A chill wind, carrying the brine of the Veridian Bay and the metallic tang of distant foundries, swept across the Scarred Crag. Kaelen, perched on a precarious stack of salvaged plating, exhaled a plume of mist into the fading light. Below, at a silent inclination of his head, heaps of scrap metal, salvaged conduits, and rusted automaton parts began to stir. No barked command escaped his lips, no prod of a staff. The whispers, faint yet insistent, guided his hands. They hummed with an ancient cadence, a language not of words but of pure intent. He felt a deep-seated hum within his bones, a connection to the very fabric of the world. It was a power both wondrous and terrifying. For Kaelen, who had wrestled with these inner forces for years, the ability held a strange logic. It felt as though desire itself was a currency. First, a fervent wish, a clear mental image, and the primordial essence within him would ripple outwards, subtly bending reality to his will. Objects shifted, dust dispersed, the world obeyed. Second, if that desire found even a silent, nascent thought-form, a clearer instruction, the essence flowed with greater ease, the whispers growing louder, the effort less taxing. Finally, a stark truth: the more profound, the more improbable the desire, the greater the toll. Some things, he had learned, remained stubbornly beyond his grasp, no matter how fiercely he wished them. He remembered a week prior, wrestling with a particularly stubborn, derelict construct. A simple command, a desperate plea for it to *cease*, had felt like shouting into a void. Yet, these scattered components, hundreds of them, aligned themselves with a silent elegance, forming neat piles as if by invisible hands. Conversely, shaping a shard of raw ore into a perfectly balanced projectile, giving it momentum to pierce slag-hardened shell—that had felt almost effortless. He could have repeated the feat dozens of times, the whispers barely stirring. As the last pile of salvage settled, an odd scent drifted on the wind. Not the usual mix of salt and industry, nor the faint, familiar ozone of old tech. This was something else—a metallic tang mingled with something organic, faintly acrid. It reminded him of the half-decayed remains of a gloom-crawler he’d taken apart nearly a year ago. *A fresh kill?* Minutes later, a figure emerged from the gathering dusk, silhouetted against the smoldering horizon. Rhian, the former Warden, walked with an easy stride, a heavy, angular piece of what looked like fused slag-metal slung across his shoulder. He moved with a practiced grace that belied the rugged terrain. “Greetings, Kaelen. Mind if I impose on your hospitality again? Consider this a down payment for the shelter.” Rhian offered a wry smile, gesturing to the scavenged chunk. It gleamed faintly, reflecting the last embers of twilight. Kaelen studied the piece. It was a rare find, likely a core component from a deep-strata automaton, its alloys surprisingly intact. More than enough compensation. He gave a curt nod. “Few venture out this far. You must have gone deep into the fringes to find something like this.” Kaelen’s own territory, the Scarred Crag, yielded diminishing returns. He had long since scoured its every crevice for anything of value. Anything new usually meant a long, dangerous trek. “Ventured near the Ashfall Peaks, actually.” Rhian’s gaze drifted towards the colossal, smoke-veiled mountains that dominated the western horizon. They were a legend, a testament to an ancient cataclysm, rumored to pierce the very sky. “The Ashfall Peaks… days of travel to reach the foothills.” Kaelen frowned. The sheer scale of the mountains was daunting, a jagged wall against the world. “With a determined stride, half a day was enough.” Rhian’s tone was matter-of-fact. Kaelen wasn't surprised. He knew, intimately, the strange distortions of time and distance that latent power could grant, though he'd never pushed himself to such extremes. Still, a faint flicker of caution stirred within him. Rhian was more than just a wanderer. Later, a fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls of Kaelen’s shelter. The air filled with the savory scent of ration-stew, warmed over the flames. Rhian looked up at the star-dusted sky. “The stars out here… they’re remarkably vivid, aren’t they?” “My mother said the Crag is one of the highest points near Veridian, apart from the Peaks.” Kaelen stirred the stew with a salvaged spoon. “Compared to the Ashfall Peaks, nothing touches them. I passed through today, and even the Archons would struggle with their ascent.” Rhian’s voice held a note of awe. “Archons? I thought their power was akin to gods. Couldn’t they simply… ascend?” Kaelen had only ever heard tales, his mother’s warnings of their oppressive might coloring his perception. “Not all of them, my friend. The heads of the great houses, perhaps. Those might truly be forces akin to the ancients…” Rhian then recounted witnessing the Patriarch of House Volkov, with a mere gesture, bring down an entire section of the outer wall during a skirmish decades ago. A prickle of unease, hot and sudden, flushed Kaelen’s face. Sometimes, a silent arrogance would creep into his mind. The whispers had grown so much stronger over the years, the subtle manipulations so much easier. He would entertain the foolish notion that his abilities were unmatched. But Rhian’s casual anecdotes painted a stark reality. Compared to true Archon power, his own seemed trivial, a child’s parlor trick. “Does living out here, so isolated, ever get… lonely?” Rhian’s eyes held a gentle inquiry. “Of course. But you grow accustomed to it.” Kaelen shrugged. Loneliness was a constant companion, as familiar as the grit under his boots. “Why not find someone from the outer districts? Bring them back?” “Who would willingly leave the relative safety of Veridian to spend their days in this desolate place, scavenging through ruins?” Kaelen’s voice was flat, devoid of self-pity, just cold fact. “I’m sure there are plenty who wouldn’t mind the company of a capable young man like yourself.” Rhian offered a small, knowing smile. Kaelen merely offered an awkward twist of his lips. When he’d been younger, ventured into the settlements, there had been a few