Cool air, thick with salt and the faint scent of damp stone, clung to Elian’s skin. A lone copper piece, cool and heavy in his palm, exchanged hands for a mug of ale. Its foam settled quickly, hinting at the thinness beneath. He nursed the drink, eyes tracking the shifting patterns of the patrons in the Hearthfire Tavern. Lyra, the server, paused by his table, a faint smile on her lips. “Seeking a bounty, stranger?” Her voice, a low current in the tavern’s drone, carried a hint of local curiosity. “Archon’s records hold what you need, up at the Warder’s Archive. Ask for the bounty scrivener.” Elian lifted his gaze. “Warder’s Archive?” A quiet question. He often felt a beat behind the common cadence of these settled lands, always on the move. Lyra’s smile widened, a soft laugh escaping. “From a holdfast far indeed, aren’t you? It’s the Archon’s hub, where the city’s bones are structured. Where all the decrees flow.” She gestured vaguely towards the city’s heart, a place of distant, crumbling spires he’d observed from the harbor. Archivists, she explained, served the Archon’s will, keepers of the city’s memory and laws. Night had claimed the sky beyond the grimy window. Visiting the Archive now would be fruitless. Tomorrow’s light promised answers. Lyra leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why seek a Corrupted Creature, if I may ask? Not one of those Gleaners, are you?” “Gleaner?” Elian echoed, the word unfamiliar. He felt the subtle tremor of an unknown aetheric current in the air, a whisper of superstition and hope. “Those who hunt Corrupted Creatures,” she elaborated, a note of gentle pity in her tone. “They believe if they claim enough of a beast’s essence, they can awaken the currents themselves. Become Weavers.” She shrugged, a common gesture of resignation. Whispers of such beliefs were not uncommon. Many clung to the notion that aetheric power could be earned through blood and struggle, ignoring the profound, often terrifying, inherent connection required. Most considered such hunters deluded, but Elian knew the desperation that fueled such dangerous hopes. A quiet ache stirred within him. Warm calloused fingers settled on Elian’s shoulder, startling him slightly. He felt the immediate urge to track the subtle aetheric disturbance of the touch, a habit ingrained by his unusual abilities. He turned, facing a man whose weathered face spoke of too many seasons under the sun, hair like wind-tossed straw, beard a tangled mess. Yet, eyes shone with an unnerving clarity. “Lyra, little bird,” the man’s voice rasped, a gravelly sound. “It’s no mere superstition. I’ve seen it. Heard the whispers. Common folk *can* awaken the currents this way.” Lyra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Kael! You live!” “Death won’t have me ‘til I’ve woven a single thread,” Kael chuckled, a rough, joyful sound. “Told you that, didn’t I?” Three other figures, burly and armed with crude spears and mallets, emerged from behind Kael, their grins wide and knowing. His crew, Elian surmised. He gently shrugged off Kael’s hand. A flicker of surprise crossed Kael’s face, then a nod of understanding. “Apologies,” Kael rumbled. “A bit overeager.” “No offense taken,” Elian replied, his voice calm. “But what you said… about awakening the currents? Tell me more.” Kael’s grin widened further, clearly pleased by Elian’s interest. “Young one understands the truth of it, then. Weavers claim a beast’s essence, grow strong. Same for us. Kill enough, absorb enough, and the currents stir within. I’ve seen it myself.” “We’ve felled three already!” one of Kael’s companions boomed, thumping his chest. “Close, we are,” another added, eyes gleaming with feverish ambition. Three Corrupted Creatures. Elian felt a chill. The only Aether-beast he’d ever faced had been a monstrous ripple in reality, a force that would have torn through a company of men. These Gleaners hunted a different kind of prey, then. “Three?” Elian asked, the question light. “Has one among you… awakened?” Laughter erupted from the tavern’s common room, a harsh, derisive wave. “No, lad! Not a one!” a grizzled patron shouted. “Only four true Weavers in all of Archon’s Reach: the Archon himself, and his three Sentinels!” Kael’s shoulders slumped slightly, his pride deflating. “If only. One Weaver among us would make the rest easier.” “Barely made it out of the last one,” a