The path to the aetherial outpost was a journey into a different kind of quiet. Unlike the desolate, bone-strewn ground of the Wailing Barrows, the land here was lush and green. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. This was a place of wild, untamed aether, a natural hub for mages who practiced the quiet, restorative arts. As Mehandi approached, however, the vibrant energy of the land faded, replaced by an unsettling, almost painful silence.
The outpost itself was a marvel of aetherial architecture. Buildings of moss-covered stone were woven into the forest, and ancient trees served as the framework for living homes. It was a place where life and magic were one, but now, it felt like a corpse. There were no lights in the windows, no smoke from the chimneys. The aether-veins that should have pulsed along the stone and trees were dark, dead lines.
Mehandi entered the main hall, his aetherial senses extended like a second skin. He found no bodies, no signs of a struggle. The mages were simply gone. Their possessions were left untouched. It was as if they had simply vanished into thin air. He knelt, placing his palm on the stone floor, reaching for the lingering aetherial echo, but he found nothing. The outpost had not been destroyed; it had been drained.
A chill ran down his spine. This was a new kind of enemy. Not one of destruction, but of negation. Someone had figured out how to drain aether, to sever the connection these mages had to the earth itself.
He followed the dead aether-veins to a central chamber, where a small, silver-filigree device sat on a pedestal. It was humming, a low, barely perceptible sound that resonated on a deeper, magical level. It was a suppressive field, a magical siphon that was slowly draining the aether from the entire area. A single figure, a man in the rich, elegant robes of a merchant guild, was tending to it, his hands glowing with a cold, precise magic.
He turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw Mehandi. "You're the ghost. The Volkov with the sun in his hands." He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "My masters were wise to send me. They knew you would come looking."
Mehandi didn't move. "Where are they?" he asked, his voice low.
"They are where they belong," the mage said, his smile widening. "Quiet. Their magic, however, is a very valuable commodity. This device is the key to our future. We will not be at the mercy of the aether, we will control it." He gestured to the device, and the humming intensified, a cold wave of energy washing over Mehandi.
Mehandi felt his own aether-veins flicker. This man wasn't a necromancer; he was a parasite. He was not just trying to steal aether; he was trying to neutralize it, to make it as rigid and controllable as mana.
The merchant mage launched a bolt of cold, gray magic toward him, a spell designed to deaden his connection to the earth. Mehandi didn't dodge. Instead, he reached out with his mind, not to the land, but to the stars. He called upon the primal, untamed aether of the cosmos, the source of his own resurrection. It was a dangerous, volatile power that he had never fully commanded, but there was no other choice.
A shimmering, blue light erupted from his body, a chaotic, powerful force that the merchant mage's magic could not touch. The light surged outward, a tidal wave of living energy that slammed into the siphon. The filigree on the device sparked and cracked, and the suppressive hum gave way to a powerful, resonant hum as the device began to overload.
The merchant mage's eyes widened in horror. "What have you done?" he shrieked. "You don't understand that power!"
"No," Mehandi said, his voice a low growl. "But I do know how to listen to it."
The siphon exploded in a silent, blinding flash of pure aether. The merchant mage was thrown backward, his robes singed, his face a mask of fear. He fled into the forest, a broken man. Mehandi, however, was left standing over the ruined device, a small, silver insignia from the merchant guild's crest now on the ground before him.
He picked it up, feeling its cold, mercenary magic. The mages had not been killed; their auras had been siphoned into this device, their power stolen, not destroyed. This was not just a conflict of power, but a war for control. The aether was not an untamed wildness to be respected, but a resource to be exploited. Mehandi had his proof, but he also had a chilling realization. He was not just fighting for his name; he was fighting to keep magic itself from becoming a commodity. The war was far from over.