A single tankard of cheap ale, bitter and thick, had bought Kaelen more than mere warmth. Elara, the inn's scullery maid, a wisp of a girl with flour-dusted hands, hummed a tavern tune as she relayed the information. Finding a Whisper-Beast with a bounty required an inquiry at the city’s Guildhouse of Orders. Its officials held the records. Kaelen felt a faint flush creep up his neck. “This… Guildhouse? And these officials you speak of?” His words, unpracticed in the argot of city life, came out stiff. Elara’s giggle was a surprising thing, bright like a chime. Her eyes, wide and innocent, crinkled at the corners. “You jest, good sir! You must be from the deepest wilds.” She explained then, patiently, drawing shapes in the air with a damp cloth. The Guildhouse was a stone edifice at the city’s heart, a hub for all administrative matters. Officials were merely men and women sworn to the city’s Lord, paid to manage its daily grind. It was late; shadows deepened outside the grime-streaked window. Kaelen decided to visit the Guildhouse in the morning. Better to face the city’s bureaucratic sprawl with a clear mind. “But why seek Whisper-Beasts?” Elara's voice dropped, laced with a hint of awe. “Surely, you aren’t one of them, are you? A Spell-Hunter?” “A… what?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed. He knew of the beasts, their erratic surges of distorted weave, but this new title was alien. “Those who believe,” she whispered, leaning closer, “that by felling a Whisper-Beast, they can claim its power. Become a sorcerer.” A shiver ran through her, though her eyes held a strange glint of ambition. A superstition, she called it, a desperate gamble by common folk hoping to transcend their station. Most dismissed them as madmen, but enough clung to the belief to make Spell-Hunting a common, if dangerous, profession. Just as Elara spoke, a heavy hand clapped Kaelen’s shoulder. His muscles tensed, a primal urge to recoil. He swallowed it down, his gaze flicking to the newcomer. “Lena, dear, it’s no superstition.” The voice was gravelly, resonant. “It’s the truth. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” The man was thick-set, nearing his fortieth year, with a wild mane of dark hair and a beard that looked like it had never met a comb. His tunic bore stains of various origins, his boots muddy. Yet, his eyes, dark as polished obsidian, held a surprising, unwavering clarity. “Thane! Old bear, you live!” Elara cried, a genuine smile transforming her face. “We thought the wilds had claimed you.” “Not before I snatch a whisper of magic for myself,” Thane grunted, his gaze sharp, assessing Kaelen. Behind him, three more figures shuffled in, their outlines hulking in the low light. They carried crude, heavy weapons: a barbed spear, a battered shortbow, a sledgehammer fit for quarry work. These were men of muscle and hardened callus, each radiating a palpable desperation. Kaelen gently shifted his shoulder, dislodging Thane’s hand. The man blinked, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes, then stepped back. “My apologies, friend.” “It is quite alright,” Kaelen replied, his voice even. “But I confess, your words caught my ear. This claim of gaining a sorcerer’s power?” Thane grinned, a wide, challenging flash of white teeth. “So, the quiet one has spirit, eh? You’re interested in the weave, young friend?” He pulled up a stool, settling it with a groan of stressed wood. Sorcerers, he explained, hunted Whisper-Beasts to absorb their strange essence, to grow their own power. Ergo, ordinary folk, by the same principle, could claim a beast’s weave and ignite their own latent spark. He swore he’d witnessed it, not once, but several times. Peasants, hunters, common folk, transformed by the kill. “That’s why we do it,” Thane declared, gesturing to his comrades. “The four of us, we hunt for the whisper. For glory.” “We’ve felled three already!” one of his men boasted, thumping his spear butt on the floor. “Almost there, now,” another added, his eyes wide with a hungry light. Kaelen felt a prickle of alarm. Three Whisper-Beasts. The truly potent ones he’d encountered possessed enough raw, distorted power to tear a legion of ordinary men to shreds. The very notion of these men facing such a creature, let alone three, was preposterous. “Three, you say?” Kaelen’s voice was carefully neutral. “Does that mean one among you has already… become a sorcerer?” The question hung in the air for a beat, then the entire taproom erupted in raucous laughter. Thane himself clapped Kaelen’s shoulder again, this time with a booming mirth. “A sorcerer? Here?” Thane wiped a tear from his eye. “In all of Oakhaven, there are but two true wielders of the weave: the Lord Alaric, and his personal Arcane Advisor. None among us are so blessed. If even one of us were, we’d not