The icy water dispelled the weight from his exhausted muscles. Men were creatures of habit, and training after waking had become a fierce one indeed. But it felt good, to once again make use of his body. The soreness in his arms and legs, tendons and ligaments were a sign – a message from his body that he had improved.

He watched the clear beads of water trail down his bare skin like rubber tires, giving him goosebumps. Keter narrowed his eyes, pulling his muscles taut, squeezing every fiber. The magic swelled up within himself, manifesting itself in form of imagery, sensation, motion. It felt like he was pulling a thousand bowstrings, drawing them back until they almost snapped. Ready to shoot out in any direction if he only released his control over them. He started trembling, as if the stress would tear him apart. The power kept building and coiling inside him like the white-hot blaze of the smith’s furnace. ‘Now!’ he thought and with an involuntary spasm of his hand, he released his mantra and every drop of water instantly hissed and fled in a great steaming mist.

He growled lowly, slowly pushing his smoking breath into the cool morning air. It had taken him many attempts, but he was starting to get the hang of using his magic. It would take many more if he wished to become truly efficient. Keter knew he had the upper hand in speed, and there were no limits to how he used his magic, unlike the others. But he lacked volume. The amount of power was equal to how much he could store in his body.

“Unless…” He whispered. Unless he drank Virrah’s blood. For whatever reason, he could hold more magic then. Should he ask her? Would she comply? He blew out his cheeks and started his walk back to the Hospit.

He was greeted inside by the thick smell of leftover broth, fresh bread and boiled eggs. Mouth watering, he almost choked it down, driven by a nearly insatiable hunger as was always the case after using his magic. There was a thirst, too. But not one for water.

The day started leisurely, spending his time with Virrah as she lectured him on plants and herbs, potions and concoctions, history and politics, nature and wildlife. Her knowledge was like an ocean without bottom, blue and vast and seamlessly blending with the sprawling sky. There was more than Keter could ever take in.

“Silva has done well teaching you, Virrah.” Keter remarked. She smiled in the way she always did when the talk was about her mentor.

“She is the oldest and wisest in the whole of Hollow’s Maw, Master Maker. Perhaps even in the whole Cradle.” She said, referring to the circling mountain range enclosing the multitude of villages. Not a day went by without Keter wondering what laid beyond those gargantuan piles of grey rock.

“The only person near her age is probably the Elder Shaman, is it not?” Keter said distractedly, fumbling with a flower’s stalk. Virrah bit her lip, which meant she was thinking deeply, trying to recall some distant bit of knowledge.

“No,” She shook her head, a curtain of white hair gently swaying with the movement. “As far as I’m aware, the Elder Shaman is not very old. In fact –” Her words were cut short by some commotion, rumbling in the distance and slowly loudening as it neared. There was a yelp, then Keter heard the front door swung open.

Another person might have remained seated, might've awaited whatever would happen, they might try their luck. Not Keter; he knew lady luck to be a fearsome slut. He was behind the doorframe before his next breath of air, now flowing so serenely. His ready fingers were folded around the knife, hanging eagerly at his waist. Teasing like an impatient child. Daring like a bold friend. Urging, not unlike the addict’s desire.

The first person inside the room was a fur-clad man. Keter waited. The next was a woman quickly followed by a young girl, and the Maker drew from the corner's gloom, the sharpened steel in his pale fist. He glanced at Virrah, to gouge whether he should retaliate against the newcomers. But her mannerism appeared calm, recognition lighting her eyes. He realized his face was straining. Keter stretched his jaw, then relaxed his jaw and eyes, showing now what he hoped was a more human expression.

"Welcome, Elder Hunter." Virrah said, conveniently explaining to the Maker who this stoic man was.

Grog choose to remain silent, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. His heels scuffing the floorboards, dragging some stubborn dirt around. He was ridden with filth. Mud on his pelts, twigs in his hair, leaves to his sleeves, and carried the stench of sour sweat.

“Where is the Master?” He asked, voice husky and grating as if he’d just ran a great distance. “The Master Maker.” He continued, breathing loudly through his flaring nose. “We need him to hear this.”

“Hear what?” Keter’s voice trailed from the darkness and had the gathering flinch – even Grog who was said to know no surprise. Seemed he was just a man after all.

“Master Maker.” Grog said before bowing curtly. His companions followed the gesture, though deeper than him. They also stayed down for longer. One, he already knew though she now walked with a slight limp. It was Hesh – Grog’s promised. The other was a young girl Keter had some faint memory of seeing around at times, yet he could not recall a name. Just when he lost interest in her, his eyes caught a dissipating bruise on her collarbone. The next glance showed some scabbed scrapes along her forearm.

“There is news, urgent telling, from beyond Hollow’s Maw.” Grog said, eyes hard and red and tired.

