The_Aetherwright_s_Genesis

The rhythmic clang of Corvus's pickaxe against the aetherstone echoed through the quarry, a steady beat in the symphony of forced labor. He focused, letting the aether flow, a subtle current strengthening his swing, guiding his aim to the weakest points in the rock face. He wasn't brute-forcing it anymore. He was… coaxing it.

His output had noticeably increased over the past few days. Where he once struggled to fill half a crate, he now routinely filled one and was well on his way to a second before the midday meal. He knew he was walking a dangerous line, but the increased efficiency was… exhilarating. And necessary. The meager rations barely sustained him, and the extra energy he felt from weaving aether was a lifeline.

He chanced a glance at Brim and Krog. They were further down the line, their movements clumsy and inefficient compared to his. Brim, in particular, was scowling, his gaze fixed on Corvus. Krog, ever the echo, mirrored his companion's displeasure. Corvus quickly averted his eyes, focusing once more on the aetherstone. He had to be careful. Too much attention, and his secret would be exposed. And exposure, in Whisperwind Quarry, was a death sentence of sorts. Or worse, a life sentence of endless torment.

The midday horn blared, a jarring sound that signaled a temporary reprieve. Corvus wiped the sweat from his brow, the dust clinging to his skin like a second layer. He stretched, easing the ache in his muscles. He had to be more mindful of his movements. Overdoing it would only draw more eyes.

As he made his way towards the distribution point for the day's meager stew, he felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder. He tensed, instinctively bracing himself.

"Corvus," a gruff voice rumbled. It was Grok, one of the overseers. His eyes, hard and calculating, bore into Corvus. "You've been… productive lately." It wasn't a compliment. It was an accusation.

Corvus swallowed, trying to project the indifference Elara had advised. "Just trying to meet my quota, Overseer," he said, keeping his voice even.

Grok's grip tightened. "Quota hasn't changed. But *your* output has. Explain yourself."

Corvus forced a shrug. "Guess I'm just getting used to the work, Overseer. Finding my rhythm." He hoped the lie sounded convincing.

Grok studied him for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Corvus's hands. "Rhythm, eh?" He finally released Corvus's shoulder, but his eyes remained fixed on him. "Keep it up. But remember, no one gets a free ride in Whisperwind. If you're hiding something, I *will* find it." He punctuated the threat with a shove, sending Corvus stumbling forward.

Corvus righted himself, his heart pounding in his chest. He risked another glance at Grok. The overseer was watching him, a predatory glint in his eyes. He felt a chill run down his spine. Grok wasn't just suspicious; he was hunting.

He collected his stew, the watery broth doing little to settle his nerves. He spotted Elara near the edge of the mess hall, her expression unreadable. He made his way towards her, careful to avoid eye contact with Grok.

"Grok was talking to you," Elara said softly as he approached.

Corvus nodded, taking a slow, deliberate spoonful of the stew. It tasted like ash. "He's watching me."

Elara's eyes flickered towards Grok, then back to Corvus. "Be careful," she murmured.

"Easier said than done," Corvus muttered. He finished his stew quickly, the urgency of the situation robbing him of any appetite. He needed to find a way to mask his aether-weaving, to make it less obvious. But how? He had no idea.

The horn blared again, signaling the end of the break. Corvus braced himself. The afternoon would be long, and Grok's shadow would be hanging over him with every swing of his pickaxe.