be toiling in these muddy boots, I promise you.” “We nearly died, each time,” the bowman chimed in, his face suddenly grim. Two sorcerers in a city of tens of thousands? Kaelen understood then the lamentations he often heard about the realm’s waning magic. The great Weavers of old, his ancestors, would have wept. Thane’s gaze dropped to the small satchel Kaelen carried. “You spoke of hunting Whisper-Beasts, yet your gear seems… sparse. No weapon?” “A weapon?” Kaelen reached into his pocket, pulling out the worn leather slingshot. It was a crude thing, lambskin and dried sinew, utterly eclipsed by the metal and wood heft of their armaments. He expected derision, a fresh wave of laughter. Instead, the Spell-Hunters leaned closer, their expressions shifting to one of genuine curiosity. “A sling, then?” Thane’s brows rose. “For stones?” “The leather’s well-oiled,” the spearman observed, running a calloused thumb over the strap. “Used it often.” “What size shot?” the bowman asked, a professional air about him. “Roughly the size of a crow’s egg,” Kaelen offered. “That’s enough to shatter the skull of a fox-beast or a rabbit-sprite,” Thane mused, a thoughtful hum in his chest. “If aimed true.” It became clear then. Their targets were not the apex Whisper-Beasts, the mutated apex predators that Kaelen himself pursued. They hunted the lesser horrors, the transformed woodland creatures that, while still deadly to the uninitiated, were a far cry from the formidable leopard-like beast Kaelen had encountered. Even these, he knew, could easily kill a common man, their twisted natural abilities amplified by the wild weave. “Tell you what, quiet one,” Thane said, his eyes glinting. “Join us. We’ve been looking for a good marksman.” “I thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” Kaelen’s tone was polite but firm. He could not reveal his power, nor did their goals align. He sought to protect, to unravel the greater mysteries of the weave, not to chase after glorified vermin. Thane sighed, a gusty sound, but did not press the matter. “A shame. But should you change your mind, we’ll be here.” He gave a shrug and turned back to his tankard. --- Later, Kaelen accepted a key from Elara and ascended to the inn’s second floor. He lay on a scratchy cot, the thin wooden floorboards carrying the muffled murmur of voices from below. “Thane, hyungnim, why bother with that scrawny pup? He wouldn’t last a single skirmish.” It was the bowman’s voice, thick with derision. “Right. One solid blow and he’d weep like a babe.” The spearmen’s coarser tones joined in. Kaelen closed his eyes. The easy camaraderie they had shown downstairs had been a thin veneer. This two-faced nature, however, was no stranger to him. He’d seen it in his isolated village, the shifting loyalties, the quiet contempt behind a smile. It did not sting, merely offered a confirmation of human nature. He simply breathed, allowing the bitterness to pass. Then, Thane’s voice, lower, carried through the wood. “Tsk, he reminded me of myself, years ago. Out there, with nothing but a prayer and a sling. Ten lives wouldn’t be enough.” “You’re too soft, Thane,” the bowman grumbled. “Who says otherwise?” Thane replied, a faint, almost melancholic note in his voice. The subsequent conversation faded into an indistinct drone. Kaelen turned on his side, his thoughts drifting. The world was indeed a tangle of kindness and cruelty, interwoven in ways he often struggled to comprehend. --- The next dawn broke grey and cold. After a breakfast of hard bread and watery soup, Kaelen made his way to the Guildhouse of Orders. Its four stories of grey stone dominated the city square, already a hive of activity. Farmers haggled over land deeds, a merchant argued vociferously about a missed tax payment. Kaelen navigated through the jostling crowd, searching for the official in charge of bounties. He found him eventually, a portly man with narrow, suspicious eyes, perched behind a high desk. “What do you want?” the official snapped, his gaze sweeping over Kaelen’s plain attire with undisguised disdain. He clearly saw another drifter, another desperate soul seeking to carve a living from the wild. Kaelen felt a flicker of annoyance. A single whisper of his true name, a hint of his latent power, and this man would be on his knees, fawning. But that was precisely what Kaelen sought to avoid. To reveal himself as a Weaver, even a seemingly ordinary one, would invite a host of unwanted complications. The Lord Alaric might press him into service, a gilded cage of duty. To reveal his true lineage, his status, would condemn him to endless feasts, forced civilities, and elaborate courtesies, all designed to secure his 'patronage'. He desired none of it. His goal was simple: locate the Whisper-Beast, neutralize the threat, and vanish. Anonymity was