The whisper followed him.
It was not a sound, but a pressure at the back of his mind, a cold spot in his soul. Every time his hunger gnawed too sharply or his weariness threatened to buckle his knees, the memory of that seductive, easy power would surface. It was a poison, and the blighted land was a festering wound inviting him to drink.
He survived on lichen scraped from rocks and the occasional handful of snow from a shaded crevice. His body grew thinner, his cheeks hollow. But the runestone's pull grew stronger, a counter-melody to the land's dissonant hum. He was getting closer.
On the fifth day, the character of the mountains changed. The tortured, grey slopes gave way to sheer cliffs of a darker, bluish granite. The air, while still thin, lost its stale quality. Here, the Blight's touch was lessened, as if the ancient stone itself had resisted the corruption. The song of the earth was still faint, but it was cleaner, a single, pure note held against the silence.
He found the path at dusk. It was not a trail made by men or animals. It was a natural seam in the cliff face, a series of ledges and handholds that spiraled upward with an unnerving symmetry. It was a path made by time and intention, a staircase for a giant. And at its base, half-buried in the scree, was a standing stone.
The stone was twice his height, worn smooth by wind and rain. Carved into its surface was a single, complex rune. It was the same rune that was etched on Master Corbin's stone. As Kaelen approached, the runestone against his chest flared with a warmth that was almost hot. The standing stone seemed to hum in response, a low, welcoming vibration that he felt in the soles of his feet.
This was a marker. A gateway.
He began to climb. The way was treacherous, the holds slick with frost. Without his innate sense of the stone, feeling for the most secure grips and the strongest ledges, he would have fallen a dozen times over. It was as if the path itself was testing him, ensuring only a true Stone-Singer could pass.
As he neared the top, the wind died away. An unnatural stillness settled over the mountain. He pulled himself over the final ledge and stood, his breath catching in his throat.
He had found it. The Sky-Anvil.
It was not a forge of fire and metal. It was a vast, flat circle of obsidian-black rock, nestled in a natural amphitheater of towering peaks. The stone was perfectly smooth, as if polished by a divine hand. In the very center of the circle stood the Heartstone.
It was a pillar of crystalline rock that pulsed with a soft, internal light, waxing and waning like a slow, steady heartbeat. Thrumming lines of silver energy—the visible flow of the Aether-Weave—ran through the black floor, all converging on the central pillar. The air hummed with power, so potent and pure that it made the hairs on Kaelen's arms stand on end. After the dead silence of the blighted lowlands, it was like stepping into a cathedral of living sound.
This was a place of creation. A wellspring of the power he wielded.
He stumbled forward, drawn to the Heartstone like a moth to a flame. As he stepped onto the black rock, a wave of energy washed over him. The grinding fatigue, the deep ache in his bones, the throbbing in his head—it all melted away. It was like drinking deeply from a cool, clear spring after a lifetime in the desert. He felt strength flooding back into his limbs, his mind clearing for the first time since Oakhaven.
He was home.
He reached out a trembling hand to touch the Heartstone.
"Do not."
The voice was not loud, but it resonated through the stone beneath his feet, vibrating up through his bones. It was a voice of grinding rock and shifting continents, ancient and immense.
Kaelen snatched his hand back, spinning around.
A figure stood at the edge of the Anvil, where moments before there had been only empty air. It appeared to be a man, but one carved from the mountain itself. His skin was the color and texture of weathered granite, and his long hair resembled strands of fossilized moss. His eyes were chips of solid obsidian, reflecting the pulsing light of the Heartstone. He held a staff of unadorned, dark wood that seemed to be a single, gnarled root.
"This is a place of balance, child," the figure said, its voice echoing not in the air, but in Kaelen's mind. "To touch the Heart directly in your state would be to be unmade. You are a vessel, cracked and empty. To pour the ocean into a cracked cup is to lose both."
"Who are you?" Kaelen whispered, his own voice tiny in the vast space.
The being tilted its head. "I am the Warden. I have slept, guarding the Weave, while the world below forgot its song. I felt the great sickness. I felt the hammer fall upon the anvil of this world." The Warden's obsidian eyes seemed to look straight through him, seeing the death of Oakhaven, the landslide in the Stonemaw, the terrified faces of the survivors. "And I felt you. A single, faint note, trying to hold the melody."
The Warden gestured with his staff toward the center of the Anvil. "Sit. The power here will restore you, in time. But restoration is not why you have come."
Kaelen sank to his knees on the warm, humming stone. The restorative energy seeped into him, but the Warden's presence was a weightier thing.
"The Blight…" Kaelen began. "The knights… they're destroying everything."
"They are a symptom," the Warden intoned. "A tool. They do not create the sickness; they merely spread it. They are drawn to places of power, like flies to a wound, to extinguish them. Their master seeks to silence the song of this world forever."
"Their master?"
"A being who has chosen the path of consumption," the Warden said, and for the first time, a flicker of emotion—a deep, cosmic sorrow—crossed his stony features. "One who listened to the whisper in the wounds, and found it preferable to the hard work of the song. You have heard it, have you not? The temptation?"
Kaelen nodded, shamefaced.
"Do not be ashamed. To feel the temptation is a test of your nature. You resisted. That is why you are here. Not because you are strong." The Warden leaned forward. "But because you are unbroken."
The Warden pointed his staff at Kaelen's chest, at the runestone. "Corbin was my last student. He was a guardian. You… you must be something more. The Anvil does not simply endure the hammer. It shapes the metal placed upon it. You must learn not just to withstand the Blight, but to reshape what it has ruined."
The Warden's obsidian eyes held his. "The power to mend a goat is a small thing. The power to mend a world… that is a song that has not been sung in an age. Are you ready to learn the notes, Kaelen, last of the Stone-Singers?"
In the pulsating heart of the mountain, surrounded by the pure, undiluted power of creation, Kaelen looked from the ancient Warden to the glowing Heartstone. He had come seeking refuge. He had found a purpose.
He met the Warden's gaze. "Teach me."