A chill wind, smelling of damp earth and the distant decay that clung to Veridian’s edges, bit at Lysander as he stepped into the tavern. The Copper Kettle hummed with a low, boisterous energy, a stark contrast to the quiet dread that often stalked the city’s blighted alleyways. Lanterns cast a warm, shifting glow across worn wooden tables, illuminating faces etched with hard living and faint hope. He found a secluded corner, the shadows a comfortable cloak against curious eyes. Elara, a young woman with nimble hands and a perpetually tired smile, brought him a mug of watered ale and a plate of whatever stew remained. “First time in Veridian, stranger?” Her voice was soft, laced with the city’s familiar melancholy. Lysander offered a slight nod. “Passing through.” He kept his gaze on his ale, the copper-stained liquid reflecting the dim light. “Heard talk of… trouble outside the walls. Afflicted creatures.” Her smile faltered. “Always trouble, sir. The blight creeps closer every cycle.” She wiped down the table with a practiced, absent gesture. “If you’re looking for a bounty, the Curia handles it. Ask for an Arbiter, they’ll set you straight.” She eyed his simple traveler’s clothes. “Though most folks don’t go looking for more trouble than they already have.” Curia. Arbiter. The words tasted foreign on his tongue. He pictured a grand, decaying structure, much like Veridian itself, struggling to maintain order over a populace slowly losing its faith. He thanked her, the words a low murmur. The information was enough for now. “Say, oppa, you’re not one of those… Scourge Strikers, are you?” Elara leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Those who chase the blight, thinking it’ll turn them into a Mage?” She gestured vaguely towards the door. “A daft superstition, if you ask me. Seen too many good folk go out, never come back.” Lysander’s fingers tightened around his mug. He knew of the whispers, the desperate hope that some tangible power could be gleaned from the decaying magic of the blight. A fool’s errand, he thought, when true power lay within. He shook his head, a subtle motion. “Just curious.” --- A sudden shift in the tavern’s atmosphere. The door swung inward, admitting a gust of cold air and four figures who moved with a rough, confident swagger. Leading them was a man with a grizzled beard and eyes that held a surprising, fiery spark despite the weariness etched around them. Kael, Lysander gathered from the excited murmurs. “Elara, girl! A round for my men!” Kael’s voice boomed, cutting through the general din. His companions, broad-shouldered and armed with a mismatched collection of spears, axes, and heavy clubs, laughed. They were hunters, he realized. Blight hunters. Kael clapped a hand on Lysander’s shoulder. His touch was heavy, calloused. “Heard you asking about the creatures, lad. Don’t tell me, another one chasing the truth?” He leaned in, a conspiratorial grin splitting his face. “They say you can seize the blight’s essence, become a Mage. It’s not just talk, I tell you. I’ve seen it.” Lysander flinched, a flicker of heat stirring beneath his skin at the unwarranted contact. He shifted, subtly dislodging Kael’s hand. “Just listening.” Kael merely chuckled, undeterred. “Aye, listening leads to understanding. The Mages, they siphon the beasts’ strength. So can we. It’s simple logic.” He gestured to his crew. “We’re Scourge Strikers. Hunt these afflicted things to carve out a better future.” “Three down, we are!” one of Kael’s men boasted, thumping his chest. “Almost there, hyung-nim!” another chimed in, grinning broadly. Three? Lysander considered the shambling, volatile monstrosities he’d faced in the Ashfall Wastes. Beasts that could tear apart a dozen armed men without a second thought. These men seemed… eager, yet naive. “Three creatures?” Lysander’s voice was barely audible above the rising chatter. “Has one of you… awakened then?” A ripple of laughter swept through the small group, joined by a few patrons nearby. “Awakened? Not yet, lad!” Kael slapped his thigh. “If one of us had the Gift, you think we’d still be scrounging for coin in this dust bowl? Veridian has four Mages, no more. The Lord and his three Wardens. That’s it.” Lysander’s brow furrowed. Four Mages for a city of thousands. The imbalance was staggering, a gaping wound in the city’s defense. He thought of the boundless magical energy he could command, the raw power hidden beneath his skin. How different these men’s struggles were from his own burden. Kael glanced at Lysander’s simple satchel, then to his empty hands. “No weapon, lad? You’re not planning to chase anything without a blade, are you?” Lysander reached into a hidden pouch, pulling out a crudely carved flint striking-stone, a tool for starting fires, its edges honed sharp from use. It looked insignificant, a child’s toy compared to their crude metal armaments. Surprisingly, Kael’s men leaned in, examining it. “A flint-striker? For slinging stones?” one asked, a glint in his eye. “Seen old foresters use those. Good for small game.” “What size rocks you throw?” another inquired, rubbing his chin. “Fist-sized, sometimes smaller,” Lysander replied, his voice flat. He felt the subtle hum of fire in his palm, an instinct to reshape the very stone into something deadly. He suppressed it. “Enough to crack the skull of a Blight-Hare, or a carrion-vulture,” Kael mused, nodding. “The smaller ones. Those that twist from common animals.” He turned back to Lysander. “Say, we’re looking for another hand, a marksman. Want to join us? Could use your eye.” Lysander shook his head. “No. My path is… different.” He couldn’t risk exposing even a fraction of his true abilities, nor did he seek the meager bounties these men chased. Their quarry was small, their ambition misguided. Kael shrugged, a hint of disappointment in his clear eyes. “A shame. But the offer stands, if you change your mind.” He turned to his men, a new round of ale arriving. “To the hunt, lads! To the Gift!” Lysander finished his ale. He took his room key from Elara, the small, cold