A heavy silence settled in the small, makeshift chamber Valerius had prepared for his recovery. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the grimy window, illuminating the stark lines of Kaelen’s face. His gaze, usually steady, dropped to the scarred planks of the floor. An unfamiliar heat pricked behind his eyes, a strange mix of relief and a shame he couldn’t name. Valerius, still favoring his arm, studied him with an unnervingly calm expression. His rough-hewn features, usually etched with the weariness of the city guard, softened. He took a slow breath, the air rasping in his chest. “Don’t look as if the world has fallen on your shoulders, boy,” Valerius said, his voice raspy but firm. “You had no hand in the old conflicts. The blood that runs in your veins… it’s not a stain you inherited.” Kaelen’s jaw tightened. How could he speak of inherited stains when the very power surging through him, the whispers that sometimes guided his hand, stemmed from that same source? He had claimed the power, hadn’t he? Taken its gifts. To disown the past felt disingenuous, almost cowardly. Yet, the past was a nebulous thing to him, a collection of half-heard tales and ancestral echoes, not lived experience. Still, Valerius’s words eased a knot in Kaelen’s stomach he hadn’t known was there. “Washing blood with blood,” Valerius continued, his gaze distant, “only paints the world crimson. The common folk, the innocent, they always pay the price.” His knuckles, thick and scarred, clenched once, then relaxed. Kaelen found his voice, a low rumble in the quiet room. “Do you… regret it?” Valerius’s brow furrowed. “Regret what, lad?” “Telling me to come to Veridian. Urging me to step out from the shadows.” If the whispers were true, if Kaelen truly possessed the ancient gifts of the Deep Kin, his path might lead him to the very heart of the powers that once clashed with Valerius’s world. He knew little of these ancient factions, only that they were spoken of in hushed, fearful tones in the rare instances he’d encountered outsiders. To have a force like himself potentially join the side of an old enemy… surely that was a risk to Valerius, to the people of Veridian he swore to protect. Valerius’s head shook slowly. “Never. I saw your heart, Kaelen. Your honesty, the raw innocence in your power. The way you helped an injured stranger, even revealed the truth of your nature. If someone like you—someone guided by an innate sense of justice—were to rise among the Deep Kin, perhaps… perhaps the cycle of bloodshed could finally be broken.” Kaelen felt a flush creep up his neck. Valerius spoke of him with a reverence that felt wholly undeserved. He hadn’t welcomed Valerius with any grand purpose beyond a simple, ingrained courtesy, a reflex taught by his long-lost mother. His aid during the attack by the Gloom-Hound had been spurred by an instinct to protect the only person who had treated him with kindness in years, not some grand design to usher in an era of peace. His gaze returned to the scuffed floorboards, tracing the grain with his eyes. Valerius watched him for a moment longer, then chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “No need to wear such a grim face. You haven’t sworn fealty to anyone yet, have you?” “No, not yet,” Kaelen admitted, the thought of being beholden to any group still foreign and unappealing. He still yearned to understand the source of the whispers, to find his own path. Wandering, discovering, learning – that appealed far more than pledging himself to ancient, half-forgotten causes. “My wounds won’t heal themselves overnight,” Valerius added, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’ll be here a while. You can take your time to decide.” “Wounds?” Kaelen looked up, a hint of something light in his expression. “You make it sound like more than a few scrapes.” Valerius let out a heartier laugh this time, the sound echoing slightly in the small room. “Just a few scratches, indeed.” --- Days blurred into a pattern. While Valerius recuperated, Kaelen sought him out, drawn by a hunger for understanding. He had always wielded his strange, potent gifts with raw instinct, guided by the whispers that often felt like primal urges within him. Now, he wanted to grasp the underlying mechanisms, the very physics of the primordial energies he commanded. “Raw creation energy,” Valerius began one afternoon, gesturing with his uninjured hand, “is often spoken of as the ‘Essence of the Maker,’ or even the ‘World-Shaper’s Breath.’ A grand name, perhaps, but fitting for its potential.” “Essence of the Maker,” Kaelen murmured, the phrase resonating with the ancient power he felt stir within him. The whispers, too, spoke of creation, of weaving reality. “It’s not truly omnipotent, despite the lofty titles,” Valerius clarified, watching Kaelen intently. “To manifest such feats, it demands a price. A proportional expenditure of this very essence. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The drain after a powerful surge.” Kaelen nodded, remembering the exhaustion that followed his fight with the Gloom-Hound, the hollow ache in his core. “What determines the amount needed?” Valerius cleared his throat, a professorial glint in his eye. He held up three fingers, thick and calloused. “The difficulty of wielding raw creation energy, of shaping reality, is governed by three primary factors. First, ancestry. Second, mastery. And third, causality.” Ancestry, mastery, causality. Kaelen sat perfectly still, engraving the words into his mind. “Ancestry, the first factor, speaks to the innate gifts passed down through your blood. It’s why some can mend bone with a touch, while others can conjure flame from thin air. For you, of the Deep Kin, your innate connection to the primordial essence is profound. You command the very fabric of reality, raw elemental forces. For someone else, say a simple fisher from the coastal districts, manipulating the deep currents of the ocean would be near impossible. Yet, for one of the Deep Kin… you could perhaps conjure a storm from a clear sky.” A bitter taste filled Kaelen’s mouth. He thought of his mother, her slow decline, the cough that wracked her slender frame. If only his ancestral gifts had leaned towards mending, towards healing… but the whispers had always spoken of reshaping, of breaking, of building anew. He bit his lip, releasing the futile regret. “Then, mastery?” Kaelen prompted. “Ah, mastery. Some call it proficiency. It’s the ease with which you perform tasks you’re accustomed to, skills you’ve honed through repetition. A smith, accustomed to the heat of the forge, might find it simpler to conjure concentrated bursts of flame. A sailor, familiar with the sway of the deck, might more easily manipulate currents or stabilize a ship against a rogue wave.” “When I throw a fireball,” Kaelen offered, thinking of the instinctive motion, “I throw it like I’d hurl a stone.” “Precise. That familiar motion, that learned trajectory, channels your essence more efficiently. If you merely willed a flame to appear, it might lack that speed, that focused destructive force.” Valerius smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “You’re a quick study.” Valerius’s expression then grew serious. “The third and final factor, causality, is the most crucial, and often the most elusive. Truth be told, even the old texts only scratch its surface. Put simply: natural events are easier to manifest.” He paused, rubbing his chin, searching for the right words. “What would happen if you simply tried to… extinguish me with your will, right now?” Kaelen envisioned it: a surge of primal energy, a flash of light, perhaps a faint hum. Nothing more. “Your head would probably just glow. And that would be all.” He remembered the spectral Gloom-Hound, how his initial unfocused bursts had merely shimmered against it. “Exactly,” Valerius affirmed. “A lack of causality. There’s no sufficient cause for the desired outcome, and the task itself is of immense difficulty. Both apply to trying to simply ‘will’ someone to cease existing.” “I think I understand the cause part,” Kaelen said slowly. “If I wanted to… to fell you, it wouldn’t be enough to just expend energy and wish it so. I’d need to provide a cause. Create a shard of ice, perhaps, and hurl it. Or twist the air around you into an unbearable pressure. It’s more ‘natural’ to manifest a force and apply it, than to simply desire an outcome.” This lesson, honed in the heat of battle, now made perfect sense. Valerius clapped his hands, a soft, leathery sound. “Astounding! You could have been a scholar, Kaelen. Your insight is exceptional. As you’ve observed, providing a proper cause, a means to an end, drastically reduces the expenditure of creation essence.” “But why,” Kaelen asked, thinking