Synn’s body screamed. Every muscle knotted, every nerve aflame. The particulate matter, once an extension of their will, now felt like a heavy, unresponsive burden. Their focus fractured, unable to hold the delicate resonance needed to glide across the ash-seas. Strength had abandoned them. Manipulating the vast seas of fine grit, even just to ease the strain of walking, demanded a constant, deep well of concentration. Synn possessed a profound connection to the world’s scattered remnants, yet that well was finite. Now, it was dry. The ash beneath their boots no longer rippled or shifted at Synn’s subconscious command. Each step was a leaden drag, sinking deeper into the soft, unforgiving surface. Synn had never pushed to this absolute edge. Never truly known this level of bone-deep exhaustion. Ahead, Volkar moved with relentless, fluid grace. He did not pause. He did not glance back. His ancient, unblinking gaze remained fixed on the horizon, indifferent as the pale, sun-bleached sky. Synn refused to show weakness. The previous day’s failures, Volkar’s cutting dismissal – they fueled a low, simmering fire in Synn’s gut. Synn had gritted teeth, driven onward, step after agonizing step. But the body had its limits. The mind, too, began to fray. Legs gave out without warning. Synn pitched forward, a limp sack of bones and ash, sprawling face-first into the gritty expanse. A choked gasp escaped, lungs burning with the dust-laden air. Particulate matter coated Synn’s skin, filling the open maw. It tasted of nothing, yet felt like everything, a constant, gritty reminder of their predicament. Head buried, Synn panted, vision blurring. Someone approached from behind. Volkar’s shadow fell over them. Slowly, painstakingly, Synn pushed up, head lifting just enough to see Volkar looking down. There was no pity in that ancient face, only a cold, assessing scrutiny. “Wasted effort.” Volkar’s voice was a low rasp, like grinding stones. “Futile. Because you’re weak.” He settled onto the ash beside Synn. From a worn leather pouch, Volkar retrieved two pieces of dried, cured meat – some ancient, preserved protein. One, he put in his own mouth, chewing with slow, deliberate movements. The other, he tossed to Synn. It landed with a soft thud, a hand-span from Synn’s face. A silent command to get up, to eat. But Synn lacked the strength. Every muscle trembled, refusing to respond. Mouth parched, throat raw and dry, the thought of swallowing anything felt impossible. Eating the jerky in this state would be a challenge, a potential choking hazard. Without water, without rest, the harsh environment would claim them. Volkar understood this. He had seen it countless times. He continued to chew his jerky, eyes distant. “Old world was different. Soft. Survival was guaranteed, even for the feeble. Kindness wasn’t a disease. But the Great Erosion changed things. Now, it’s only the strong who stand. The weak… they feed the drift. You ache? You struggle? Die. It’s simpler.” Synn’s jaw tightened. A sharp, physical pain in the teeth. Volkar’s words were a blade, not of metal, but of chilling truth. Synn had encountered many before, in fragments of scattered groups, in momentary alliances. None had spoken with such brutal clarity. “If ease is your comfort, sprawl out. Become part of the ash. But if life claws at you, even through the pain… then you rise. Fool.” Silence descended once more. Volkar ignored Synn, his gaze sweeping the horizon as he slowly, meticulously ate. He hadn’t drunk water all day either, Synn realized. He chewed with a careful moderation, generating saliva, conserving moisture. The sepia light began to deepen. Twilight stretched long shadows across the dust-sea. Desert temperatures would plummet with the sun’s departure. Hypothermia, in this thin, dry air, was a swift killer. Synn knew this. *I won’t die. I cannot die.