companion muttered, rubbing a fresh scar on his arm. Four Weavers, in a city of thousands. The scarcity Elian’s mentor had lamented became starkly clear here. A profound disappointment settled within him. Kael’s gaze drifted to the leather pouch secured at Elian’s hip. “Seeking Corrupted Creatures, you said? Equipment seems light. No weapons?” Elian reached into his pocket. He produced a simple sling, crafted from supple leather and braided cord, its surface worn smooth by countless applications of focused aether. It was an unassuming tool, yet it hummed faintly with latent potential, invisible to most. He braced himself for mockery. Instead, Kael’s companions leaned forward, their expressions shifting to curiosity. “You use this for stones?” “Looks like it’s seen some use,” one observed, running a calloused thumb along the leather. “What size stones?” “River stones, palm-sized.” “Ah, enough to crack the carapace of a Skittering Vermin, then, or a Rattle-Hare,” Kael mused, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Their prey. Not the true apex predators, but the lesser creatures, those warped from common fauna. Even these, Elian knew, could be deadly to the unwary. “Care to join us?” Kael asked, a genuine note of recruitment in his voice. “Always need a keen shot.” “I appreciate the offer,” Elian said, a polite refusal. His objectives lay far beyond what they sought. He hunted not for power, but for understanding, for the unraveling of deeper, more dangerous currents. Kael sighed, a sound of mild regret. “Pity. But the offer stands, if you change your mind.” He clapped Elian on the shoulder one last time before rejoining his crew. Elian felt the subtle shift in Kael’s touch, no longer dismissive, but tinged with a strange, fleeting respect. --- Later, Lyra handed Elian a small, iron key. He climbed the creaking stairs to his room, the sounds of the tavern below rising through the worn floorboards. Sleep was a distant prospect. Elian heard the murmur of Kael’s crew, their voices rough and low. *“Kael, why bother with that skinny urchin? He’d be no help.”* *“One good gust of wind would knock him over. Might as well fetch him a cup of milk.”* Mockery, sharp and familiar. The common currency of suspicion for outsiders. Elian had heard such words many times in various holdfasts. He felt no sting, only a quiet recognition of human nature. They were friendly to his face, cutting behind his back. Such was the way of the world. A pause. Then, Kael’s deeper voice. *“Seeing him… reminded me of younger days. Out there, with nothing but a sling. Ten lives wouldn’t be enough. He won’t last.”* Pity, then. Or a warning. Elian closed his eyes, the vastness of the Shattered Aethel’s wind-swept emptiness pressing in from beyond the walls. He settled into the familiar hum of the tavern, the small comforts of transient human connection. Good people and bad, all seeking something amidst the decay. --- Morning light, diffused by the persistent coastal mist, filtered through the window. Elian ate a sparse breakfast of hardtack and a thin broth offered by the inn, then stepped out into the awakened city. The narrow streets already bustled, carts rumbling, hawkers calling their wares. A gentle wind, carrying the scent of brine and distant pinewood, swept through the thoroughfares. The Warder’s Archive stood at the city’s heart, a squat, four-story edifice of gray stone, its lower levels carved with the weathered symbols of ancient protections. Citizens moved in and out, their faces etched with the mundane anxieties of leases and tariffs. Elian navigated past an old man gesticulating wildly about a disputed sky-spire fragment, searching for the bounty scrivener. Finally, a cramped desk. A middle-aged Archivist, spectacles perched on his nose, peered over a stack of yellowed parchments. His eyes, sharp and dismissive, took in Elian’s simple travel-worn clothes. “Purpose?” he snapped, as if Elian were an inconvenience. Elian kept his voice low. “Seeking a Corrupted Creature bounty.” A snort. The Archivist clearly marked Elian as another desperate Gleaner. Elian felt the familiar pull to simply reach out, to gently, subtly, shift the aetheric currents around the man, to compel respect. To unravel his disdain. But no. Revealing his true nature as a Weaver, a manipulator of the deep currents, would bring only unwanted attention. Archons, he knew, desired