Kaelen’s control faltered. Each shifting plate of obsidian beneath him groaned, responding to a will that was no longer absolute, but ragged, fraying. His core, usually a wellspring of raw earth-power, felt like a hollowed-out cavern, echoing with emptiness.
He had pushed himself, and the land, beyond every known limit. The efficiency Vulcanis had demanded, the seamless flow of earth, had consumed him. Muscles screamed, a raw protest against the constant strain. Bone ached deep within his frame, a dull, insistent throb that pulsed with every beat of his heart.
Ahead, Vulcanis strode on, a dark silhouette against the fractured sky of the Gritstone Wastes. He never paused, never glanced back. His progress was a cruel testament to Kaelen’s own failing endurance. Not wanting to reveal such weakness, Kaelen had gritted his teeth, forced the earth to yield, but now, the pretense crumbled.
His legs gave out. Kaelen pitched forward, sprawling onto a plain of sharp, black shards. The impact rattled his teeth, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. He lay there, gasping, face pressed against the abrasive stone, tasting the grit of the Wastes.
A shadow fell over him. He finally lifted his head. Vulcanis stood over him, eyes like chips of flint, utterly devoid of sympathy.
“A waste of my time,” Vulcanis rasped, his voice a low grind, “burdened by an idiot like you.”
Vulcanis lowered himself to sit beside Kaelen, his movements fluid and unbothered. From a pouch at his hip, he drew two pieces of dried, dark jerky. One, he raised to his own mouth, tearing a piece off with an audible rip. The other, he tossed to Kaelen. It landed with a soft thump on the obsidian beside Kaelen’s head.
Kaelen felt no strength, not even to sit up. His mouth was a desert, parched and rough. To chew such dry meat in this state felt impossible.
Without sustenance, without a return of strength, the Wastes would claim him. Kaelen knew this truth in his bones.
Vulcanis, too, knew. Yet he remained indifferent, slowly chewing his jerky.
“Before the Calamity,” Vulcanis began, his voice a low rumble, “the world was soft. Weaklings survived. Kindness wasn’t a weakness. But that world is gone. The Scarred Expanse demands teeth and claw. It demands survival, or it claims you. You hurt? You struggle? Then die. It’s easier that way.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He had known men and women of many temperaments, but none so cutting, so devoid of human warmth. Vulcanis’s words were sharp as obsidian, piercing his very core.
“If you crave oblivion, lie there. If you want to live, no matter the agony, get up. Fool!”
Silence fell. Vulcanis continued to chew, his gaze distant. He made no move to drink, though Kaelen knew he, too, had abstained all day. He moistened the jerky with his own saliva, making it easier to consume, conserving precious hydration.
Evening descended rapidly. The searing heat of the day bled into the frigid grip of night. To remain exposed was to invite hypothermia, a slow, shivering death. Kaelen felt the cold begin to seep into his weary limbs.
‘Not like this. I won’t die here.’
He began to move, a slow, agonizing crawl. He pushed with his elbows, dragged his body inch by painful inch across the sharp stone. Like a broken thing, he wriggled, closer to the jerky.
His fingers brushed against the hardened meat. Kaelen opened his mouth, stuffing the gritty jerky in. Sand clung to it, but he didn’t care. He chewed, slowly, painstakingly, coaxing his dry mouth to produce enough moisture. Each swallow was a monumental effort.
Finally, the first piece slid down his throat. A faint warmth spread through his belly, a spark of energy in the vast emptiness. He managed to push himself up, leaning on an elbow.
Another piece of jerky landed beside him. Vulcanis had tossed it. Kaelen ate it, silently, pride forbidding even a mumbled thanks. With each bite, a flicker of vitality returned. The dead weight in his limbs lightened, and with it, a faint stirring of geomantic power within his core.
Vulcanis, as if reading the subtle shift in Kaelen’s aura, spoke. “The earth’s power is bound to the flesh. A strong vessel channels greater force. Neglect your body, and your control will wither.”
Kaelen nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Lying there, spent and broken, he had tried to coax the earth’s energy. It had resisted, a sluggish, unresponsive current. Only now, with his body’s meager recovery, did it flow with any semblance of ease.
Survival seemed possible once more. A profound, quiet relief washed over him.
The darkening heavens unfolded above the Wastes, a riot of distant stars blazing with fierce, cold light. He had never truly seen them, not like this. In the shadowed confines of his ancestral stronghold, the light was always muted, filtered by ancient stone. Here, on the edge of oblivion, they burned with stark beauty. A fleeting moment of wonder, born from the jaws of near-death.
Vulcanis’s voice cut through the silent expanse. “A perfect place for their den, don’t you think, Shatter-blade?”
Kaelen snapped back to reality. Vulcanis was speaking to his weapon, a massive, obsidian-bladed greatsword, planted point-down into the stone between his feet. Kaelen stared. Was Vulcanis mad? Or did the blade truly possess an animating spirit?
Vulcanis continued, oblivious or uncaring of Kaelen’s scrutiny. “We haven’t purged that particular nest in… a long cycle. The memory fades.” He nodded, as if receiving an answer from the silent blade. “Yes, that sounds about right.”
Then, Vulcanis looked at Kaelen. A chill, sharper than the desert wind, pricked Kaelen’s skin. The night had only just begun its descent.
---
Kaelen spent the night shivering. The cold seeped into his bones, rendering sleep a shallow, restless torment. Every muscle tensed, fighting the relentless chill. He lay wrapped in his own cloaks, but they offered little defense against the Wastes’ frigid embrace.