* Drawing upon a deep, primal reservoir, Synn pushed. Hands scraped against the ash, knees burned. A slow, agonizing crawl, a worm wriggling forward. Grit entered mouth, eyes, nostrils, but Synn ignored it. Reaching the jerky felt like summiting a peak. Synn opened a gritty mouth, stuffing the cured meat inside. Sand adhered to it, a gritty texture against the tongue. No matter. Each chew was a monumental effort, a dry, scraping sensation. But Synn persisted. Slowly, painfully, Synn swallowed. A small, almost imperceptible warmth spread in the gut. A spark. Vigor, a faint pulse, returned to the limbs. With the body’s awakening, the particulate matter within Synn’s core stirred, a low hum of potential. Synn pushed up, eventually sitting upright. A second piece of jerky landed in their lap. Synn didn’t waste breath on thanks. Chewed slowly. Each swallow was easier than the last. The hum of particulate energy grew steadier, more resonant. Volkar watched, a faint nod almost imperceptible. “Body and particulate are not separate. Only when the frame is solid can the drift flow. To become strong, you must forge this vessel without pause.” Synn nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Volkar spoke truth. While sprawled, spent, Synn had tried to draw the drift. But the particulate resisted, a heavy, unresponsive mass. Only with the slow return of physical strength did the connection re-establish itself. The body was the anchor, the conductor. Particulate energy reached a stable, low hum. Enough to survive. Synn exhaled, a long, shaky breath. The world, seen from this precipice of near-death, felt different. Sharper. More precious. Above, the darkening sky was a vast, bruised canvas. Countless stars, piercing through the faint atmospheric haze, glittered like scattered diamond dust. A breathtaking sight. Synn had never truly seen them, not with such stark clarity. In the constant, muted glow of the buried skeletal cities, stars were distant smudges, if visible at all. Now, they were a vibrant, endless vista. Volkar’s voice broke the trance. “Over here.” Synn turned. There was no one else within sight. Volkar wasn’t speaking to Synn. He had unhooked an ancient, scarred datapad from his belt, placing it on the ash before him. It was a relic, pulsating with a faint, internal azure light. Volkar conversed with it, a low murmur of clicks and pauses, as if receiving responses only he could discern. *Is he mad? Or is that thing… sentient?* Volkar continued, oblivious to Synn’s scrutiny. “Yes. Coordinates match. Unmarked cluster there. We’ve yet to harvest.” A pause. “The drift blurs old data. Thank you, keeper.” He looked up, his gaze sweeping towards Synn. A sudden, inexplicable chill ran down Synn’s spine. The desert cold was already seeping into bones, a pervasive dampness despite the dry air. Synn shivered, unable to stop. Sleep was a distant memory. Synn spent the night curled tight, shivering, unable to find warmth. Volkar, in contrast, slept soundly, sprawled like a contented cat. Synn watched, a simmering frustration building. *Punch him, Synn. Just once.* --- Dawn painted the horizon in bruised purples and greys. Volkar woke with the first hint of light. His first action: he wrung his clothes. Drops of moisture, precious dew, collected into his palm, which he then drank. Synn watched, a revelation dawning. Volkar had spread his garments during the night. A simple trick, born of hard-won knowledge. Synn hastily mimicked, wringing their own clothes. A few paltry drops formed, barely enough to wet the tongue. Volkar’s were soaked, shimmering. *If only I had known.* A bitter resentment, unwarranted, yet sharp. Synn understood. Every movement of Volkar, every calculated action, was geared towards survival. A relentless, unforgiving logic. Synn made a silent vow. *I will learn. Everything.* By mirroring Volkar, by absorbing every nuance of his brutal existence, Synn would survive. Would thrive. Perhaps even surpass him. Synn drank the meager dew, feeling the dry throat ease fractionally. Volkar stood, already moving. “Forward.” Synn nodded. There was no point asking where. Volkar wouldn’t answer. One day with the ancient hunter had revealed his nature: utterly self-centered, devoid of kindness. He wanted Synn to survive, yes, but only by Synn’s own, bloody efforts. To endure, Synn had to be quick, observant, constantly learning. Volkar was already a distant silhouette. Thankfully, the night’s rest, however meager, had allowed Synn’s particulate energy to fully recover. Synn focused, extending their will. The ash responded. A faint levitation, a smooth, low-friction glide. Synn named the skill: Ash Glide. Managing the particulate flow was paramount. The previous day’s near-death experience, born of utter exhaustion, hammered home the necessity of conservation. *Is there a way to replenish this energy as I expend it?