Gideon Thorne cut a shadowed figure through the bustling crowd, his dark gaze fixed and brooding, his steps measured against the clamor of the cobbled street. Around him, the life of the city pulsed with vibrant ease. A tapestry of laughter, shouts, and the occasional crackle of flame as street vendors and passersby worked their elemental magics with the thoughtless grace of the gifted.
Across the street, a young lord darted ahead, his fine boots barely touching the ground. His nanny, harried but indulgent, trailed no more than two strides behind. The boy, no older than six, produced a tinder lighter with an air of practiced mischief. A flick of the device summoned a small, flickering flame, and with a sweep of his hand, he seized control of it. The fire leapt eagerly to his palm, growing and dancing at his whim, its glow illuminating his flushed cheeks.
But the flame grew too bold, too quickly. The boy faltered, and his nanny was upon him in an instant, her hand outstretched to snuff the unruly blaze. "Oh, young Lord Voss!" she exclaimed, her tone caught between alarm and delight. "You’re truly a natural! With practice, I’ve no doubt you’ll rise to the greatest of heights!"
Gideon looked upon the scene lifelessly. He remembered burning himself as a boy, his palms blistered and raw from endless, fruitless attempts to coax even the smallest ember to obey. The Fundamentals, they had called it. Magic so innate, so universal, that even the humblest chimney sweep could light his hearth without kindling. For Gideon, it had been a lifetime of failure, a stark reminder of what set him apart from the rest of humanity.
The young lord struck the tinder lighter again, the small device flaring to life in his eager hands. Gideon’s gaze lingered on it, sharp and unyielding. He blinked. A faint crack reverberated through the air as the mechanism twisted in on itself, its delicate gears and flint reduced to a shapeless, unrecognizable mass. It fell from the boy’s hands to the cobblestones below, utterly ruined.
Young Lord Voss stared at the broken device, his lip quivering in confusion, but Gideon had already turned away, his stride purposeful. The crowd swallowed him as he made his way towards the “Copper Kettle Coffeehouse” nestled between iron lamp posts. He sought the promise of warmth within, something he could not conjure in the hovel he called home. His stomach, empty and sullen, growled in anticipation of a meal he could barely afford.
They all carry easy smiles like fools, thinking a mere spark and flicker makes them powerful. Their candles flare, and their water flows freely based on just their intent alone. But they have no sense of force. They’ve never felt the weight of a world balanced on a pinhead. A finger snap, a blink of an eye– I could make them all dust. They float on the surface of magic, light as dandelion seeds. I am bound to the depth of it, and the depth is crushing.
The coffeehouse’s bells jingled as he stepped inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh bread washing over him. For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe, to loosen the tension that had gripped him since the morning. Gideon Thorne, the shadow among the gifted, sought not answers nor solace. He sought sustenance, and, perhaps, a fleeting respite from the unrelenting weight of his curse.
Keeping to a quiet corner of the coffeehouse, he sat in his usual spot beneath a cracked sconce where shadows cling to life. His order had been as simple as his means allowed–a crust of bread, a thin broth, and a lukewarm coffee that tasted faintly of burnt beans. As he ate, his heavy lidded eyes drifted over the room, observing but not engaging. This place had never required more from him than his coin and silence. Until now.
A patron’s voice sliced through the murmured conversations like a dull blade. Loud, self-assured, and with the tone that oozed ill-earned confidence, the man sat near the counter, gesticulating wildly as he spoke to a captive audience of two. Gideon couldn’t help but glance up, drawn by the grating arrogance of the scene unfolding in the small establishment.
The man was slightly above average in appearance, his posture straight, his fine coat dutifully pressed, likely by unseen and unacknowledged servants. Yet it was the way he spoke of his prowess that caught Gideon’s attention– the kind of self-satisfaction that came from someone who has been gifted more than he’d ever earned.
