Eight years had carved deep grooves into Lysander’s memory. Winter had always been a season of muted colors on Whisperwind Peaks, but that year, a different chill settled in. He was ten, tucked away in the family cabin. His mother tended the flock, leaving him to the quiet hum of the hearth. A sudden tremor ran through the packed earth floor, a jolt that started in his bare feet and surged upward. Instinctively, he reached for a cold, damp log near the smoldering embers. A low hiss escaped his lips. Flame licked out, a hungry orange tongue, consuming the log’s surface in an instant. The air shimmered, thick with heat. Lysander pulled back, stunned, his small hand still tingling with an unfamiliar warmth. Before long, a secret world unfurled before him. With a thought, he could coax stones from the ground, shaping them into crude forms. A flick of his wrist sent a plume of dust dancing from the floor. He learned to warm his sheep’s milk without a fire, just a focused will. Whispers of power lived beneath his skin. “Mother, look!” That evening, the first star pricked the twilight sky as his mother returned, her faithful shepherd dog, Bran, trotting at her heels. Lysander, beaming, made a handful of pebbles hover in the air, spinning them like tiny moons. No marvel brightened her eyes. No joy touched her weathered face. She only reached out, her hand trembling slightly, to snatch the floating stones. A heavy sigh escaped her, a sound thick with resignation. “Lysander, we must make a promise.” Her voice was a low murmur, softer than the evening breeze. “Promise me you will never use this power carelessly. Especially not in front of others.” “But why?” Lysander, a quiet child who rarely questioned, felt a pout tug at his lips. This power was wonderful, exhilarating. She warmed a cup of sheep’s milk over the re-lit hearth, its flames now ordinary, mundane. For the first time, she spoke of the world beyond their lonely hill, a sprawling city-state called Veridian. “Below the peaks, Patricians live.” These Patricians, she explained, were the direct descendants of the Ascendants, who, long ago, saved humanity from a nameless terror. They carried potent magic, ruling Veridian as both protectors and sovereigns. Children born from a Patrician and a commoner, she continued, were called Sentinels. They, too, inherited magic, but their abilities were less. They served the Patricians, their lives bound by duty and expectation. Lysander’s father, she revealed, had been a Sentinel. A quiet man, lost to the creeping blight years ago. His mother warned that if Lysander ever ventured down, the Patricians would find him, exploit him, force him into servitude. “If Patricians are shepherds,” she whispered, her gaze distant, “then Sentinels are like their dogs. Sometimes, they treat them with kindness, even affection. But they can also sell them, or sacrifice them, whenever the need arises.” Patricians, for all their power and wealth, squabbled amongst themselves, their conflicts often demanding Sentinel lives. A shepherd, she likened it, sending their loyal dog to face wolves, while they themselves remained safe behind a stone wall. Her face, usually a mask of gentle endurance, was etched with a desolation Lysander had never witnessed. “Lysander,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, “do you want to live with me for a long, long time?” “Yes,” he breathed, a knot tightening in his chest. “Then you must hide this power. Else, they will come and take you away. You will never see me again.” “I promise!” he vowed, a desperate certainty in his young voice. “I won’t use it in front of anyone!” Eight years spun by since that solemn pledge. Even after her cough grew worse, after the blight claimed her body, Lysander kept his word. He lived on Whisperwind Peaks, a solitary shepherd, avoiding the city, refusing to become a Patrician’s loyal hound. — “Fools.” Lysander’s lips thinned as he slammed the cabin door shut. A fresh gust of wind, laden with the scent of damp earth and distant pine, rattled the wooden frame. Morning had barely broken when the village’s younger men, their faces flushed with misplaced outrage, had pounded on his door. Old Thane’s death, days ago, was clearly the work of a Blight-spawn. Yet, they insisted Lysander had killed the old man, offering him to the corrupted beast. Absurd claims, born of fear and ignorance. Their true motive was transparent. When Lysander next descended for trade, they’d try to shortchange him, twist prices. A common tactic. He’d taught them a lesson with his fists this morning, sending them stumbling back down the icy path. He knew he’d do it again if needed. A sharp rap echoed on the door, startling him from his thoughts. Not the hesitant knock of a lost lamb, but a firm, almost commanding rhythm. Lysander let out a slow, deliberate breath. “Who in the blazes is it now?” His voice was a low growl, edged with irritation. “Do you want another taste of mountain hospitality?” Had they truly forgotten the sting of his knuckles so quickly? Standing on his threshold, however, was not a belligerent villager. A man, perhaps in his late forties, cloaked in dust-caked wool, offered a tentative smile. His eyes, though tired, held a surprising depth. “Ah… my apologies, young friend,” the man said, his voice a gravelly rumble. “A traveler, seeking a brief respite from the wind. It seems I’ve chosen a poor moment.” A traveler. Lysander, in his eighteen years, had never encountered such a person. His mind briefly stalled. Someone with leisure enough