Kaelen plunged through the swirling rift, the world tearing itself apart and knitting back together around him. A crushing weight pressed in, not the tangible force of a physical blow, but the profound, suffocating presence of another realm, another reality. He clutched at the fragments of his composure, remembering the last passage, how Roric had vanished with such effortless grace.
Then, release. The oppressive grip vanished. He stood, or rather, drifted, amidst an endless, desolate expanse. The air was thick, still, and impossibly dry. No volcanic maw here, no infernal glow. Just a vast, sprawling plateau under a sky perpetually bruised violet and crimson, where a distant, distorted ember hung, mockingly portraying a sun. Its light offered no warmth, only a bleached, sterile illumination.
He scanned the horizon. Not a single landmark broke the monotony of the ash-scoured flatlands. Layers of fine, pale cinder stretched to meet the obscured sky, shifting faintly like a dying breath. It was a place of absolute, crushing stillness.
Without a word, Roric moved. His hand shot out, seizing Kaelen’s wrist with a grip of steel. A searing ache bloomed, threatening to splinter bone. Kaelen’s breath hitched, a low gasp escaping his lips.
“The mark of the Gullet does not grace your skin,” Roric’s voice rumbled, low and dangerous. “Yet, the ash bends to your will. I witnessed it.”
Pressure intensified. A silent scream clawed at Kaelen’s throat, trapped behind teeth gritted in agony. He crumpled to his knees, the fine dust rising in a choking cloud around him. It was a pain that stole sound, that devoured thought, leaving only raw sensation. The world blurred at the edges.
Suddenly, the crushing grip released. Kaelen gasped, dragging in burning air, his wrist throbbing with a phantom echo of Roric’s power. He kneaded the abused limb, a tremor running through his body.
“Many Awakened wander these wastes,” Roric said, his gaze indifferent, distant. “A peculiar talent like yours, unbranded… it is not so strange.”
Kaelen struggled to his feet, his mind reeling from the brutal display. The old man’s callous disregard, his immense, effortless strength, burned through Kaelen’s melancholic calm.
“Old man,” Kaelen bit out, his voice a low growl, raw with indignity, “you nearly tore my arm from its socket!”
“Weakness begets foolishness,” Roric retorted, the words a dismissive flick of the wrist.
Fury, cold and sharp, ignited in Kaelen. He lashed out instinctively, calling upon the ash. A vortex of fine cinder materialized, coalescing into a focused, needle-sharp gale that screamed towards Roric’s chest. The storm struck, churning, biting at his form.
Roric merely chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. He brushed a casual hand across his tunic, dusting away the clinging ash. His eyes, ancient and unforgiving, settled back on Kaelen.
“So, a Cinder Weaver you are, indeed. Heh.”
“And what of it?” Kaelen demanded, his anger flaring hotter, his bruised wrist aching. “Do you mean to add insult to injury?”
“From this moment, you follow me, fool.”
“My name is Kaelen, not fool, you… you cinder-cursed brute!”
“If you are weak, you are a fool.” Roric’s gaze sharpened, piercing. “Another word of insolence, and your tongue will find itself scattered across these wastes.”
Kaelen clamped his mouth shut. The threat hung heavy in the air, a cold, undeniable promise. He had seen Roric’s power, witnessed the effortless slaughter of the Scoria Wyrm, the reshaping of Cindermaw. The old man was a force of nature, beyond his meager comprehension. His momentary outburst had been a desperate, foolish lapse.
He was insignificant, a moth fluttering around a bonfire, easily crushed.
Roric turned his head slightly, his gaze falling upon Kaelen with an unsettling intensity. “Hmm… your spark is but a flicker, barely an F-rank among the branded. It will take time to forge you into anything useful.” He muttered, more to himself than to Kaelen. “Heh. Harshness is the only anvil. If he does not break, he will become something greater.”
The old man’s detached assessment, his almost clinical appraisal of Kaelen as a raw material, sent a chill through Kaelen’s core. It was clear now. He was trapped with a madman, an ancient, terrifying force with motives as opaque as the ash-laden sky.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. This desolate expanse offered no refuge. Until he could stand against this titan, Kaelen was bound to his cruel whim.