Virrah stepped forward, her apron skidding the floor gently as it swayed. “If it is urgent, best you tell of it soon, then.” She did not have the patience for drawn out pleasantries. Something Keter could appreciate.

A pull at grog’s eyebrows showed he wanted to object. “Should we not wait for Hawk?”

Keter shook his head. “He can hear of this later, if need be.” Keter was already surprised the Elder Shaman was not the first to hear of this.

The hunter pursed his lips and seemed to think it over, working his fingers in an involuntary habit. “Yes.” He finally said. “Let’s talk now.”

Keter gestured him to start as he walked back to his chair and seated himself. The leader sits. The subject stands. This was a simple thing.

“The messengers I had sent to our closest neighbours have not returned after two weeks, when the time to travel to there and back for either team is about nine days.” He blew it all out in one quick breath and jumble of words. Virrah looked put-off, yet not really shocked. Keter glanced at the hunter’s two companions, at their expressions so he could gauge how he should respond. What face should he make? What emotions should he show? He did not know. He choose to remain indifferent.

“And? What does this mean?” Virrah asked so Keter did not have to.

“It means.” A gravely voice echoed from the hall. “That they’ve either died or decided to join the other villages rather then return to us.” A moment later Silva entered the room, arched over her cane. Grog’s eyes narrowed, flaring hate and suspicion. Hesh and the girl made room for the Owl to enter undisturbed.

“Silva.” Keter smiled thinly. “I have not seen you in some time. I was almost worried.” That was a lie, but if the Elder Owl realized, she did not say. Instead she returned the smile, although wider and showing a flash of teeth and gum. She smelled of strong herbs and potent oils. Much like Virrah, only more pungent. A heavy waft of it came breezing through the room with her entry.

“My apologies, Master Maker. Unfortunately, when one reaches my age, they require much rest.My room offers this in abundance, you undoubtedly see. I hope you had no need for my presence in this time, and that my pupil was sufficient in her aid.”

“Virrah’s attention was without flaw.” Keter responded simply. It was true, and the pupil brightened upon hearing it.

“Still ‘Virrah’?” The owl muttered, thinking her voice too low for Keter’s ears to pick up. He ignored it.

“Well, Elder Hunter?” Keter asked, turning back to the sturdy man and pulling him from his glaring, which took some apparent effort.

“I,” He fumbled, “Cannot be certain what really happened, Master Maker.” He shot another wrathful eye at Silva. “But I can say that they would never delay their return out of their own free will.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Keter asked.

“Either the other villages have denounced your existence, Master Maker, declaring open war on Hollow’s Maw.” He paused. “Or they have been attacked by some manner of beast on their travel, both on the direction of Rohm, as Sihn’s domain.” Both North and South, thus. Keter had already known Hollow’s Maw to be located on the left side of the Cradle – this being a mountainous ring, encircling the area at large. Within this ring was another mountain circle, from which Keter had emerged.

The Master Maker said nothing, and so silence claimed its dominion over the gathering. There were many things to consider, even whether he should care at all. If the others had challenged him, why should he react?

Something heated inside him, then jittered across his waiting body, like a million ants beneath the skin. The warmth rose until it burned inside him like a hungry flame, begging to be fed, to be released, to destroy and do what it was meant to do.

The answer was simple. “Then we too shall attack.” Keter found himself hissing, venomous enough to make the ones closest recoil. The wind outside pressed upon the Hospit, causing it to growl like a tortured beast.

Grog swallowed heavily. “How would we go about that, Master Maker?” He asked nervously. “They have numbers equal to our own, and – “

Virrah raised her hand, interrupting the hunter. “Master Maker pardon my intrusion, but we don’t even know for certain that the other clans are at fault. Perhaps our village members have been taken by whatever was the cause for the hunter named Bale’s disappearance. Perhaps something else came up. I don’t think that…” she caught herself, then. Any more would pose too much weight on her leash – on her pillar of servitude. Too much and it will crumble. A thing she understood.

But she was right. Keter checked himself, cooling the fury within. Ignoring that familiar desire he was so close with. Closer then friends.

“You’re correct, Virrah. Information is what we need now, before anything else.” He noticed Silva nodding contently. Keter paused to ponder, a dozen roads and avenues of action sprawled and crawled before his mind’s eye. But which one to travel by? “I will organize a scout party, made from your elite hunters, Grog, and we will search for the origin of our issue.” He had decided.

The Elder Hunter pursed his lips, eager yet uncertain. Keter spoke up before the man could say anything.

“Don’t worry, I will ask for the Shaman’s advice before we partake in this excursion. But, for now, start rounding up and preparing the necessary men. We don’t need many, no more then eight, really. Too many men, and the number will give away our presence. I plan to leave in some days.” Grog nodded slowly, taking in all of the Master Maker’s orders and intel. “Before that, though, I plan on introducing your men to some new techniques, as well as getting a feel for their current skill level and abilities.”