Weavers as tools. Nobles, as status symbols. Both were shackles. Best to remain unseen, a ghost in the currents. “Take it. Read it. Return it,” the Archivist grumbled, sliding a thick, bound ledger across the desk. Its pages listed creatures: their appearance, approximate size, observed behaviors, locations of sightings, and the Archon’s reward for their demise or capture. Weaker Corrupted Creatures, those whose aetheric corruption was minimal, brought bounties only if captured alive. Their essences were too faint to confirm from a corpse. Aggressive ones, those that preyed on human settlements, could be killed. The carcass, or proof of its unraveling, was required. “Listen closely,” the Archivist warned, his voice gaining a sliver of severity. “If you fell a beast, even accidentally, bring the remains back. Do not abandon it. If its raw aether isn’t dispersed by a Sentinel, it can coalesce, twist into something far worse. An Undead Horror. Leaving a Corrupted Creature corpse is a capital offense here. Remember that.” Elian’s mind flashed to a past horror, a scene of churning shadow and unbound aether. He nodded, the Archivist’s warning chillingly resonant. “I understand.” He had seen the truth of it. Felt the currents of despair and hunger that clung to such remnants. “But some of these… they pose a clear danger to common folk,” Elian observed, his finger tracing a description in the ledger. “Do the Sentinels not hunt them?” The Archivist threw up his hands, a sound of exasperated disbelief. “Sentinels? You think they have time for common drudgery? Their duty is to the Archon, to city order, to defense against true incursions. Hunting wayward beasts is for you drifters. For Gleaners.” Elian’s eyes returned to the ledger. His finger settled on a particular entry: *Sky-Skitter* *A crow warped by wild aether, its wing feathers transformed into obsidian-sharp blades. It deflects projectiles and hunts by dropping its deadly quills from high above. Known to prey on stray dogs and unattended children in the city’s outer districts, consuming their flesh and scattering the remains…* Weavers, meant to be humanity’s protectors. Yet, few seemed to embrace that role, preferring the quiet study of theory or the pursuit of personal power. A familiar, bitter taste coated Elian’s tongue. He closed the ledger, handed it back, and left the Warder’s Archive. Duty, it seemed, was often an abandoned current. Towards the city’s edge Elian walked, the sounds of commerce fading with each step. Buildings grew sparser, giving way to rough-hewn shanties and then, finally, the familiar, wild expanse of the Aethel. Winds howled, carrying the faint scent of distant, crumbling stone and the metallic tang of salt. ‘Time to begin.’ Alone now, Elian centered himself, reaching out with his mind. He sought the Corrupted Creature from the ledger, the Sky-Skitter. A crow that preyed on children. “Aether-Sense: Avian,” he whispered, a subtle release of intent into the pervasive currents. Immediately, a thousand distinct vibrations hammered at his perception. The rustle of countless feathers, the flap of wings taking flight, the sharp *tap-tap* of beaks foraging amongst the dry scrub. An overwhelming cacophony. Elian recoiled, canceling the spell. ‘Too many.’ The common crows, mundane but abundant, utterly swamped his attempt. This direct approach would not suffice. How to isolate the corrupt from the mundane? ‘Aether-Sense: Corrupted Avian,’ he refined the intent, seeking the distinctive resonance of aetheric corruption. But the currents remained stubbornly silent. His ability, so precise in discerning structure and flow, couldn't filter by a qualitative state like ‘corrupted presence’ if the beast’s inherent aetheric signature was too similar to its mundane brethren. Next, he tried another approach. ‘Aether-Sense: Avian, Feeds-on-Sentient-Flesh.’ This time, a surge of distant, fragmented sensations. Too many. A vast network of responses, all implying scavenged remains, not active predation. Even common crows, he knew, would pick clean the bones of the fallen. He closed his eyes, the subtle aetheric currents around him swirling with his thoughts. This hunt would require a more refined, more insidious approach. It always did. His quiet power, a double-edged gift, demanded patience and precision, a careful unweaving of the world’s complex threads.

Fragmented Truths