Ash-hooved goats, their coats dusted with the mineral grit of the Scoria Peaks, milled obediently. A low murmur, not quite a voice but a deep resonance within Rhys, guided them. Without staff or dog, the herd shifted, a living current flowing towards the enclosures built into the mountainside. He watched, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. His ability, this untamed conduit to the planet’s heart, wasn't a learned chant. It was an instinct, a whisper of will against the raw, indifferent power of the world. To move earth, to coax fire, to ripple water – it began with a profound desire. Not a casual wish, but a hunger for a thing to *be*. Then, a focused intent, a clarity of purpose shaping the primal energies into a command. The easier the task, the less this deep well within him was drawn upon. Simple acts, like herding, demanded only a gentle coaxing. Yet, the more monumental the will, the more it cost. Sometimes, the land yielded with surprising grace. Other times, for seemingly trivial requests, it stood stubborn as ancient bedrock. Days ago, facing that obsidian-pelted beast, a simple demand for stillness had barely rippled its monstrous charge. His earth-shards, however, born of stark necessity, had pierced its skull with ease. He could have repeated that strike a dozen times, perhaps more, before feeling the true strain. Guiding the last goat into its pen, Rhys paused. A faint, metallic tang pricked the air. Not goat, not human. Sharp, wild, and utterly distinct from the decaying scent of the beast he had slain. A wolf, he concluded, recognizing the primal musk from hunts past. Moments later, a silhouette emerged against the fading sun. Kaelen, the traveler from yesterday, strode into view. A large wolf carcass, its fur a mottled grey, was slung over one broad shoulder. Its head lolled, lifeless. “Good evening, Rhys,” Kaelen’s voice, rough as ground stone, carried across the twilight air. “Mind if I borrow your hearth for the night? This fellow's my payment.” Rhys simply nodded. A wolf was valuable, its hide prized, its meat lean but sustaining. More than enough for a night’s shelter. “Wolves are scarce this close to the Peaks,” Rhys observed, his gaze tracing the outline of the carcass. “How far did you range for this?” In his years, Rhys had cleared most predators from the immediate foothills. The Scoria Peaks were too stark, too barren, to support many. “Near the Sky-Shard Mountains,” Kaelen replied, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Spotted it scouting.” The Sky-Shard Mountains. Rhys had only seen them as a distant, jagged line on the horizon, a colossal rampart even further west than the Scoria Peaks. Legend called them the Great Barrier, reaching so high they seemed to rend the clouds. Days, he imagined, just to reach their lower slopes. “A half-day’s stride,” Kaelen clarified, as if reading Rhys’s thoughts. Rhys felt no surprise. He himself could move with deceptive speed when need compelled him. Still, the revelation sharpened his awareness of Kaelen. The traveler’s power, though different from his own primal command, was undeniably potent. --- Firelight danced, painting flickering shadows across the walls of Rhys’s small dwelling. The rich aroma of wolf stew, thick with wild herbs, filled the air. Kaelen ate with a quiet efficiency, then leaned back, looking up at the vast expanse above. “The stars out here…” Kaelen mused, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Like scattered diamonds on velvet.” “Mother said these Peaks are among the highest points in Veridia,” Rhys offered, his voice hushed, “aside from the Sky-Shards, of course.” “Compared to *those*?” Kaelen let out a short, rough laugh. “Nothing compares. I crossed a pass today. Even the most powerful of Spire-Lords would find it taxing.” “They say Spire-Lords wield god-like power,” Rhys ventured, recalling tales his mother had told him, tales of oppression and absolute rule. “Couldn’t they simply bridge a mountain range?” “Not all of them, boy. The true heads of the great houses… they might be as close to gods as mortals get.” Kaelen’s tone grew serious. He spoke of witnessing the Patriarch of the Verdant Spire, a legendary figure, level a small hill with a mere flick of his wrist. Rhys felt a sudden, unwelcome sting of shame. Sometimes, alone with his wild, untamed abilities, he allowed himself to dream, to imagine his power rivaled those distant, storied figures. Kaelen’s casual anecdotes brutally crushed that delusion. His own primal strength felt small, raw, and insignificant in comparison. “Does it get lonely, living out here?” Kaelen’s question broke the quiet. “Of course,” Rhys admitted. A melancholic shrug. “But it’s become... familiar.” “Why not bring a village girl up here? Start a family.” Rhys gave a humorless chuckle. “Who’d trade the bustle of the lower districts for a goat pen on a desolate peak?” “Plenty of bright young women might consider a strong, capable man like you,” Kaelen insisted, a wry grin playing on his lips. Rhys remembered the shy glances, the whispered names, when he was younger and still ventured into the sparse settlements at the foothills. After his mother’s death, after the villagers’ suspicion had hardened to outright hostility, those connections had withered. They saw the reality: a lonely, harsh life, far from the layered comfort of the Spire-Cities. “Don’t dwell on it,” Kaelen advised. “You never know. A journeying soul might wander by and change everything.” Considering Kaelen