A figure emerged from the maw of the colossal Ash-Titan, its massive, stony hide scarred by eons of wind and grit. Elder Theron, though ancient, moved with a surprising lightness down the spiraling ramp carved into the beast’s side. His frame, gaunt and weathered like a petrified tree, seemed but a fleeting shadow against the towering monument of 'The Wanderer'. His gaze, sharp despite its age, settled upon Vorlag. A faint smile, thin as a hairline fracture in stone, touched his lips. “Still breathing, Vorlag,” Theron's voice was a gravelly whisper, like sand shifting over bone. “Though I half-expected the ash to claim you ere now.” Vorlag merely snorted, a low rumble from deep within his chest. “And you, Theron. Still clinging to this walking mausoleum. Lost more teeth, I see.” “The ash takes its toll,” Theron replied, unfazed. “Unlike some, I embrace the slow decay. You, however, defy it with a stubbornness that verges on the unnatural.” He shifted his weight, a subtle clink of ancient ornaments on his robes. “Why emerge from your mobile fortress, Theron?” Vorlag’s eyes, like chips of obsidian, narrowed slightly. “This is not your accustomed scavenging ground.” “Grit-Hounds infest these sectors,” Theron sighed, a plume of fine ash escaping his lips. “Worse than usual. These new breeds are ravenous, carving paths through the meager settlements. Little sense in confronting such a maelstrom.” Vorlag scoffed, a dismissive flick of his hand. “Fleeing, then? Spinning tales of savagery to justify your retreat?” “Wisdom, Vorlag. Not fear.” Theron met his gaze without flinching. “Some of us prefer not to invite calamity. There is a distinction.” “And you live to preach it, old man.” Theron’s laughter was a dry, rustling sound, like leaves of petrified wood. He understood Vorlag’s cutting jests were but a peculiar form of acknowledgement. Despite his more cautious nature, Theron had endured the Age of Ashfall for generations, his mind a repository of lore, his spirit toughened by countless storms of grit. Indeed, humanity persisted. Though much of the Dominion lay buried beneath millennia of ash, scattered havens still existed: sheltered rock-hewn mines, scarce oases fed by geothermal vents. These were fragile bastions, but resilient hearts clung to life within them, adapting to the perpetual twilight. Predatory Grit-Hounds, creatures born of solidified ash and ravenous hunger, continually threatened these isolated pockets. Theron and his Cinder-Kin often journeyed to such endangered zones, offering shelter or trade, guided by The Wanderer’s slow, deliberate pace. Kaelen, standing beside Vorlag, remained a silent sentinel. His gaze, distant and ancient, swept over the Elder. Elder Theron’s eyes, in turn, found Kaelen, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in their depths. “A new shadow trails you, Vorlag,” Theron observed, his tone a low murmur. “A companion? The ash will surely part and the very foundations of the world will tremble.” Vorlag merely grunted, a sound of utter indifference. “Enough words, Theron. Lead us within. There are relics to trade, and needs to be met.” “A rare indulgence, allowing outsiders into the heart of The Wanderer,” Theron mused, a faint glint in his eye. “But for you, old friend…” “Spare me the dramatics,” Vorlag cut him off. “Just guide the way.” Theron offered another dry chuckle, then turned and began to ascend the ramp into the Ash-Titan. Vorlag followed, his heavy strides shaking the very ground. Last, Kaelen moved. Before entering the beast’s interior, he glanced back at The Wanderer’s immense, stony face. A colossal eye, larger than any edifice in the desolate world, seemed to watch him, its surface reflecting the perpetually overcast sky. Kaelen’s own image, small and insignificant, briefly resided within its vast, unblinking pupil. Then, with a slow, grinding shift of its head, The Wanderer turned, as if dismissing the thought. *To command such a creature*, Kaelen mused, *is to wield a mountain.* Such a feat was unfathomable to most, yet Vorlag had done it, and Theron lived within its protection. The Ashfall Dominion held endless wonders, and terrors. --- Inside The Wanderer, a breathtaking sight unfolded. Its shell, a hollowed realm, contained a thriving village. Stone and hardened ash structures, illuminated by the soft glow of cinders, clustered together, forming winding streets. People, cloaked against the ambient ash, moved with purpose, their faces etched with a peculiar blend of resilience and serenity. “A haven,” Kaelen breathed, his voice barely audible, though Vorlag heard it. “A civilization within a beast.” “The Cinder-Kin,” Vorlag supplied, his tone flat. “All descendants of Theron. They thrive because The Wanderer shelters them from the Ash-Serpents and the grit-storms that scour the outer lands.” No