A heavy quiet pressed down. Lysander felt the weight of it in his chest, a dull ache beneath his ribs. Kaelen watched him, gaze unwavering, after the raw truth of Lysander’s Cinderkin blood had spilled into the night. What words could clear the air? Should he apologize for the very essence of his being, for the lineage that pulsed with forbidden power? That felt absurd. He had never met the ancestors who warred against Kaelen’s kin, never bore arms in their ancient feuds. Yet, to feign ignorance, to act as if his heritage carried no weight, felt like a hollow lie. His abilities, the searing flame and shaping earth, were born from that very ancestry. To claim the power without acknowledging its shadowed past seemed cowardly. Moments stretched into an eternity. Lysander focused on a speck of dust dancing in a stray moonbeam, anything to avoid Kaelen’s piercing stare. Suddenly, Kaelen’s hand clapped onto his shoulder, a surprisingly firm grip. “Don’t look like you’re staring into the Abyss, boy! You weren’t part of those old wars, were you?” Lysander wanted to retort that Kaelen, with his grim lines and tired eyes, looked far more like one facing the void. But the words caught in his throat. He just nodded, once. “Meaningless,” Kaelen continued, his voice softer now. “Pointless for the young to carry the burdens of their elders. Blood for blood, it never ends. And always, the quiet folk, the common citizens, pay the price.” A bitterness still clung to Kaelen’s tone, refusing to fully dissipate. “Do you regret it?” Lysander asked quietly, finally meeting Kaelen’s gaze. Kaelen frowned slightly. “Regret what?” “Urging me to leave my seclusion. To come to Veridian.” Lysander knew. If he were to truly embrace his Cinderkin power, to step into the world beyond his mother’s hidden glade, it would mean openly acknowledging his heritage. Veridian, with its ancient, crumbling hierarchies, had long viewed the Cinderkin as a threat, a potent enemy from a forgotten age. A powerful Cinderkin joining the city’s defense, or worse, its leadership, could unravel generations of wary peace, a fatal blow to the established order Kaelen served. Kaelen shook his head. A slow, deliberate movement. “No. I trust your character. You welcomed a stranger. Revealed a secret kept hidden for years, just to help me. If a man like you, Lysander, with your Cinderkin gifts, were to join Veridian… rise within its ranks… perhaps you could prevent another war. Another horrific blight upon this land.” Lysander felt a jolt of disbelief. Kaelen was overestimating him wildly. He had helped Kaelen because his mother had taught him compassion, because he craved conversation with someone not openly hostile. He had intervened when Kaelen faced death simply because he enjoyed their talks and didn’t want to see a rare connection severed. Had Kaelen been cold, distant, Lysander would have likely left him to his fate. His gaze fell to the ground, lost in thought. Kaelen noticed. “Still,” he chuckled dryly, “no need to weigh the fate of empires just yet. You haven’t even decided to come to Veridian, have you?” “Not really.” The thought of wandering, hunting blight-corrupted creatures like Kaelen, held a strange appeal. He didn’t particularly want to be tied down. Such a life promised to show him more of the world than his glade ever could. Besides, the stories of Veridian, of its past dealings with his ancestors, had left a lingering animosity in his heart. “For now,” Lysander decided, “I’ll stay until your wounds are healed. Plenty of time to think then.” Kaelen waved a dismissive hand. “Wounds? Just a few scratches, boy, hardly worth mentioning!” His laughter, though a little strained, filled the small dwelling. --- While Kaelen’s aches faded, Lysander found himself drawn to his mentor’s vast knowledge. His own command of flame and earth had been raw, instinctual. He realized how much he lacked. “Aetheric power,” Kaelen began, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “often gets called the ‘Key to Omnipotence.’” “Omnipotence…” Lysander echoed, intrigued. “A grand title, but misleading. It’s not truly omnipotent. To achieve significant feats, a proportional expenditure of aether is always required. You’ve likely felt this, yes?” Lysander nodded. The draining exhaustion after unleashing the true heat of his flame, or shaping stone on a grand scale. “What determines that proportion?” This was the core question that had always gnawed at him, the riddle behind his own fluctuating reserves. Kaelen cleared his throat lightly, then held up three fingers. “The difficulty of any act of aether-weaving hinges on three primary factors: Bloodline, Mastery, and Causality.” Bloodline, Mastery, Causality. Lysander etched the words into his mind, silent and focused. “First, Bloodline. This is your innate potential, inherited through generations. It doesn’t apply to a normal legionary, for example. Consider your own strength, Lysander. You command flame, earth. Yet… to heal my injuries, truly mend bone and knit flesh, would be… difficult for you?” “Impossible, I think,” Lysander admitted. “Precisely. Others, say, the Wellspring Kin from the southern coasts, they possess the Healing Bloodline. Without training, they can mend minor wounds. The strongest among them can reattach severed limbs, purge all manner of disease. For someone outside that bloodline, even with a lifetime of study, such power remains largely out of reach. That’s Bloodline.” A pang hit Lysander’s chest. His mother. If he had possessed such a bloodline, if he could have healed her… But the thought was a phantom limb, an aching regret for what could never be. He bit his lip, pushing the useless sorrow aside. “And Mastery?” he asked, forcing his voice steady. “Proficiency,” Kaelen clarified. “It means a weaver