iron comforting in his palm. He climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, the muffled roar of the tavern fading as he reached his small, cold room. --- Moonlight, thin and pale, seeped through the grimy windowpane, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. Lysander lay on the rough cot, listening. Voices drifted up from below, distorted by the wooden floorboards. “Hyung-nim, why bother with that scrawny runt? Didn’t look like he could heft a proper axe.” One of Kael’s men, his voice thick with ale. “Barely looked sixteen. A strong wind would blow him away.” Another snorted, contempt clear in his tone. The words were familiar, the disdain a common refrain from his youth. Lysander felt no sting, only a quiet sigh. Then Kael’s voice, lower, tinged with a weary understanding. “Ah, leave it. Reminded me of my own foolish youth. Going out there with nothing but a dream. He’d last a day. A kindness, offering him a place, even if he didn’t take it.” “Too soft, hyung-nim.” “Perhaps.” Kael’s voice faded into the general tavern noise. Lysander closed his eyes. The world was full of shadows, yes, but even in the deep dark, small embers of kindness sometimes glowed. --- Next morning, the smell of damp earth had intensified, carrying with it a faint, sickly-sweet tang of decay. After a sparse breakfast of hard bread, Lysander made his way to the Veridian Curia. It stood at the city’s heart, a once-proud structure now scarred by age and neglect. Its grand facade was cracked, gargoyles leering from dislodged cornices. The inner halls, though bustling with citizens, felt hollow, echoing with faded authority. He navigated a heated argument between two merchants over a water-rights decree, the babble of petitioners, and the weary sighs of scribes. Eventually, he found a small, cluttered office marked “Blight Warrants – Arbiter Jarek.” An older man with tired eyes and a perpetually sour expression looked up from a stack of scrolls. “Another one. What do you want?” Jarek’s tone was sharp, his gaze dismissing Lysander as another hopeful fool. Lysander kept his face impassive. To reveal his power would bring unwanted attention, perhaps even demands. To portray himself as a common Mage would invite endless questions. Best to be unremarkable. “Bounty information,” Lysander said simply. Jarek grunted, pushing a grimy scroll across the desk. “Don’t touch it, just read. And bring it back.” The scroll detailed various blight-creatures: their appearances, observed behaviors, typical haunts, and the coin offered for their demise. Weaker, less aggressive beasts required live capture. Truly dangerous ones, those that preyed on humans, demanded a corpse – proof of kill. Lysander’s eyes skimmed the stark lines of script, each word a chilling testament to Veridian’s encroaching peril. “And listen well,” Jarek added, his voice low and serious. “If you kill a blighted thing, bring the remains back. Even if you don’t claim the bounty. The Wardens need to dispel its essence. Leave a corpse to rot, and the blight can fester, coalesce into something worse. An Ash-Shade. A blighted husk.” He fixed Lysander with a stern look. “Abandoning remains is a capital offense. Clear?” Lysander nodded, remembering the things that had stalked the Wastes, twisted by residual magic. The warning resonated, pressing down on him with a heavy weight. He understood the potential for corruption. “These seem… beyond the capabilities of most citizens,” Lysander observed. “Don’t the Wardens hunt them?” Jarek barked a laugh, humorless and sharp. “Wardens? Their duty is law and order, defense against external threats. These… pests? That’s for you drifters, the desperate, the foolish. We barely have enough to patrol the walls, let alone chase every rabid beast outside.” His gaze sharpened. “Unless you’re offering to join the city guard?” Lysander felt a knot tighten in his gut. The city’s neglect, its inability to protect its own, stirred a familiar bitterness within him. He simply shook his head, pushing the scroll back. His eyes landed on a particular entry. — ***Cinder-Wing*** A raven, feathers fused into jagged, obsidian shards, sharp as knives. It can shed these feathers as projectiles, deflecting arrows, and often swoops from the high spires to snatch away dogs or unattended children at the city’s fringes, scattering their bones beneath the blight-scarred trees… — Lysander left the Curia, the image of a child-snatching Cinder-Wing burned into his mind. The sun, a pale disc in the polluted sky, offered little warmth. He walked, the city’s grand thoroughfares giving way to narrow, grimy streets, then finally to the crumbling outer districts. The buildings thinned, replaced by gnarled, skeletal trees and the encroaching wildness, heavy with the blight’s oppressive presence. ‘Start here,’ he thought. The Cinder-Wing. A clear threat. He needed to find it. He closed his eyes, drawing on the deep well of earth and flame within him. A subtle tremor ran through the ground, a spark flickered at his fingertips. He sought to extend his senses, a delicate probing through the very stone and ash. Not for life, not for raw magic, but for the corruption, the twisted imprint of the blight on living things. A focused sense, seeking the specific signature of the Cinder-Wing. Instead, a cacophony. The pervasive hum of the blight itself, an endless, droning discord that permeated the earth and air. Every twitch of a blighted root, every rustle of diseased leaf, every scuttling insect infused with subtle, dark magic, screamed for attention. The vastness of the corruption, its omnipresence at the city’s edge, was overwhelming. His senses reeled, a searing headache blossoming behind his eyes. ‘Too much,’ he thought, pulling back sharply, severing the connection. The air felt heavy, stagnant. Pinpointing one specific blighted creature amidst this pervasive rot was like finding a single, ash-covered ember in a raging inferno. A different approach was needed. He opened his eyes, determination hardening his quiet gaze.

Whispers of Stone and Ash