monster, not even the colossal Sand-Leeches that burrowed through the deep ash, could breach The Wanderer’s chitinous shell. It was an impregnable bulwark, a living fortress against the world’s relentless decay. “Yet, they are beholden,” Kaelen observed, his gaze sweeping over the Cinder-Kin. “A sandcastle built upon a single, mighty pillar.” Vorlag nodded, a rare moment of agreement. “Should Theron fall, The Wanderer may forget its loyalty. Tamed beasts are bound only to their masters. Their security is a fleeting illusion.” --- Theron led them through the narrow pathways to a dwelling carved deep into the Ash-Titan’s shell. Inside, the air was warmer, scented with scorched ore and the faint, sweet tang of treated hide. Theron settled onto a low seat, gesturing for them to do likewise. “What treasures do you bear, Vorlag?” Theron prompted, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Vorlag reached into a folds of his worn coat, not into an ordinary pocket, but into a tear in reality itself. He extracted a series of objects, laying them carefully onto a low, obsidian-like table. A gleaming, hooked horn, ripped from the head of a Grit-Behemoth. A segment of carapace, the size of a shield, from a Cinder-Weaver Empress, its surface a mosaic of iridescent ash-scales. Then, a series of other monstrous remnants, each humming with a faint, primal energy, gathered from the depths of forgotten catacombs. These were not common trophies; these were the spoils of battles against creatures of immense power, rarely seen, let alone bested. Theron leaned forward, spectacles of polished crystal perched on his nose. His experienced gaze scrutinized each item, his fingers tracing their textures. “Unblemished. Potent. Masterpieces of raw power.” “No need for flowery words,” Vorlag grunted. “State your price. And not in Ash-Shards.” Theron raised a brow. “Still barred from the Lumina Spire’s gates, I presume? Ash-Shards are the currency of this age.” “They hold no worth if one cannot exchange them,” Vorlag retorted, his voice edged with an old bitterness. “I seek more tangible gains.” “Then, what is it you desire?” Theron inquired, his gaze now sharp. “A breastplate crafted from the Cinder-Weaver Empress’s shell,” Vorlag declared. “And a new subspace artifact.” Theron blinked, a flicker of surprise in his ancient eyes. “A breastplate? And you already possess a spatial pouch. For whom, then, are these exceptional demands?” His gaze drifted to Kaelen, lingering. “This quiet lad, I assume? He must possess merits if you deem him worthy of such gifts, Vorlag.” “Spare your speculation,” Vorlag growled, impatience lacing his tone. “Can it be done?” Theron considered for a moment, then called out, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. “Skylar! Come forth, child.” Moments later, a young woman entered. Her skin, kissed by the perpetual twilight, held a healthy, sun-bronzed hue, and her eyes, the color of a clear ash-sky, sparkled with an intelligent vitality. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of one skilled in her craft, like a rare bloom finding purchase in a desolate canyon. “You called, Grandfather?” Her voice was clear, imbued with a gentle strength. “The subspace gauntlet, Skylar,” Theron commanded. “The one you imbued with such exceptional resonance. Present it to this young man.” Skylar’s eyes widened slightly, a hint of genuine surprise crossing her face. “The Obsidian Gauntlet? My masterwork, Grandfather?” She was an Awakened Enchanter, her skill in infusing objects with arcane properties renowned even beyond the Cinder-Kin. Crafting such artifacts was a precarious art, success a rare whisper in the constant roar of failure. The Obsidian Gauntlet, with its vast spatial capacity, was her crowning achievement, a relic of immense value. Theron was not finished. “And tell Roric to forge a breastplate for him, from the shell of this Cinder-Weaver Empress.” “A breastplate too?” Skylar’s gaze flickered between Theron, Vorlag, and finally Kaelen, her brow furrowed in silent question. Roric, Theron’s youngest son, was a blacksmith of formidable talent, his work, when combined with Skylar’s enchantments, the very bedrock of the Cinder-Kin’s trade with passing caravans and isolated settlements. Their combined craft filled The Wanderer’s cavernous depths with provisions and rare materials. *What hidden strengths does he possess*, Skylar wondered, *for Grandfather to bestow such treasures upon him?