of his early solitary years, “could I fell a wild boar with a glance, or deter a pack of wolves with a flash of light, yet the Gloom-Hound required so much more? Why did it resist my initial bursts?” “Creatures suffused with magic, beasts of the Gloom or even other essence-wielders, possess a natural resistance. It’s proportional to the primal energy within them,” Valerius explained. “However, if you craft a distinct manifestation—a bolt of fire, a razor of wind, a blade of solidified force—and make contact, much of that inherent resistance is negated. Of course, a chasm of power still exists, and some will always shrug off your efforts, but it’s a vital distinction.” He cited Kaelen’s raw, directed flame that had consumed the Gloom-Hound’s spectral form, while Valerius’s own, less potent enchantments had merely rippled against it. Directly affecting another essence-wielder with raw, unfocused will, Valerius concluded, was almost always futile. Listening to the complex principles, Kaelen felt a dull ache begin behind his eyes. He pressed his thumbs to his temples. “This… it’s not simple, is it?” “True mastery of the Deep Kin’s gifts isn’t just about raw power, Kaelen. It’s understanding the underlying currents of the world, knowing your own limits, and leveraging the very essence that binds reality together.” Kaelen closed his eyes, replaying Valerius’s words, turning them over in his mind. Then, a new question surfaced. “The Deep Kin,” he began. “Do we… do I have any specific inherent abilities? Beyond the general manipulation of raw essence?” Valerius had spoken of his connection to the primordial. But were there unique expressions of that power? Valerius nodded. “Indeed. Among your ancestors, those with stronger connections were renowned for their command over Obscurity and Insight. Have you ever tried to hide yourself? Or to sense distant presences?” Kaelen considered. He’d used Insight, a subtle form of tracking, to locate stray animals or find his mother if she wandered too far. It was how he’d found Valerius, injured and bleeding, in the shadows of the ruined wharf. But Obscurity, the act of concealment, had never held purpose in his solitary life in the wilderness. There had been no one to hide from. “Try it now,” Valerius urged. “Many can weave simple illusions to cloud the eyes, but the highest forms of Obscurity, those that erase one from all perception—sight, sound, even scent—that is the mark of a Deep Kin elder.” Kaelen focused inward. The whispers within him stirred, a deep resonance with his intent. *Do not be seen. Do not be heard. Erase your presence.* He felt the raw creation energy within him drain, a steady, profound outflow. Looking down, he saw nothing changed. His hands remained solid, visible. “Did it work?” he asked, his voice low. Valerius’s eyes, fixed on the spot where Kaelen had been sitting, remained unfocused, vacant. “It worked,” he breathed, a note of awe in his tone. “I can’t see you. Are you… still there?” Kaelen rose from the chair. He took a slow, deliberate step, then another, circling Valerius. The old guard’s eyes remained locked on the empty space. Kaelen stamped his boot lightly on the stone floor. No reaction. He snapped his fingers inches from Valerius’s ear. Nothing. The man was oblivious. He poured a conscious effort into stemming the flow of energy. Valerius blinked, his gaze snapping back into focus, settling on Kaelen with a sudden, sharp intensity. Valerius let out a long, shuddering sigh, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “It’s been decades since I witnessed that in person. Still as terrifying as the stories. In the old wars, the Veridian defenders used to pray the night wouldn’t come. Many mornings, entire patrols, whole barracks, would be found… silenced. Their throats slit, untouched by any visible hand.” Kaelen felt a chill crawl up his spine, despite the warmth of the day. This power, to vanish so completely, to become a phantom… it felt monstrous, unfair. “That… that seems like an impossible way to fight.” Valerius shook his head, the grim memory fading from his eyes. “It’s not invincible, Kaelen. No power is.” And for the first time, Kaelen truly understood the fear the whispers sometimes evoked within him. His gifts were not merely a source of wonder, but a force that had shaped history, and held the potential to shatter it once more.

A Seed of Knowing