A sigh, heavy with resignation, escaped Kaelen. He followed in Roric’s wake.
Powerlessness. It was a chains. A crime.
Roric strode across the ash-scoured plain, seemingly impervious to the subtle, radiating heat that shimmered from the pale ground, the relentless, dry air that rasped in Kaelen’s lungs. No sign of fatigue, no discomfort marred the old man’s formidable presence.
Kaelen, however, struggled. Each step was a battle against the loose, powdery cinder that rose to his ankles, threatening to swallow his boots whole. It sapped his stamina, tugged at his resolve. Sweat, gritty with fine ash, coated his skin. His breath grew shallow, ragged. His movements slowed, each limb heavy.
“Hmph,” Roric scoffed, not even glancing back. “It seems no one is more foolish. You use less than a fraction of the power you possess.”
“You are a Cinder Weaver, are you not?”
“Then use the ash. Why exhaust yourself walking?”
“Is it truly so simple?” Kaelen retorted, his voice strained. “I barely awakened this ability days ago!”
“What meaning is there in that?”
Kaelen bristled, his temper fraying once more. Roric stopped then, turning slowly. A look of profound disdain crossed the old man’s face, a look that stripped away Kaelen’s last vestiges of patience.
“I am not an Awakened of your caliber,” Kaelen said, his voice tight, “I am but a fledgling Weaver.”
“And thus, a fool. What does the branding of F or S mean? Is any born an S-rank? Perhaps a few, blessed from the moment of their first breath. But because you lack such fortune, do you surrender? Even your spark would be seen as a miracle by many. Cease your whining. Begin to consider how to wield your gifts. What worth is a body intact, if the mind within is utterly bereft?”
“Will you cease calling me a fool?” Kaelen’s voice trembled with suppressed rage.
“If you wish to shed that title, first shatter your stubborn shell. Until then, you remain a fool among fools.”
Kaelen could offer no further words. He bit back a retort, the futility of argument clear in Roric’s unyielding gaze. As the old man turned, continuing his relentless march, he spoke again.
“This is your power. You alone understand its deepest currents. Discern how to cultivate it, how to command it.”
“And if I fail to understand?” Kaelen asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Then either my hand will end you, or that withered ember above will bake you to dust. One of the two.”
With that, Roric resumed his progress. Two distinct lines, the faint impressions of his boots, stretched back into the shimmering distance. Kaelen watched his receding form, a cold fire beginning to stir within him.
‘Fool? Shatter my stubborn shell?’
A deeper, colder anger began to coalesce in Kaelen’s heart. Rage at Roric, certainly, but a more potent, bitter fury at his own helplessness. Both emotions surged, a dark tide within his chest.
Kaelen ground his teeth. ‘Yes. I will. You will never call me a fool again.’
Driven by this stark resolve, Kaelen moved. His thoughts focused, singular. ‘All I possess is the ability to manipulate ash. So, I must use the ash.’
He had Awakened as a Cinder Weaver, but his understanding of its true scope remained rudimentary. His previous uses had been desperate, improvisational surges of raw power, not controlled craft. Now, he needed to gauge its limits, to grasp its essence. How far could this power truly take him?
Kaelen stretched his will, his inherent power reaching out. Instantly, the fine, pale ash in the immediate vicinity stirred, responding to his silent command.
‘Within perhaps five meters, its influence feels strongest.’
Ash closer to him obeyed with greater alacrity, while the more distant grains responded with a sluggish, reluctant drift. It could be moved, yes, but not with the effortless speed he desired. This was a concern, but for now, he pushed it aside.
A more pressing issue demanded his attention. The ash, ankle-deep and yielding, constantly sucked at his boots, threatening to strand him. Each step was a monumental effort, draining his dwindling reserves of strength.
‘What if I compress the ash beneath my feet?’
He had done something similar, creating temporary bridges of solid ash during his escape from the Gullet’s lava flows. Kaelen focused, hardening the ash directly below his soles. Immediately, his steps became easier, the sensation akin to walking on solid rock. It was effortless, a smooth glide across the surface.