Vulcanis, by contrast, slept soundly, sprawled on the ground, seemingly untouched by the elements. A silent fury simmered in Kaelen’s chest. He wanted to strike the older man, to shake him from his comfortable slumber.
Dawn finally broke, a thin sliver of pale light painting the eastern horizon. Vulcanis stirred, rose, and without hesitation, squeezed dew from his garments directly into his mouth. Only then did Kaelen understand Vulcanis’s seemingly casual choice to spread his clothes out while sleeping. A survival tactic, simple and brutal.
Kaelen mimicked the action, desperate for moisture. He wrung his own cloak, collecting a meager few drops. It was a fraction of what Vulcanis had gathered.
‘If only I had known.’ A bitter taste filled Kaelen’s mouth, worse than the thirst.
He watched Vulcanis, observed every small, economical movement. Every action, no matter how minor, was geared towards one purpose: survival. Kaelen made a vow, a silent oath etched into his weary mind.
‘I will learn. Everything.’
He would become a shadow, absorbing Vulcanis’s every lesson, until he was just as unyielding, just as deadly. He drank the precious dew, every last drop. His thirst, though not completely sated, eased.
Vulcanis, already moving, barked. “Move.”
Kaelen nodded. He knew asking their destination was futile. Vulcanis offered no explanations, shared no thoughts. He was a force of nature, untamed and solitary.
His geomantic core, replenished by rest and sustenance, hummed with renewed strength. Kaelen unleashed the specialized movement technique he had forged yesterday, born of desperation and Vulcanis’s cruel tutelage. He called it ‘Stone Weave.’
Obsidian plates shifted beneath his feet, forming a temporary, solid path that he surfed across, conserving strength and speed. Mana management remained paramount. The memory of his collapse, of the earth-power draining from him, was a stark lesson.
‘There must be a way to replenish power as quickly as it’s expended.’
Vulcanis might know, but Kaelen knew better than to ask. He would have to discover it himself, as he had everything else.
Through the burning heat of the Gritstone Wastes, Kaelen practiced Stone Weave. The searing sun beat down, the very air shimmering with heat, but he pushed through it. Endurance built patience. Patience refined his control. The obsidian plates moved with smoother, more intuitive grace.
Night fell once more. Vulcanis stopped. Kaelen halted, breathing heavily, his body screaming for respite. This time, his geomantic core was not depleted, but the physical and mental strain was immense. He felt close to collapse, but forced himself to remain upright.
Another piece of jerky sailed through the air. Kaelen caught it. No crawling this time. He tore it into small strips, chewing slowly, meticulously moistening each piece before swallowing. He tried to match Vulcanis’s measured pace, but hunger gnawed at him.
He watched Vulcanis out of the corner of his eye. Even as Kaelen finished his piece, Vulcanis had only consumed a third of his. A strange sense of defeat stung Kaelen. He deliberately slowed his chewing, trying to make the meager portion last. It took almost half an hour to finish.
‘Still hungry.’ Kaelen, still growing, felt only a fleeting satisfaction. He knew he’d be hungry again soon. Pride, however, kept him from asking for more.
Sleep would be his only option. But first, preparations.
He removed his cloaks, spreading them flat on the ground to collect dew. Next, shelter. The Wastes’ night chill was nothing to Vulcanis, but Kaelen needed protection. He still had enough earth-power for this.
Kaelen focused. The ground rippled, obsidian shards shifting, coalescing. A pit formed, large enough for his frame. He lowered himself in, then commanded the loose stone to close over him. Ordinarily, it would collapse, but Kaelen willed the fragments to interlock, forming a stable, solid roof.
The shelter complete, Kaelen breathed a sigh of relief. Mana was consumed in its making, but now, inside, he needed none. Last night’s shivering misery was a stark memory. Tonight, he would find comfort.
He thought of Vulcanis. Should he offer him a place? He immediately shook his head. If Vulcanis wanted warmth, he would find it himself. Kaelen closed his eyes, drifting into sleep. The temperature outside plummeted, but within his obsidian bunker, it was surprisingly warm.
---
An odd sensation jolted Kaelen awake. A faint tremor, vibrating through the hardened ground. He sat up, pressing a hand to the bunker’s floor. The vibration intensified.
Kaelen emerged. Vulcanis was already standing, the Shatter-blade firmly planted before him, his gaze fixed on the dense gloom ahead.
Kaelen followed his line of sight. Nothing but impenetrable darkness, the deepest hour before dawn. But Vulcanis’s vision, Kaelen knew, pierced such natural veils.
*Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!*
The vibrations grew stronger, a rhythmic pounding that resonated through the stone. Kaelen’s eyes widened.
‘Dozens… no, hundreds.’
Vulcanis’s lips curled into a crazed grin. “Survive on your own, you fool! Hehe!” His face was alight with a disturbing, almost childish, anticipation. Like a hunter witnessing his prey emerge.
Kaelen couldn’t smile. He knew Vulcanis’s words were no idle threat. The bitter truth was a cold knot in his gut.
‘I will survive. I must.’
The vibrations became a roar, a ground-shaking thunder. Through the darkness, faint pinpricks of light emerged, scores of eyes reflecting the nascent dawn, rapidly closing the distance.
“Rock Reavers,” Vulcanis hissed, his voice laced with savage delight. “A full pack.”