his greatest protection. “No taking it from my sight. Look, and return it.” The official pushed a thick parchment across the desk, its edges frayed. Upon it were meticulous sketches and descriptions: the appearance of the Whisper-Beasts, their reported size, known habits, recent sightings, and the corresponding bounty in copper, silver, and gold. Some, the weaker, less aggressive strains, commanded a bounty only if captured alive. The more violent, those that posed a direct threat to human life, could be slain. Their carcasses, or specific parts, were required as proof. The official muttered a warning about fraudulent claims, the difficulty of distinguishing a true Whisper-Beast from an ordinary animal if its mutations were subtle. “A word of caution,” the official’s voice hardened. “Even if you kill one by accident, do not abandon the corpse. Bring it back, no matter the state. If the Sentinels do not purge its lingering weave, it can fester, rise as a Grave-Shade. The city laws are clear: abandoning a Whisper-Beast carcass is punishable by death. Bear that in mind.” “I understand.” Kaelen’s memory flashed to a blighted forest, the unsettling stillness, the cold, creeping terror that had followed him. He had seen the horrors that could birth from an unpurged corpse. The warning resonated, sinking deep. He scanned the list. “Some of these creatures seem… quite dangerous. Beyond the capabilities of ordinary folk. Do the Sentinels not address them?” The official scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. “Do you imagine they have such leisure? The Sentinels maintain order within these walls, defend against invaders. The hunting of Whisper-Beasts, particularly the errant ones beyond the city’s immediate environs, is a task for… drifters such as yourself.” Kaelen’s gaze fell back to the parchment, his fingers tightening slightly. ~~~~~~~ **Razorbeak** A large raven, its primary wing feathers hardened and sharpened into obsidian-like blades. It can deflect arrows with its wings and attacks by dropping these lethal quills from high altitudes. Known to prey on small dogs or unescorted children at the city’s fringes, devouring them and leaving behind only scattered fragments of bone and gristle... ~~~~~~~ If the true purpose of the ancient Weavers was to protect humanity, then surely such a threat should be their first concern. Yet, it seemed few modern sorcerers, if any, still honored that sacred vow. A bitter taste bloomed in Kaelen’s mouth. The world had truly forgotten its protectors. Leaving the Guildhouse, Kaelen walked toward the western gate, his steps purposeful. The sturdy stone homes slowly gave way to simpler cottages, then fields, and finally, the wild, untamed expanse of the Veridian March. The familiar scent of damp earth and distant pine filled his lungs. ‘Time to begin.’ He checked his surroundings, confirming no lingering eyes. He closed his own for a moment, letting his senses expand, feeling the subtle currents of the realm. The Razorbeak. A predator of the innocent. A menace to be excised. “*Crow, discern…*” Kaelen began, a whisper barely audible, a subtle manipulation of the weave around him, bending it to his will. He sought to identify all crows within a mile radius. An instantaneous clamor erupted in his mind, a jarring rush of sensation. The rustle of thousands of feathers, the frantic beat of countless tiny hearts, the cacophony of caws and pecking beaks. It was an overwhelming assault, a tidal wave of raw, unfiltered information that sent a sharp pain through his temples. He gasped, the nascent whisper dissolving on his tongue. He pressed a hand to his forehead, reeling. ‘Too broad. Far too many.’ He needed precision. A crow, yes, but specifically, a Whisper-Beast. He tried again, shaping the intent with greater focus. ‘*Weave-imbued avian… differentiate…*’ He sought a creature suffused with the strange energies he knew so well. Nothing. The weave remained silent, unresponsive to that particular query. It seemed the raw presence of magic within a creature was not a distinct enough marker for this particular, nascent whisper. Or perhaps, the Razorbeak’s weave-signature was too subtle, too twisted, for such a direct command. Kaelen tried a third approach, narrowing the scope once more. If the Razorbeak preyed on humans… ‘*Avian, tainted by human flesh… reveal…*’ This time, a sudden, horrifying surge of dozens of faint impressions flooded his mind. Scavengers. So many common crows, feasting on carrion, on roadside refuse, on the remains of animals—and likely, on fragments of human refuse and, occasionally, even unburied dead. The raw data was too muddied, too broad. He dismissed the whisper, a knot of frustration forming in his gut. This task would require more cunning than he initially anticipated.

A Glimpse of the Whispered Weave