blight-Spawn? He tried to filter, to narrow his Aether-Resonance. *Crows touched by the Aether, twisted by it.* He reached, but the filter would not hold. The general resonance of the Aether Veins simply did not register this subtle 'twist' as a condition for his broad perception. It was beyond his current control, beyond his current understanding of his own power.
He tried another filter. *Crows that have tasted human life-force.* Again, his senses flared, but this time with too many distinct echoes. Scavenger crows, common as dust, often picked at the remains of fallen travelers, of those lost to the wilds. They were not the Cinder-Wing, but they had consumed human flesh all the same.
Frustration pricked him. He needed more precision. More control.