was the only traveler Rhys had seen in years, the notion felt utterly remote. Silence settled between them again, the crackle of the fire the only sound. It was Rhys who broke it. “Why do you bother?” His voice was low, almost a whisper. Kaelen tilted his head, a quizzical look on his face. “Bother with what?” “The village. I don’t know what they offered you, but with your skills… you could demand far more, with much less effort.” Rhys had considered it often. A man like Kaelen, an Ash-Touched with clear power, could easily secure wealth and respect in any frontier settlement. They wouldn’t dare refuse. It seemed far more sensible than hunting wolves for meager payment. And the villagers themselves… they weren’t particularly deserving. They had charged Kaelen an exorbitant fee for a mere night’s lodging, forcing him to seek Rhys’s more humble hospitality. Rhys, in Kaelen’s place, would have flattened their pathetic market stalls and taken what he pleased. “They are a pitiable folk,” Kaelen said, his voice soft, almost regretful. “How so?” “Living in constant fear. At the frontier, without the protection of an Ash-Touched.” Kaelen spoke like a teacher, his gaze steady. The fertile lands beyond these peaks teemed with monstrous creatures. He explained that it was the *pride* of an Ash-Touched, one who inherited the primordial power, to shield the common folk. Even without fealty to a Spire-Lord, he couldn’t stand by while they suffered. This clashed violently with Rhys’s mother’s teachings. She had painted Spire-Lords as exploiters, Ash-Touched as their tools of oppression. The world Kaelen described felt alien. Kaelen, seeing Rhys’s confusion, offered him a crude clay bowl of warm goat’s milk. “The world is vast, Rhys. Not everyone shares my view. If there are ten thousand souls, there are ten thousand truths.” --- The next morning, a subtle ripple of earth and air cleaned the goat pen. Rhys moved with efficient, practiced ease, his thoughts still caught on Kaelen’s words. *Pride*. The concept resonated in a way his mother’s warnings never had. An Ash-Touched finding purpose not in obedience, but in protection. The idea was unsettling, yet strangely appealing. It didn’t make him yearn for the Spire-Cities, nor to bow to any Lord, but it softened the edges of his ingrained cynicism. Perhaps not all power corrupted. Beyond that, he had another dilemma. He had to tell Kaelen the beast was already dead. He didn’t want such a principled man wasting his time in this desolate place. The problem? The creature’s carcass lay in a deep crevice, rotting. Retrieving it would be a chore. Worse, the signs of his own primordial touch would be undeniable. A precise blast of focused earth, a raw manifestation of instinct, would scream his presence to any other Ash-Touched. If anyone came looking for an elemental conduit in the Scoria Peaks, Rhys would be the prime suspect. A sigh escaped him. He sent the accumulated goat droppings, swept clean by a small dust devil, spiraling into a pile behind the dwelling. Good fuel, once dried. With his chores done, a sliver of time remained. Perhaps he should find Kaelen. The traveler had spoken of patrolling closer to the Peaks today. There was a chance. Rhys climbed to a nearby ridge, his hand settling on a sun-baked stone. He closed his eyes, extending his awareness, not through a spell, but a primordial attunement to the pulse of life around him. The earth hummed beneath his calloused palm, the wind whispered ancient secrets through the dry grasses. His senses sharpened, reaching out, past the immediate foothills, toward the deeper canyons. He felt the faintest tremor of life, a specific rhythm, different from the small game of the mountains. He honed in, focusing his will, sifting through the countless living signatures of the wilderness. Then, a sudden jolt. A flash of familiar energy, wild and predatory, but… wrong. Distorted. A guttural snarl, echoing across the distance, followed by the ragged sound of heavy breathing. He snapped his eyes open. His vision stretched, piercing the distance. Kaelen. He saw Kaelen, his form stooped, a trickle of blood already staining his forehead and shoulder. Opposite him, a nightmare of black fur and exposed bone. The obsidian-pelted beast he had killed days ago, its body a grotesque mockery of life. Its eye sockets glowed with a faint, malevolent light, and a horrifying roar, like rocks grinding, tore from its half-decayed throat. Kaelen gritted his teeth, a fresh spray of blood spattering his lips. The undead beast lunged again, a sickening blur of putrid flesh. When creatures of the wild died, their primordial essence, their untamed life force, often clung to the mortal coil. It was a desperate grasp, a dark surge of will attempting to reanimate the shattered form. This created an undead – a horrifying echo of life. Proper practice dictated that the Ash-Touched who felled a beast absorbed or dispersed its essence, preventing such a corruption. Whoever had killed this beast—a precise, focused impact to the skull, judging by the jagged hole—had either been ignorant or deliberately negligent. A raw, untamed power had been used. A primal conduit, like him. [ROOOOAR—!!] The undead predator’s shriek ripped through the air, a raw, tormented sound that clawed at Rhys’s ears. Kaelen braced himself, drawing a short, gleaming blade. “Come then!” Kaelen bellowed, defiant even as blood streamed down his face. “You want a fight, you rotten husk? You’ve got one!”

Echoes in the Ash