to wander to such a forgotten place. He stepped back, a flicker of curiosity outweighing his ingrained caution. “No, not at all. Come in. Merely some unpleasant business earlier.” His formal tone, learned from his mother for addressing elders, felt alien on his tongue. When was the last time he’d spoken like this? Before he’d realized the villagers were mostly self-serving dolts, no doubt. “With your leave, then.” Strictly speaking, he should have sent the stranger away, preserved his isolation. But a profound loneliness had settled in his bones. Even a brief, peaceful conversation felt like a desperate need. Besides, if this man proved malicious, Lysander felt a dark confidence he could handle him. “Have you eaten?” Lysander asked, gesturing to the small table. “Not yet.” “Nor have I. Join me.” He set out their simple fare: freshly churned sheep’s milk, hard cheese, porridge made from dried grains, a chunk of rock salt, and dried lamb jerky. His mother had taught him well: even in poverty, treat a guest with the utmost hospitality. It built a silent bond, discouraged harm. “Little to offer in this poor place,” Lysander muttered, pushing the platter forward. “What nonsense! This is a feast! Thank you for your generosity.” It wasn’t empty praise. The man ate with a hunger that spoke of long travel, yet his manners were impeccable. He chewed in silence, turned his head slightly when he drank the milk, gestures Lysander had never seen from a villager. Perhaps the traveler noted Lysander’s similar habits. After a long sip, he offered a kind observation. “You possess fine table manners. Your parents must have raised you with care.” “My mother taught me.” A brief hesitation from the traveler, who seemed to notice the absence of a father in Lysander’s words. “And… is your mother in the village? This house suggests a solitary life.” He must have seen the single bed, the sparse furnishings. Lysander nodded, his voice steady. “She passed from the blight a few years ago.” The traveler’s face clouded with sympathy. He bowed his head, performing a strange gesture with one hand, tracing a symbol in the air. A sign Lysander had never witnessed. “My deepest condolences. To have raised such a fine young man, she surely dwells in the celestial halls with the Ascendants.” “I hope so.” Once, the mere thought of her had brought a storm of grief, ruining his appetite, clouding his days. To speak of it now, with a quiet smile, did it mean he had grown into an adult? Or had the steady march of time dulled the sharp edges of her absence? A sudden wave of gloom threatened to engulf him. He changed the subject sharply. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a remote place?” “I passed through a town near Veridian, and heard an old woman lamenting a new Blight-spawn terrorizing her flock. A corrupted creature, wolf-like. She spoke of needing a Cinderkin to deal with it. I decided to offer my aid. I’m quite proficient in such matters.” “Alone?” Lysander’s brow furrowed. The man looked to be past his prime, his back perhaps a touch stooped, without so much as a proper blade. He planned to face a Blight-spawn alone? The sheer absurdity of it made Lysander stare. An awkward smile touched the traveler’s lips. “I am a Sentinel. I served House Valerius for sixty years. Most Blight-spawn pose little threat to me.” At the word ‘Sentinel’, Lysander’s entire body tensed. A creature of his mother’s warnings, a living tale from a world he had only imagined. His breath hitched. But the man’s gaze held no malice, only a gentle weariness. Lysander felt the rigid tension in his shoulders slowly ease. He watched the stranger carefully. “Is something amiss?” the traveler asked. “It’s just… my first time meeting a Cinderkin. And you don’t look like you’ve worked sixty years.” “We Cinderkin age more slowly, live longer than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five this year. For a Sentinel, I’ve aged fairly, but I’ve heard powerful Patricians can easily live two or three centuries.” Lysander, hearing this for the first time, felt a profound shock. He observed the man, a distant echo of his own kind, with renewed intensity. Outwardly, Kael seemed ordinary, robust, certainly healthy, but not overtly magical. No overt signs distinguished a Cinderkin from a commoner. This was vital. It meant Lysander could walk through a crowded Veridian street, as long as he kept his power contained, and no one would know his secret. A heavy chain, binding his chest for years, seemed to loosen its grip. “Being a Cinderkin is truly incredible.” “Incredible? Not at all! I find people like you far more incredible. To live in such a harsh land, where Blight-spawn now appear, without relying on hidden power? I cannot fathom such strength.” Lysander shook his head. “This is the first time a truly dangerous Blight-spawn has come so close. Not since I was born. My mother… she was the incredible one. Raising a child on this desolate peak, without any power.” “Now that I think of it, I haven’t introduced myself properly. My name is Kael. Kael of Valerius – though I suppose that title no longer applies. Just Kael the Wanderer. And you are?” “Lysander. Shepherd of Whisperwind Peaks.” “That is a fine name.” Kael smiled warmly. “You mentioned you ‘served’ a noble house. You no longer do?” “I officially ended my vassal contract a month past. House Valerius offered to see me to my grave, but… I wished to travel. See the world. After all, I’ve been tied to a single house since I was hired at fifteen.”

A Spark in the Quiet