The stone spoke to Kaelen in a language of pressure and patience.
His calloused fingers traced the hairline fracture snaking through the granary's foundation block. To Master Corbin's old eyes, it was a flaw to be chipped out and filled with mortar. But to Kaelen's touch, it was a story. A tale of shifting earth, of a winter's freeze too deep, of a weakness waiting to spread.
He glanced around the evening square. Empty. The village of Oakhaven was shutters-closed against the chill, smoke curling from hearths into a violet sky. Alone, he could risk it.
He placed both palms flat against the cold, rough granite. He closed his eyes, pushing away the world—the scent of woodsmoke, the distant bleat of a goat—until there was only the feel of it. The deep, humming stillness within the stone. The Aether-Weave, Master Corbin called it in hushed tones, when he spoke of it at all. A secret energy most men were deaf to.
Kaelen listened. He found the discordant note, the pinch in the weave where the fracture lay. He didn't force it. He didn't command. He asked. A gentle push of will, a visualization of the crack sealing, the grains of rock knitting back together as if years of stress were rewound in a single breath.
A warmth spread from his chest, down his arms, into his hands. It was a draining feeling, like carrying a heavy load up a hill. Under his palms, the granite grew subtly warmer. When he opened his eyes, the fracture was gone. Not filled. Healed. The block was whole, as if it had been quarried that way.
A sharp intake of breath behind him shattered the silence.
Kaelen spun, heart hammering against his ribs. Old Man Hemmet, the baker, stood frozen, his flour-dusted apron glowing in the twilight. His eyes were wide, fixed not on Kaelen, but on the perfectly mended stone.
"Witchcraft," Hemmet whispered, the word a cloud of frost in the air. He backed away, making a warding sign with his fingers—the spiral of the Sacred Flame. "I knew it. I saw you last week, with the well-stone… Corbin always was too soft."
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Kaelen. "Hemmet, it's not what you—"
"The King's Knights hang men for less, boy," Hemmet hissed, his fear twisting into a venomous triumph. "They cleanse abominations. I'll have a full silver crown for reporting a Weaver." He turned to run, to raise the alarm.
A shadow detached itself from the doorway of the mason's workshop. Master Corbin, a hulk of a man even in his sixties, moved with a quiet speed that belied his age. He caught Hemmet's arm, his voice a low rumble like falling gravel.
"You saw a boy doing his chores, Hemmet. Mending a wall. Nothing more."
Hemmet tried to pull away. "I have eyes, Corbin! The stone… it flowed!"
"The light plays tricks at dusk," Corbin said, his grip tightening. His eyes, usually warm with humor, were flat and hard. He pulled Hemmet closer, his voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. "And if you speak of this, to anyone, who will believe you? A flour-brained baker against the word of the village mason? And what will I say of your secret? About where the missing tax grain really went last harvest?"
Hemmet's bluster vanished, replaced by pallid fear. He looked from Corbin's impassive face to Kaelen's terrified one. The fight drained out of him.
"A trick of the light," Hemmet mumbled, nodding too quickly.
Corbin released him. "Aye. A trick of the light. Now get home to your oven."
Hemmet scurried away without a backward glance, melting into the gloom of the lane.
Silence returned to the square, heavier now. Kaelen couldn't meet his master's eyes. "I'm sorry. I was just…"
"Careless," Corbin finished, his voice weary. He walked to the granary wall and ran his own hand over the mended stone. A profound sadness crossed his face. "The gift is a tool, Kaelen. Not a toy. It must remain hidden. Always."
"Why?" The question burst from Kaelen, fueled by years of suppression. "Why is mending a thing of evil? I could strengthen every wall in the valley! I could—"
"Because fear is a stronger force than gratitude," Corbin interrupted, his gaze lifting to the darkening peaks of the Ironveil Mountains. "The world has forgotten the true songs of earth and sky. It now only listens for the clash of steel and the crackle of the flame they worship. Our kind… the Weavers… we are relics of an older world. And relics are either venerated in a tomb or smashed to dust."
He turned back to Kaelen, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You have a greater talent than I ever did. But talent without caution is a death sentence. Promise me. Promise me you will be careful."
"I promise," Kaelen said, the words tasting like ash.
Corbin nodded, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. He looked once more toward the mountains, as if expecting a storm. "Good. Now go inside. The real work is done. We have a threshold to carve tomorrow, the old-fashioned way."
As Kaelen followed him into the workshop, the mended granary wall stood behind them—a perfect, secret monument to a power the world was no longer meant to see. He did not know that far to the south, a different kind of fire was moving. One that did not warm, but consumed. One that sought out such secrets not to hide them, but to erase them forever.
And it was coming north.