“You see, it’s all about control,” the man boasted, capturing a flicker of fire from a nearby candle, growing the flame tenfold with a small swirl in his palm, letting it dance lazily betwixt his fingers before snuffing it out with a snap. “A flick of intent, a bit of refinement. It’s hardly a task at all, really–just discipline. Anyone can master their Fundamentals if they aren’t a dullard.”
His audience of two politely chuckled, and glanced at one another with a raised brow.. Gideon ripped a chunk of dried bread from his plate, chewing slowly, his gaze colder than the broth. He could feel the weight of the patron’s arrogance pressing against the room.
“I suppose there are those who don’t even try,” the man continued, his tone turning sharper. “Those who lack the courage–or perhaps the talent. Pitiful creatures who scuttle about in the shadows, afraid to even grasp at greatness.”
Gideon froze mid-bite, his jaw tightening. The air in the room felt heavier, though only he could notice. The patron caught his eye, the flicker of discomfort visible for just a moment before arrogance stormed to the forefront of his facade once more.
“What about you, you shabby looking fellow?” the man called, loud enough for all patrons to hear. The coffeehouse became still. “You look the type to dabble in something… interesting. Or is it nothing at all? I’d wager even a child’s ember outstrips whatever pitiful trick you’ve got up your sleeve.”
The patrons of the coffeehouse watched this exchange, with quiet attention. Gideon said nothing. His hands rested on the table, steady but tense. His dark eyes flicked up, locking onto the patron’s smug face.
“I suppose it’s not too surprising,” the man continued, his words biting with a tinge of mockery. “Some people are simply born without a spark. No fire, water, or air–nothing but dead weight.”
The words hung in the air. Gideon’s unblinking gaze sharpened, his expression blank but his presence carried a suffocating aura, as if the air stood still.
“Say that again,” he said, quietly.
The patron gasped lightly, as if startled by the sudden words, then laughed. “Oh, the shadow has a voice after all? I said–”
Gideon blinked.
It was a simple act that transpired in a mere instant. Yet his focus bore down–not on the man, but on the delicate cup he held in his hand. The liquid pooled to the bottom of the cup, then rapidly exploded in a pressurized mist. The cup shatters, and the man flinched, staring at the jagged shards of porcelain biting into his palm.
“You filthy wretch!” the man spat, turning on Gideon with his face flushed with rage and embarrassment. “You think you’re clever? You’re nothing–less than nothing!”
Gideon stood slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. The room seemed to shift, as though the walls leaned in to listen.
“You float on the surface of magic,” he said, voice heavy, dripping with power. “But there’s no depth to you. Dead weight.”
His hand clenched into a fist. The effects moved faster than thought.
A creak and groan echoed from the beams above. Light-infused crystals swayed, then snapped from their posts. Plaster rained down. Screams followed.
Gideon stepped forward. Deliberate. Unhurried.
When he reached the threshold, he splayed his fingers and pressed both hands into the stone at either side of the doorway. The tiles blackened and warped beneath his touch, the heat and weight of his power sinking deep. Two handprints scorched into the foundation. Jagged and dark, like the earth itself had tried to anchor him in place.
His breath stayed calm. The pressure built.
The floor buckled. The walls groaned. A beam above cracked loose, dropping toward him, only to halt inches from his head.
Behind him, the coffeehouse collapsed.
He stepped out through the broken arch as the last of the ceiling gave way. Dust billowed into the street. He didn’t look back.
They had mocked him. They had provoked him.
And now, they were nothing.
By the time the rubble was cleared, only one survivor had been pulled from the wreckage, a child. No name given. No records found. Just two scorched handprints embedded in the stone threshold, like the earth had tried, once, to hold him back.
Some say it was sabotage. Others claim divine punishment from the Earth Totem.
Most don’t speak of it at all.
But in the darker corners of the Frontier, in towns where the lights flicker strange and the Totems hum wrong, they still whisper about the man who walked into the Copper Kettle and didn’t leave through the door.
They call him the Heavy Hand.