* Volkar might know. He would not tell. Synn would have to discover it. Just as all the other truths of this ravaged world had been learned. As Synn glided across the ash, the skill smoothed, becoming more natural, more economical. The sun climbed, searing the dust-seas. Heat radiated from the ground, from the pale, indifferent sky. Synn gritted teeth, endured. Endurance bred patience. Patience refined the Ash Glide. Each ripple, each infinitesimal shift in the particulate flow, became a conscious, effortless motion. They walked, or rather, glided, through the long, brutal day. As the sun began its descent, Volkar finally stopped. Synn collapsed to a crouch, gasping. Exhaustion was a heavy cloak, but the particulate hummed steadily. The energy had not depleted this time. Another piece of jerky landed beside Synn’s hand. No more groveling. Synn tore it into tiny pieces, chewing slowly, thoroughly moistening each fragment with what little saliva could be coaxed before swallowing. This deliberate pace, this careful mastication, was a new lesson. Synn glanced at Volkar. Halfway through their jerky, Volkar had only consumed a third of his. A strange sense of defeat. Synn slowed further, taking nearly thirty minutes to finish the single piece. Still hungry. The gnawing emptiness of a growing body. One piece of jerky barely registered. By the time morning came, the hunger would be a dull roar. But pride was a fierce companion. Synn would not ask for more. Before sleep, two things. Synn removed their clothes, spreading them wide on the ash. The morning dew was a precious commodity. Then, the next task: shelter. The desert cold was a minor inconvenience for Volkar, whose ancient defenses were beyond Synn’s comprehension. But for Synn, it was a killer. A bunker. A small, personal sanctuary. Sufficient particulate energy remained. Synn reached out. The ash swirled, responding. A pit formed, just large enough for one body. Synn slid in, then, with another mental push, the loose ash above them solidified. The pulverized debris, normally without cohesion, held firm, forming a stable roof. Synn had imbued it with temporary structure, a hardened crust of grit. Particulate energy drained during creation, but once formed, the bunker held, requiring no further maintenance. A sigh escaped Synn’s lips. Last night’s shivering torment was a bitter memory. Tonight, warmth. Rest. Sanctuary. For a moment, Synn considered Volkar. *Should I call him in?* The thought vanished. Volkar wouldn’t heed. If the cold became too much, he would find his own way. With that, Synn closed their eyes. The bunker was a womb of warmth, a blessed contrast to the frigid world outside. --- An odd sensation jolted Synn awake. A faint vibration, a tremor through the compacted ash beneath them. Synn pressed a hand to the bunker floor. The vibration pulsed, growing stronger. Synn emerged. Volkar was already up. He stood by his glowing datapad, which pulsed a rapid, urgent rhythm, its internal light now a throbbing crimson. His ancient gaze was fixed on the darkness ahead. Synn followed. Nothing but dense, impenetrable blackness. The darkest hour, just before the first light of dawn. Ordinary eyes saw nothing. Volkar’s vision, or perhaps the datapad’s sensors, saw deeper. *Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!* The vibrations intensified. Synn’s pupils dilated, heart hammering. *Dozens. No. At least hundreds.* Volkar’s mouth split into a wide, predatory grin, a feral excitement in his ancient eyes. “Survive. Idiot. Hehe!” It was a chilling sound, like brittle glass shattering. Like a child anticipating a spectacular, destructive display. Synn could not smile. Volkar would offer no help. That certainty was a bitter pill. But a cold resolve settled in Synn’s chest. *Alright. I will survive. I will.* The tremors became a roar. Through the deep, oppressive darkness, hundreds of glowing, pinprick eyes appeared, reflecting the datapad’s crimson glow. They surged forward, a tidal wave of hunger. “Dune Stalkers.” Volkar’s voice held a strange, gleeful note.

Ash and Grit