He nodded again but frowned slightly. Not surprising since the skilful hunter would not assume the Master to have more experience then him or his men. Keter wouldn’t be training them to hunt, though. Their training would be in the tact of warfare. Same outcome, similar ways, different mindset.

“As you wish, Master Maker.” Grog said, his doubts barely contained. Keter waved him off, then nodded at the women.

“And who are they?” He asked. “Why did you bring them?”

Hesh flinched slightly, but the other girl did not react. She stared at her feet – eyes downcast.

“Oh, sorry.” The hunter mumbled. “This is my promised, Hesh. She will become my fourth wife.” He said simply. “And this is Pech, Bale’s daughter. Well…” He scratched his head somewhat awkwardly. Keter noticed Virrah’s intent stare on the girl.

“She’s without succour, now. Her mother died past winter from the chills, and her father is probably dead too. If I can’t find him, it can only mean that.” He explained matter-of-factly. No pride to it. “The Tabernacle doesn’t accept girls inside, and she’ll only get in the way with the hunters the way she’s now…” He looked down on her impassive frame, dead-eyed, empty-eyed, hollow-eyed.

“So, you want to leave her here, in my Hospit?” Silva groaned, shuffling forward slowly. Not any less threatening for her cumbersome steps with that fierce gaze. “She’ll only get in the way here too, Hunter. Don’t you see?” And the rumbling began. They squabbled about responsibility, leadership, obligation. Keter ignored them.

Virrah was plucking at the hem of her apron, deep in thought. It was rare for her to disagree with Silva for one. And to not support her was a true rarity. Intrigued, the Master leaned in closer and then asked in a low whisper. “You want her to stay?”

Her eyes flashed up guiltily, then down again, fumbling at the fabric. “She could maybe help us around, or give some clue as to what had happened to her father, so we can prepare against a possible threat…” She could not lie for the life of her. Whatever her reason, she wanted the girl to stay. Why, would give some insight to who Virrah really was. Just a puppet, pulled around by Silva’s whims and desires? An easy vessel for Keter to pour all his expectations and orders into? Or something else? Something autonomous? Know not only your enemy, but also your ally for your back is more vulnerable than your shield. If she even was one that is. Keter figured this was the first step into finding this out.

“She can stay.” Keter’s voice cut through the boiling argument like a heated blade through the pig’s fat. Silva stopped mid-sentence in her barrage of words too complicated for Grog to comprehend half of.

“Master Maker?” She asked, struck with confusion. He gestured at Virrah.

“While you were discussing among yourselves about a proper solution, Virrah here has explained to me the benefits in allowing Pech to stay.” He announced, coldly staring the others down.

Grog stumbled, blinking and then looking away ashamedly. Hesh could not control a shiver from vibrating across her skin. Silva pressed her pale lips into a thin line, peering at Virrah. The silence seemed to have manifested with an almost physical weight of its own, pressing down on the Maker’s underlings. Silva was the first to concede with a smile pointed at Virrah.

“Yes,” she then said, “I understand, now. Good work Slickleaf.” Keter observed her behaviour and found that the acknowledgement was honest, for whatever reason. Why?

--The Frontier City Of Solace--

Rin walked through the long halls, a frantic display and array of light dancing around the group of young men and woman she was joining that day. The rays’ bending was the work of Haliera, who’s blessing was the Glowfix – the ability to bend and form light as she wished. She had the habit of doing this to a subtle extend unconsciously. Today, however, the sparkle and wonder seemed more brilliant than ever.

“Don’t you see?” She said excitedly. “Vindict has found a connection to the ‘tower murder’ and ‘Gon’s eternal sleep’!” Haliera was, very much like most noble girls, bored most of the time. Which meant she took particular interest in any distraction that presented itself at that moment in time. For now, this was the streak of murders occurring in the Frontier City. Even if the Tower murder’s victim was related to her own family.

“And he even suggests another connection with the unsolved case of ‘Mallah’s disappearance.’ All instances where no one survived to witness. Where there were no indicting clues left behind. Where the political, economical and social world has been shaken each time.” She was gushing out her words, the light now a purple fixed inside a deep pink, twirling, flashing brightly.

“Be careful,” Severan said, joy written in his bare eye. The other covered by a piece cloth only the wearer could see true. This was done with all men blessed with a mantra. “You are really taxing your gems. Especially now the magic current runs thin.” He gestured at the air around him, as if the powers were a thing one could see. Haliera shrugged carelessly, her staple white dress lined with a swirling glow.

“I have enough of them,” Her hair swayed, and the gems accentuating her auburn locks tinkled jubilantly. “And a Howling is soon to come anyway.”

Jafier, a tag-along friend of Severan, raised his brow. “Really? Is that what the scholars have surmised from their calculations?”