But a deeper problem emerged. The consumption of his internal energy was severe. Each time he solidified the ground, a significant portion of his power vanished. At this rate, Kaelen knew, his reserves would be utterly depleted after a mere few dozen paces.
He abandoned the method. The vision of his fate, stranded and powerless in this barren landscape, was terrifyingly clear. Baked into a mummified husk by the distant, false sun, or, worse, falling prey to whatever unseen horrors might lurk beneath the endless ash.
Kaelen paused, considering his next approach. ‘My reservoir is not yet vast. I cannot sustain such reckless expenditure. I must find an efficient, subtle way to conserve my power.’
His second thought was to concentrate his internal energy directly into his legs, to lighten his body, to allow him to glide with less effort. This brought an immediate sense of lightness, a significant reduction in strain. Yet, Kaelen discarded it. It relied on internal power, not the element itself. He was a Cinder Weaver. He needed to hone his *ash-manipulating* skills, not merely his personal augmentation. It would be arduous now, but for true mastery, it was essential.
Thirdly, Kaelen opted for a more precise manipulation: moving only the minuscule layer of ash that directly touched the soles of his boots.
‘Perhaps one centimeter thick, just the span of my foot.’
This focused, precise manipulation proved far more challenging than broader control. The slightest lapse in concentration, the smallest tremor in his will, caused the delicate cohesion of the ash to shatter, scattering it into a useless puff. Each failure sent him stumbling, sprawling backward onto the soft, yielding ash.
Thankfully, the landings were cushioned, but each time, he had to spit out the fine, acrid powder that coated his tongue. His throat, already parched from the dry air, grew even drier, a raw, burning desolation. Exhaustion etched itself onto Kaelen’s pale face.
In the vast distance, Roric’s figure remained a stark silhouette, unwavering, unconcerned. He had not once glanced back, seemingly indifferent to Kaelen’s survival, his struggle. This cold indifference ignited Kaelen’s resentment anew.
‘Who truly bears responsibility for this torment?’
That cold fury surged. If not for Roric, Kaelen might be resting, quietly observing the dwindling human settlements, preserving his meager energy. Amidst the searing pain and the physical strain, anger towards Roric festered, clouding his judgment, threatening to overwhelm his measured calm.
Kaelen sensed his grip on himself beginning to loosen. He had to find a breakthrough, quickly, or he would truly succumb to the madness that lurked in this desolate realm.
He forced his focus back to the ash beneath his feet. Slowly, painstakingly, the fine grains began to respond, moving with a hesitant, almost imperceptible whisper, like gears struggling to turn.
It was excruciatingly slow. His nascent control over such precision was clumsy, prone to error. Concentrating his will into such a confined area was infinitely harder than a broad command. Time and again, his focus wavered, the ash lost its fragile cohesion, and he toppled backward onto the ground.
Yet, despite the mounting fatigue, Kaelen refused to yield. He rose, again and again, fixing his will upon the ash beneath his boots, his mind a steel trap of determination. His relentless, silent struggle was not in vain.
Gradually, painstakingly, he began to master the minute manipulation. The ash, now cradling his feet, moved with a newfound fluidity, a smoother, more responsive glide. In a way, it felt as though the very ash itself carried him, but it was the manifestation of Kaelen’s unyielding, internal battle.
He had fallen countless times, contemplated endlessly, until this fragile movement became possible.
Still, the expenditure of his internal energy remained considerable. This pace could not be sustained indefinitely. Kaelen concentrated harder, pushing the boundaries of his control, striving for true efficiency.
His efforts bore fruit. His power, though still heavily taxed, now held, allowing him to traverse the vast ash-field with a measure of grace, a phantom glide across the endless surface.
Roric, far ahead, remained unmoving, his back to Kaelen. Yet, he perceived it all. The subtle shift in Kaelen’s internal energy, the nuanced eddying of the ash around him, even the faint change in his breathing—each was a whisper of information to the ancient warrior. Without needing to look, Roric understood Kaelen’s progress.
“You have become a somewhat useful fool.”
By Roric’s impossibly high standards, Kaelen remained far from worthy. But progress, however small, had been made.
---