Darkness. The smell of damp earth and old turnips. The world was a tomb, sealed shut by the slab of his master's workbench. Kaelen huddled in the absolute black of the root cellar, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that sounded obscenely loud in the silence.
Silence. That was the worst of it.
After the initial cataclysm—the shriek of dying stone, the roar of his master's power, the final, sickening crunch—there had been nothing. No shouts. No clash of steel. Just a heavy, oppressive quiet that pressed in on his ears. It was the silence of a grave.
He didn't know how long he sat there, knees pulled to his chest, trembling uncontrollably. Time lost all meaning. Visions flashed behind his eyes: Old Man Hemmet's fearful face, the green light dissolving the watchtower, Corbin's stony, resolute expression as he made his last stand. Your only duty is to survive.
A new sound finally pierced the numbness. A slow, methodical crunch… crunch… crunch… from the workshop above. It was the sound of heavy, armored boots walking through debris. Kaelen held his breath, his heart hammering so violently he feared it would betray him. He heard the low, sizzling hum of the Blight-Knights' power, a faint but menacing whisper now, like a serpent coiled in the room above.
They're still here. Looking.
He heard a voice, filtered and distorted by a helm. It was flat, devoid of emotion. "The Weaver is ash. The source is muted. But the residue is strong."
A second voice, higher-pitched, replied. "The quarry, then. The Heartstone is in the mountains. This one was just a guardian. A sentinel."
They're talking about Master Corbin, Kaelen realized with a fresh wave of nausea. He was just a 'residue' to them.
"Search the structure," the first voice commanded. "The master seeks any fragments of the old lore. Burn what remains."
The crunching footsteps moved away, toward the living quarters. Kaelen heard the splintering of wood as chests were smashed open, the clatter of tools being swept from benches. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to any god that might be listening that the hidden cellar would hold.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, a boot stepped directly onto the stone slab above his head. Kaelen froze, every muscle locked. He could feel the vibration through the earth. The knight stood there for a long moment. Kaelen imagined a helm with a glowing green slit, scanning, sensing. Could they feel the Aether-Weave around him, even now? Could they smell his fear?
The sizzling hum intensified, directly overhead. A few particles of dust sifted down onto his face. They were testing the slab. His hand flew to the runestone around his neck, clutching it like a lifeline. It felt warm against his skin.
Then, the hum faded. The bootsteps moved away. "Nothing," the second voice called out. "This place is dead stone."
Soon after, the sounds of the knights faded completely, replaced by the distant crackle of fire. They were burning what was left of Oakhaven.
Alone again in the suffocating dark, the reality of his situation crashed down on him. He was buried alive. The weight of the entire workshop, of his dead master, of his entire dead village, seemed to press down on him. Panic clawed at his throat. He was trapped. He would suffocate here, a forgotten secret in a tomb of his own making.
No.
The thought was quiet but firm, cutting through the panic. It was his master's voice in his memory. The stone speaks in pressure and patience. You must listen.
He was a Stone-Singer. Or he was supposed to be. He couldn't just die in the dark.
Taking a deep, steadying breath of the stale air, he placed his palms flat against the earth wall of the cellar. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, the stink of terror in his own nose. He reached out with his senses, the way Corbin had taught him. He felt the cool, packed earth. He felt the deep, solid foundation stones of the workshop. And above, he felt the massive slab that sealed him in.
He pushed his awareness upward, through the stone. It was like trying to see through thick fog. But then, he felt it. A wrongness. A sickness. The area directly above the slab was… brittle. Corroded. The Blight-Knight's power had weakened it. It wasn't solid, whole stone anymore; it was a lattice of fractures, ready to collapse.
An idea, desperate and terrifying, formed in his mind. He couldn't lift the slab. It was too heavy. But he might not need to.
Focusing all his will, he poured his awareness into the damaged stone above. He found the largest fracture, a hairline weakness that the green magic had created. He didn't try to mend it. Instead, he did the opposite. He pushed.
He visualized the fracture widening. He poured his own energy, the warmth that flowed from his chest, into that single, fragile line. He asked the stone to separate.
A sharp crack echoed in the cellar, followed by a shower of dust and pebbles. A sliver of grey, smoke-hazed light pierced the darkness. He had done it. He'd broken the stone, but with precision, creating a narrow fissure just wide enough to squeeze through.
Gasping, he shoved the leather satchel through the crack and then hauled himself up, scraping his shoulders and back against the rough edges. He emerged into the ruins of his life.
The workshop was a charnel house of shattered tools and blackened stone. The air was thick with the acrid stench of the Blight and woodsmoke. He didn't look at the ashen, human-shaped stain on the floor near the doorway. He couldn't.
Stumbling to the blown-out doorway, he looked upon Oakhaven. Or what was left of it. The houses were smoldering husks. The bodies of his neighbors lay where they fell, covered in a fine grey dust. The world was silent, save for the mournful wind whistling through the valley. The knights were gone, a trail of destruction leading south, toward the heart of the Ironveil Mountains.
They thought they had extinguished the last spark of the old power here.
Kaelen stood in the ruins, the cold wind biting through his tunic. The runestone felt heavy against his chest, a dull, persistent warmth. He looked from the ashes of his home to the distant, unforgiving peaks.
They were wrong.
He was the spark. And he had a song to learn.
Pulling the satchel tight, he turned his back on the grave of Oakhaven and began to walk, not as a fleeing boy, but as an apprentice on his first, terrible assignment. The mountains awaited.