Leaving the cellar hideout the next cycle felt like willingly stepping onto cracking ice over a bottomless lake. Every shadow seemed to hold a Crimson Hand thug, every distant clang of metal sounded like an approaching patrol. Rhys moved with heightened vigilance, his Echo Sense stretched taut, reading the energetic currents of the Lower District alleys and sewer tunnels, guiding Boulder along the most obscured, least-trafficked routes towards Kaelen's forge. The air itself felt charged with suspicion.
They spent nearly an hour observing the area around the forge from concealed vantage points before deeming it relatively safe to approach. No obvious Hand lurkers were visible, but the usual flow of scavengers and street dwellers seemed thinner, more cautious. The rhythmic clang of Kaelen's hammer against steel, however, remained a constant, reassuring sound amidst the tension, the plume of smoke rising from his chimney a familiar landmark.
Rhys waited for a lull in the hammering, when Kaelen paused to examine a piece of glowing metal held in long tongs. He approached the open forge entrance, Boulder remaining a few paces back, watchful. Kaelen glanced up, his expression unreadable behind the grime and sweat, but his eyes held a flicker of unsurprised recognition.
Rhys didn't waste time. He knew his position was precarious. He hadn't had the opportunity or safety to scavenge for the physical resonant materials Kaelen valued since their escape from the Weaver ruin. All he had was potential, information, and desperation.
"Master Kaelen," Rhys began, his voice low and steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in his limbs. "We survived the deeper tunnels. Found sections… untouched since before the Sundering. Weaver construction." He deliberately used the term, watching for Kaelen's reaction. "The energy signatures there… different. Cleaner. More stable than anything topside. Specific materials too – alloys that hum, crystals holding pure resonance." He described, vaguely but accurately, the types of energy and materials he'd sensed in the Creche, careful not to mention the Guardian, the nexus, or the datapad directly.
"Getting back there is… complicated right now," Rhys continued, choosing his words carefully. "But the potential value is immense. I need supplies to survive long enough to plan a return. Food, oil, more of your salve. And continued training." He met Kaelen's gaze directly. "I offer knowledge of the location, the types of resources available, and a firm marker for a significant share of whatever resonant materials I can retrieve when I eventually go back. Help me survive, and those materials become accessible."
Kaelen listened intently, setting his tongs down, his usual grumpy demeanor replaced by a focused intensity. The mention of 'Weaver construction,' 'clean energy,' and specific resonant properties clearly struck a chord. He wiped sweat from his brow with a soot-stained forearm, his eyes scrutinizing Rhys, weighing the offer, the risk, the potential reward. He likely knew Rhys was holding back details, but the confirmation of accessible Weaver resources was apparently tempting enough.
"Danced with shadows deeper than the Hand, boy," Kaelen finally grunted, his voice raspy. He turned, rummaging through crates behind the forge, pulling out a standard ration pack, a flask of oil, and a fresh pot of the pungent healing salve. He pushed them towards Rhys. "This buys your marker. Don't make me regret it."
His gaze hardened as Rhys took the supplies. "But you listen close," he said, his voice dropping lower, more serious than Rhys had ever heard it. "Weaver tech… it ain't just metal and energy. It's more. It leaves echoes. Not just Aetherium, but echoes in the mind, in the soul. It changes things. Changes people." He paused, his eyes distant, haunted for a moment. "Knew a prospector once. Found a Weaver compass, they called it. Pointed towards energy pockets. Made him rich finding resonant nodes." Kaelen's gaze returned to Rhys, sharp and warning. "Then it started pointing… inwards. Showed him things inside himself. Things best left buried. Last anyone saw him, he was wandering the Ash Plains, talking to the dust, eyes burned white."
The story, brief and grim, sent a chill down Rhys's spine. Kaelen clearly knew the dangers intimately. "Some knowledge," Kaelen continued, "ain't worth the price of digging it up. Some doors are best left sealed." He didn't ask about the datapad Rhys suspected he sensed, but the implication was clear. "Rule of the depths, boy: Be harder than the trouble you find. Or get crushed by it."
The subsequent training session was the most grueling yet. Perhaps fueled by Rhys's survival or the potential of Weaver materials, Kaelen pushed him relentlessly. The stances were held until Rhys's vision greyed out, the breathing exercises felt like they would rupture his lungs, and the impacts from the conditioning bags left bruises blooming even through the layers of Kaelen's potent salve. Rhys endured, drawing on every ounce of his improved resilience, focusing not just on the physical pain but on Kaelen's cryptic advice. Temper the energy like you temper steel. He tried to apply it, meeting the pain not with resistance, but with controlled acceptance, using his breathing, his focus, even his circulating Aether, to manage the internal reaction, to remain centered amidst the agony. Kaelen watched closely, his expression unreadable, but Rhys thought he saw a flicker of something – not approval, perhaps, but acknowledgement – in the blacksmith's eyes.
As Rhys gathered the precious supplies, ready to leave, Kaelen added one final piece of gruff guidance, almost an afterthought as he turned back to his forge. "That 'tempering'," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hammer, "ain't just for Aether or muscle. Applies to your focus, your will. Raw energy's like a wild beast. Needs a strong hand on the reins, a clear channel, or it runs rampant, burns you out from the inside. Like forging," he brought the hammer down on a piece of glowing metal with controlled force, "can't shape the steel if the fire's uneven or your hammer strike wanders. Clarity. Control. Or you're just making scrap."
Rhys nodded, absorbing the words. Vague, metaphorical, yet resonant. It reinforced the need for mental discipline, for mastering the internal landscape as much as the external Aether. Leaving the relative warmth and acrid smoke of the forge, Rhys felt physically battered but mentally sharper. Kaelen had given him a crucial lifeline – supplies and continued training – but also heavier warnings and deeper mysteries. The blacksmith knew far more than he let on, about the dangers of the past, perhaps even about paths like Aetherium Weaving. The immediate crisis of supplies was averted, but the core problems – the locked slate, the Crimson Hand, Sera's impossible demand – remained. The next, most dangerous gamble loomed: returning to the spider's parlor, the Undermarket, to confront Sera Bellweather.