“It’s what I say.” Haliera responded airily. “I can feel how the fresh magic will soon flood the city, filtered by the Wall’s Great Wards. Right, Brother?” She turned to Severan. They were siblings of the house of Gough - an old, industrious one at that, focused on commerce and fair wares rather than military or political power.

Severan shrugged. “I can’t really feel any of that. My breath just feels short, like I’m breathing through cloth. Only, well, I’m not really breathing it at all.” Absorbing magic was described differently by almost each person.

“I wonder how that expedition will be dealing with future Howlings.” Fina spoke out, her blue dress glittering with immaculate thin sheets of paper metal. “I, for one, wouldn’t want to be out when the Fog starts rolling in, swallowing everything.” She shuddered, and Jafier laughed.

“Have you ever even seen a Howling?” He snickered again, only louder. “I bet you even believe in the Whispers, don’t you? The monsters within the Mists?”

“I have seen it!” Fina objected stricken. “I had been walking on the Higher Walls when they came up to the stone base, absorbed by the Wards written in the brick.”

“And did you see any monsters?” He asked, smirking.

“No,” She admitted, pouting.

“But!” and her eyes lit up. “They say the monsters only appear when people are out in a Howling.”

Severan scoffed. “What fool would go out in a Howling to prove this to be true? Even farmers hide in their Warded homes when the Fog comes. Monsters or no, the mirage of magic messes with people, killing them or worse.” Fina looked at him, wide eyed and not holding a little fear in her beating heart.

“Worse?” She asked quietly.

But Severan left it at that. To speak of these things was bad luck, for life and commerce. Rin did not know which one he found more important. Whichever it was, Severan would not be jeopardising it.

“Anyway,” Haliara said to fill the sudden silence. “We were talking about the tower murderer. They gave him a name.”

“Really?” Jafier asked. “What dare they name a one so undoubtedly skilled in his blessings?”

Rin felt a tug at her dress, a light blue lined with silver. Instinctively, she slipped from the group and drew into the shadows of an adjacent room. The name did not matter to her; it held no value. She looked down, her eyes breaking through the gloomy dark, and noticed the servant child that had pulled her there.

“Hey, there.” She said, frowning when it wasn’t who she was expecting. “Who might you be?” She had to be fast and return to the others before they realized she was gone. Not something that would be happening incredibly fast, but still.

“Terris told me you’d pay for information?” He said in a hushed tone.

Again, she frowned. Terris was not supposed to tell other people this, especially not unknown children. Her network of information was based on servants and maids, lords and ladies, merchants and bums. But only people she trusted. Or those whose behaviour she could predict, at least. If word got out she was tugging the web of rumours and facts, soon the spider within would catch her.

“Why?” She asked.

He shuffled nervously, dragging his feet along the stone tiles, scratching his neck, forming a rash from the habit. “I worked for the Mons family before… Before Revan Mons was killed in his high tower, and my brother - a servant there - too.” Rin blinked.

“Oh,” She stammered. “I’m… Sorry.”

The boy shook his head. “Don’t be.” He mumbled, clutching his shirt into his little fists.

Rin’s hearing easily picked out the distant footsteps as her entourage wandered further away. She fetched a pig coin- the second piece in value – and held it before the child.

“Alright, if you tell me something good, I’ll give you this.” The boy perked up upon seeing the shining piece of metal, stamped with the Great Iron River’s likeliness.

“I saw the killer!” He blurted out. Rin paused, mouth agape.

“Wha-”

“In the pale moonlight!” He continued, his near silent tone gone. “Not his face, but I saw gems glowing all over his body, hidden with a mantle that drifted like mist in the night!” She coughed, blew out her cheeks and then sighed.

“So, you didn’t really see him? His face? Something else? Something I can use?”

The boy pouted. “No,” he admitted. “But, he flew! Right up the wall! Didn’t think any of it, thought it was me seeing things, or maybe a moon spirit. But, when I heard about the murders…” He trailed off. Rin sighed again, then pressed the coin into his hands anyway.

“Here,” She said. “Now when you see Terris, give him a good beating for me, will you?”

The boy frowned, quickly stuffing the pig away in some hidden pocket as if someone would come by right then and snatch it.

“Why?”

Rin smiled. “Just do it, but explain it was my saying after you’ve done it, Okay?” The boy thought on it, but then nodded.

“Okay, Mistress Rin.”

She curtsied at him, and he awkwardly tried responding, before she ran back to the others. They hadn’t drifted far off. She slid back into the group, still so deep in discussion about the killer.

“Hey, Rin.” Severan said, smiling at her and drawing closer. A bit too close for her comfort. But she had started expecting this from the handsome heir. Terris had already told of the young lord’s many ventures with maids and ladies.

“Did you know they named him The Whisper’s Wisp?” He asked, his voice like honey.

“No.” She said politely, suddenly realizing she hadn’t asked the boy’s name, then.