finds it easier to perform actions they’re familiar with. A mage who often spars with a blade might more easily conjure an ethereal sword, or harden his own. One who spends hours swimming might find it simpler to breathe underwater through aetheric manipulation.” “My habit of throwing fire like stones,” Lysander mused, “does that fall under Mastery?” Kaelen grinned. “Sharp, boy. Exactly. Had you merely willed a flame to appear, it wouldn’t have possessed that same speed, that raw impact. Your body, your instincts, already know how to throw.” Lysander understood. His experience fighting the undead spirit, the way his flame had struck with familiar force, now made perfect sense. Kaelen’s smile faded, replaced by a slight frown. “The third factor, Causality, is the most vital, and ironically, the most abstract. Truth be told, even I haven’t fully grasped its depths. Simply put, it’s about how ‘natural’ an event is. The more natural, the less aether required.” Kaelen stroked his chin, clearly searching for the right words. “Imagine you tried to kill me, right now, with pure aetheric force. What do you think would happen?” “Your head would glow. Maybe flicker. Nothing else,” Lysander said, recalling the strange resistance he’d met when first trying to target the blight-creature. “Precisely. That’s a lack of Causality. Either there’s no proper ‘cause’ for the desired outcome, or the task itself is too difficult, too unnatural. In your theoretical attempt to kill me, both would be true.” “I think I understand the ‘cause’ part.” “Explain it.” “Yes. If I wanted to kill you, I couldn’t just expend power and vaguely wish for your death. I’d need to provide a cause. Create a fireball, then throw it. Creating and launching a fireball is more ‘natural’ than just willing you to die.” This was the exact inference he’d drawn after fighting the undead spirit, shaping its essence into a projectile. Kaelen clapped his hands, a sound of genuine admiration. “Excellent! You possess the mind of a scholar, boy, not just a weaver. A proper cause significantly reduces aether consumption. You grasp this intuitively.” Lysander considered this. “But why then, can I casually dispatch wolves, even mountain cats, with a direct spell, yet blight-creatures need this ‘causal’ approach?” He’d never had trouble with regular animals, often felling aggressive ones with a swift, direct burst of flame. The resistance from the undead spirit had been a new, unsettling experience. “Creatures that possess aether develop a resistance to direct manipulation, proportional to their own inherent power. This is especially true for blight-corrupted beings. However, if you manifest a complete spell – a fireball, a rock shard, a tendril of flame – and make physical contact, you bypass much of that resistance. Of course, if the disparity in power is too vast, the spell still fails, but that’s another matter.” Kaelen further explained. This was why Lysander’s flame had immediately incinerated the undead spirit, while Kaelen’s own direct spells had been nearly useless. Directly attempting to manipulate a powerful aether-weaver’s body, for example, was practically impossible. Lysander pressed his temples. A dull throb had started behind his eyes. “Magic truly isn’t simple, is it?” “A truly powerful weaver isn’t just someone with boundless aether. Understanding the principles, knowing your limits, adapting to your surroundings… all equally crucial.” Lysander closed his eyes, replaying Kaelen’s words, turning them over in his mind. Then, one question surfaced, something he hadn’t thought to ask. “My Cinderkin bloodline,” he said, opening his eyes. “Does it have specific elemental skills, beyond flame and earth?” Kaelen had mentioned acute senses, keen night vision, and exceptional aim as Cinderkin traits, but none seemed directly magical. Kaelen nodded. “Indeed. Cinderkin weavers excel in Concealment and Tracking. Have you ever tried either?” “Tracking, a few times,” Lysander admitted. He’d used it to check on his mother, to follow wolf packs, even to locate Kaelen when he was injured. “Never Concealment. No need to hide in the glade.” “Try it,” Kaelen urged. “Many with an aptitude for aether can weave basic illusions of invisibility, but the highest level of Concealment, the total removal of oneself from perception… that’s exclusive to your Cinderkin heritage.” Lysander focused. He wished to be unseen, unheard, his scent utterly masked. Power flared within him, a familiar burning draw. It rushed through him, consuming his aether at an alarming rate. He looked down. His hands, his form, appeared unchanged. He lifted a brow at Kaelen. Instead of answering, Kaelen stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, sweeping the area where Lysander had been. “Did it work? Are you still there, boy?” Lysander rose from his seat, walked silently around the small room. Kaelen’s gaze remained fixed on the empty space where Lysander had been. Lysander stomped lightly on the floor. Snapped his fingers inches from Kaelen’s ear. No reaction. No recognition. Satisfied, Lysander released the spell. The aetheric drain ceased, and Kaelen’s eyes snapped into focus, glaring directly at him. Kaelen let out a long, slow breath, like air leaking from a punctured lung. “That… it’s been too long since I saw that. Still as terrifying as the stories. During the Purge, Veridian’s sentinels would pray for daybreak. By morning, barracks often held only corpses, throats slit, without a sound, without a trace.” “That… that seems incredibly unfair,” Lysander whispered. It was a terrifying power, far beyond the simple healing he’d once wished for. How could anyone fight an enemy they couldn’t even perceive? Kaelen shook his head. “No power is invincible, Lysander. Not even that.”

Of Ash and Shadow