The glowing pebble became Kaelen's constant companion. Its warm, steady pulse was a tangible reminder of his breakthrough, a shield against the memory of the scorched stone and the seductive whisper. He carried it in a small leather pouch, and in the dark of night, he would take it out, its gentle light a private star that held the memory of Corbin's workshop and a world that wasn't broken.
For days, the Warden had him practice the Third Note. He communed with rocks of all kinds, asking a piece of flint to remember its sharp edge, a lump of clay to recall its plasticity. Each success was a delicate negotiation, a meeting of intentions that left him feeling more connected to the world around him than ever before. He was no longer a boy manipulating his environment, but a part of a vast, singing network.
It was during one of these exercises that the vision struck.
He was communing with a large block of sandstone, asking it to remember the cohesion of the ancient sea bed from which it came. As his consciousness merged with the stone's slow memory, a jolt—like a lightning strike—screamed through the connection.
Sight without eyes. Sound without ears.
A vast chamber, deep beneath the earth. The air hums with a power that makes the Sky-Anvil feel like a whisper. In the center, on a pedestal of living crystal, rests a crown. It is not made of metal or gem, but of woven, solidified light, threads of silver and gold spun into a circlet of impossible beauty. This is the Sun-Crown, the greatest artifact of the Age of Weavers, a lens that could focus the song of the entire world.
Then, a shadow falls. A figure approaches the pedestal. Not a Blight-Knight, but a man. A Weaver of immense power, his soul a dissonant chord of ambition and despair. He reaches for the Crown. His hands, unworthy, close around it.
A scream. Not a human scream, but the scream of the world. The woven light of the crown shatters, not into pieces, but into a thousand dissonant, screaming fragments. The backlash of power unmakes the chamber, unmakes the Weaver, and sends a shockwave of corruption through the very heart of the Aether-Weave. It is the First Blight. The origin of the silence.
Kaelen was thrown backward, his connection to the sandstone severed so violently he tasted blood in his mouth. He lay on the ground, gasping, the horrific symphony of the world's first wound echoing in his skull.
The Warden was at his side in an instant. "What did you see?"
"The… the beginning," Kaelen choked out, his body trembling uncontrollably. "It was a Weaver. One of us. He broke it. He broke everything." The revelation was a poison. The Blight wasn't an invasion; it was a disease they had given themselves. The enemy was not a foreign monster, but a reflection of their own failings.
The Warden's stony face was etched with a profound grief. "Iscarius," he whispered, the name a sigh of ages. "The brightest of us. He believed our song could be used not to harmonize with the world, but to command it. He sought the Sun-Crown to make his will law. In his unworthiness, he shattered not only the artifact but the balance of the Weave itself. The corruption born from his act is what now fuels the Blight you fight. Malakor is not the source. He is merely a vessel for Iscarius's ancient sin."
The truth crashed down on Kaelen, suffocating and absolute. How could he possibly mend a wound that was woven into the fabric of existence? How could his simple, clumsy hands be trusted when the greatest of his kind had brought about this ruin? The glowing pebble in his pouch felt like a mockery. He had been proud of creating a tiny light, while the original, world-spanning light had been shattered by a man who no doubt started with similar pride.
He scrambled away from the Warden, from the practicing stones, from the Heartstone itself. He stumbled to the edge of the Anvil, gripping the rock until his knuckles were white.
"All this time," he breathed, his voice ragged with despair. "I thought I was learning to fix what they broke. But it was us. We are the infection." He looked at his hands—the hands that had scorched the pebble, the hands that had caused a landslide. Were they so different from Iscarius's? "You're training me to hold a power that destroyed the world. How can you believe I am worthy?"
The Warden stood behind him, a monument to patience. "Iscarius was consumed by the question of 'can I?' He never stopped to ask 'should I?' You, Kaelen, are tormented by the question of 'should I?' before you even grasp 'can I?'. This is the difference. The unworthy hand believes it has a right to the power. The worthy hand trembles under its weight."
"But the weight is too heavy," Kaelen pleaded, the vision of the shattering crown burning behind his eyes. "I'm not a hero. I'm a mason's apprentice who is afraid."
"And that," the Warden said, his voice firm, "is why you are the only one who can possibly succeed. Iscarius sought power to escape his fears, to control the world so it could never hurt him. You seek strength to protect a world you know is fragile, because you feel your own fragility so acutely. You are not being trained to wield the Sun-Crown. You are being trained to be its antithesis. Not the hand that takes and commands, but the foundation that endures and supports."
The Warden placed a heavy hand on Kaelen's shoulder, forcing him to turn from the abyss. "The past is a stone that cannot be unmade. Iscarius's failure is a part of our song, a scar on the Weave. You cannot erase it. You can only sing a new, stronger melody over it. Your note of communion, your fear, your love for a simple, glowing stone… these are the first notes of that new song."
He gestured to the pouch at Kaelen's belt. "You asked a simple river stone to hold a memory of light, and it agreed. The world is full of such stones, waiting for a worthy singer. Iscarius broke one great light. Your task is not to rebuild it, but to light a million small ones. That is how the darkness is truly banished."
Kaelen looked down at the pouch, his breath slowly steadying. The vision of the shattering crown was still there, a nightmare etched into his soul. But superimposed over it was the warm, persistent glow of the pebble. The great light had failed. But the small one… the small one had not.
He wasn't Iscarius. His hands were unworthy, but they were willing to tremble. They were willing to try.
He met the Warden's gaze, the despair in his eyes receding, replaced by a weary, hard-won resolve. "What is the next note?"