who showed a passing interest. But after his mother’s death, after the villagers’ fearful glances, all that had withered. They understood the harsh reality. A life with Kaelen meant a life on the fringes, constantly vigilant, always scraping by. “Don’t dwell on it so much. You might yet encounter someone, out here in the wilds, who sees the world differently.” Kaelen found the idea unlikely. Rhian was the first traveler he’d seen in nearly a decade. A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the distant drone of Veridian’s forges. Kaelen broke it. “Why do you go to such lengths?” “Hm?” Rhian raised an eyebrow. “Whatever the outer district leaders offered, with your skills… you could make a fortune with far less effort.” A man of Rhian’s capabilities, settling in a frontier settlement, offering protection in exchange for comfort and wealth? Few would dare refuse. It would be a hundred times easier than patrolling barren wastes, fighting mutated creatures, and accepting meager lodging offers. Rhian, who could traverse half the distance to the Ashfall Peaks in a morning, was clearly no ordinary man. And the people of the outer districts… they weren’t particularly deserving. After all, Rhian was staying at Kaelen’s shelter because the settlers had charged him an exorbitant price for a single night. In Kaelen’s mind, if he were in Rhian’s place, he’d have simply taken what he needed and left the settlers to their fear. “They are pitiable folk.” Rhian’s voice was soft, laced with a quiet compassion. “How so?” “Living each day in fear, on the ragged edge of civilization, without the shield of a Warden.” Rhian, the old Warden, spoke gently, as if imparting a hard-won lesson. The lands beyond Veridian, he explained, though seemingly barren, teemed with mutated beasts, forgotten automatons, and the creeping rot of ancient curses. It was the duty of a Warden, one who inherited the mantle of protection, to guard the defenseless against these encroaching shadows. Even though he no longer officially served, the conviction still burned within him. It was a starkly different narrative from the one Kaelen’s mother had painted. Elara spoke of Wardens as enforcers, servants of the Archons, oppressors. Wasn’t that the truth? Noticing Kaelen’s conflicted expression, Rhian smiled faintly. “Well, not everyone sees it that way. For every soul, a different truth.” --- The next morning, the echoes of their conversation still resonated in Kaelen’s mind as he cleared his dwelling. With a subtle surge of primordial essence, the accumulated dust and debris of the night lifted, spiraling away to a designated reclamation pile outside. Once dried by the harsh sun, it would be compressed and used as makeshift building material. Pride. The word lingered. To think that a Warden wasn’t just a loyal hound to the Archons, but someone who found meaning in protecting the vulnerable? It didn’t make Kaelen want to rush to Veridian and pledge fealty, but it did soften the hard edges of his inherited cynicism. Perhaps, if there were more like Rhian, life under the Archons might not be an absolute darkness. *Still, how to tell him about the gloom-crawler?* He had intended to let Rhian wander the desolate lands, eventually realizing the threat was gone, then depart. But Rhian, with his quiet sincerity, didn’t deserve to waste his time out here. The problem was, Kaelen had meticulously broken down the creature, sealing its remnants deep within a fissure days ago. Retrieving the now-rotting mass would be a struggle, and the tell-tale lingering energy of his Deep Kin power would be impossible to hide. A sigh escaped Kaelen’s lips. He pushed the thought aside. With the shelter cleaned, he had a moment’s respite. *Perhaps I should find him…* Rhian had mentioned patrolling closer to the Crag today. If he hadn’t ventured far, Kaelen might locate him. Kaelen focused inward, the whispers growing louder, a familiar hum resonating in his chest. A subtle uplift, and he found himself standing on the roof of his shelter, overlooking the fractured landscape. He reached out, not with his eyes, but with his awareness. “*Perceive life.*” The silent command echoed within him. His perception surged. His vision, usually limited to the immediate vicinity, expanded, discerning the minute shiver of a rock-lizard several kilometers away. His sense of hearing amplified, catching the faint scuttle of a beetle beneath a stone, the whisper of dry grass. Yet, amidst the sudden deluge of sensory input, his newfound awareness filtered, focusing solely on the distinctive hum of living organisms. *Wait…* He snapped his head towards the west. There, in the distance, a figure. Rhian. He was panting, a dark streak of blood glistening on his forehead, another staining his shoulder. Opposite him, lumbering with unnatural gait, was the half-decayed form of the gloom-crawler Kaelen had thought dead days ago. --- A snarl tore from Rhian’s throat as he braced himself, eyes fixed on the grotesque creature before him. A sickening lurch filled his gut. *Who in the name of the ancients would do this?* When creatures of the wilds perished, especially those touched by latent energies, their final moments often sparked a desperate attempt at self-preservation. The raw essence within them, a crude imitation of true vitality, would try to rekindle their shattered forms, giving birth to what the Wardens called a ‘ Revenant’. For this reason, a standard practice was to either fully absorb or meticulously disperse the lingering essence within a corpse after a kill. But whoever had dispatched this particular gloom-crawler had either been ignorant of the rule or had deliberately flouted it. Given the precise, almost surgical hole in its metallic skull, it was likely the work of someone with a skilled hand for ranged destruction. [ *Sss-crrreee!* ] A rasping shriek ripped from the gloom-crawler’s rotting maw, a sound like grinding stone and rusted metal, echoing eerily across the barren land. Considering the creature’s current state, the comparison was unsettlingly accurate. “Take this, foul thing!” Rhian bellowed, a surge of latent power erupting from his clenched fist. A blinding flash of kinetic force tore towards the Revenant.

Echoes of the Deep