* Vorlag’s voice cut through her thoughts, low and resonant. “Still shaping crude metals, Skylar?” She turned, startled, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “Vorlag. A… a long time, indeed.” A hint of trepidation, quickly masked, entered her eyes. The memory of Vorlag, in her youth, tearing apart an Ash-Wyrm as easily as one might rend a worn sail, still clung to her, a chilling echo in her mind. “Your talents have sharpened, I see,” Vorlag conceded. “A rare and useful gift, indeed.” “Thank you,” Skylar managed, a slight tremor in her voice. “You are as discerning as ever.” She felt an unshakeable unease in his presence, a primal instinct warning her of immense, untamed power. Turning quickly to Kaelen, she offered a small, strained smile. “Come with me. I shall present the gauntlet.” Kaelen followed, a subtle lightness entering his step. For all his stoicism, the prospect of possessing such an artifact brought a faint, internal satisfaction. He had long witnessed Vorlag’s effortless command of subspace, and the convenience it afforded. “What bond do you share with that… ancient force?” Skylar asked, her voice hushed, as they walked through the winding passages. Kaelen’s lips barely moved. “Our paths converged. We journey together.” Skylar frowned, her expression skeptical. “Converged, you say?” Her words held a clear disbelief, yet she did not press further. The depths of Vorlag’s history were not for casual probing. --- Skylar’s workshop was a wonder. Carved into the living rock of The Wanderer, it was adorned with implements of her craft and displays of her completed works. Shelves held gleaming tools, and from the ash-stone walls hung various artifacts, each radiating a distinct, subtle hum of latent power. Kaelen’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a rare gasp escaping his throat. “Incredible,” he murmured, his gaze tracing the intricate patterns etched into a glowing blade. “Are these all artifacts?” Skylar beamed, a genuine smile replacing her earlier apprehension. “Indeed. Each imbued with properties unique to my craft. They are among the finest, save for those few ancient relics unearthed from the deepest, forgotten catacombs.” Artifacts from those abyssal places were fabled, often possessing powers so potent they defied understanding, warping reality around them. To forge items approaching such legendary might was Skylar’s life’s ambition. She moved to a rack, carefully retrieving a gauntlet. It was a formidable piece, crafted from a dark, iridescent material that covered the back of the hand and extended up the forearm. Its surface shimmered with embedded flecks of what appeared to be solidified starlight. “This is the Obsidian Gauntlet,” Skylar explained, her voice filled with pride. “Fashioned from the chitinous carapace of an Ash-Barnacle Golem, layered with Volcanic Alloy. It is a composite of unparalleled resilience, offering both formidable protection and potent striking force. Beyond its spatial capabilities—a void large enough to store an entire dwelling—it possesses a self-recovery matrix.” “Self-recovery?” Kaelen asked, his gaze fixed on the intricate lines of the gauntlet. “Yes,” Skylar confirmed. “Unless utterly destroyed, it will regenerate, slowly mending its fissures.” She pointed to a rounded indentation on the back of the gauntlet. “Moreover, perhaps due to the Ash-Barnacle Golem’s inherent properties, the gauntlet holds an ember-heat attribute. It emits but a faint warmth now, but its true power will awaken when you affix a core into this receptacle.” “An artifact imbued with elemental ash-fire,” Kaelen reflected, a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. “Precisely,” Skylar nodded. “Choose the core wisely, for once bound, it cannot be replaced. This gauntlet, Kaelen, is a product of chance, a rare alignment of material and enchantment. I cannot guarantee its recreation.” She extended it towards him, her expression serious. Kaelen took the gauntlet, its weight substantial but balanced. He slid it onto his right hand. Initially, it felt slightly loose, but as it settled, the metallic components subtly shifted, reconfiguring themselves to perfectly mold to his forearm and fingers. He flexed his hand, the movements as free and unencumbered as if he wore nothing. A faint, internal warmth emanated from the gauntlet, a subtle thrum of latent power against his skin. Skylar crossed her arms, watching his reaction, a proud satisfaction etched on her features. Suddenly, a low, mournful wail echoed through the vast hollow of The Wanderer. The sound was deep, resonant, and unmistakably a warning. Skylar’s expression immediately hardened. Her knowledge of The Wanderer’s myriad vocalizations told her exactly what that sound portended. She rushed from her workshop, Kaelen close behind, her eyes scanning the distant, inner wall of the Ash-Titan. Far off, beyond the protected village, a colossal cloud of pulverized ash began to rise, swirling ominously towards them, a dark harbinger against the perpetual twilight. Its advance was swift, a creeping storm of ruin, threatening the very sanctity of the living fortress.

Of Cinder-Kin and Forged Will