Kael stumbled through the shimmering portal, the spatial torsion wrenching him apart a second time. Air rushed from his lungs. He landed hard, the world tilting precariously before righting itself. Acrid smoke still clung to his clothes, but the searing heat of the Maw receded, replaced by a different, deeper oppression.
He pushed himself up, boots sinking into an unforgiving expanse of fine, grey ash. Endless dunes stretched into a haze, blurring the horizon under a bruised, perpetual twilight sky. No sun, merely a diffuse, punishing glare that offered no warmth, only a bleached-out desolation. Every breath tasted of grit, clinging to his throat, stinging his eyes.
His surroundings had transformed from a volcanic inferno to this ashen desert. No landmarks broke the monotony, just waves of powdered earth, sculpted by unseen winds into rippling, suffocating forms.
Cinder Lord stood a few paces away, untouched by the journey, his massive frame radiating an unnerving calm. A shadow fell across Kael as the old man moved, seizing Kael’s wrist with surprising speed.
Pain flared. Bone ground against bone. Kael suppressed a cry, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His hand, so accustomed to shaping the world, felt crushed in a vice of steel.
Cinder Lord’s thumb pressed into a point on Kael's inner wrist. “No mark of the Ascended. Yet I saw you bend the dust. A rare sight.” His grip tightened, a cruel, measured pressure. “Do you know what it means to truly command?”
Kael dropped to one knee, the agony unbearable. He gritted his teeth, the taste of ash mixing with the coppery tang of rising anger. Not even a whimper escaped his lips. He understood now: a pain so profound it stole the voice.
Cinder Lord released him, Kael’s hand flopping uselessly. “No matter. There are always anomalies. Like you.”
Kael finally let out a ragged gasp, sucking in the dust-laden air. His wrist throbbed, a dull, insistent ache. Fury, cold and sharp, cut through the pain. “You decrepit old fool! You nearly snapped my arm!”
“As weak as you are witless,” Cinder Lord chuckled, the sound dry as bone-dust.
Without thought, Kael instinctively lashed out. A small, furious maelstrom of ash erupted from his palm, a tight, abrasive spiral aimed directly at Cinder Lord’s chest. The air screamed as the particulate matter, honed to razor edges by Kael’s will, struck.
Cinder Lord didn't flinch. A faint shimmer, like heat rising from pavement, surrounded him, deflecting the attack. The ash dispersed, harmlessly dusting his dark robes. He brushed a phantom speck from his shoulder, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“A weaver of ash, indeed,” Cinder Lord stated, a predatory smile stretching his lips. “Heh. Just as I suspected.”
Kael stood, flexing his injured wrist, watching the old man with narrowed eyes. “What concern is that of yours?”
“From this moment, you walk with me, fledgling.”
“My name is Kael. Not ‘fledgling,’ not ‘fool,’ and I walk where I choose.” Kael’s voice was low, strained, but firm.
“Weakness is foolishness, boy.” Cinder Lord took a step closer, his presence expanding, a crushing weight. “Challenge me again, and you’ll find yourself buried beneath the very dust you claim to command.”
Kael’s jaw clenched. He clamped his mouth shut, a cold dread washing over him. This was the monster who had ripped apart the Crimson Drake with a casual flick of his wrist. He was a force of nature, beyond Kael’s comprehension, an ancient, devastating power. Kael was a tremor, Cinder Lord an earthquake.
Cinder Lord glanced at Kael's quivering form, a murmur escaping his lips. “A mere thread, barely spun. It will take time to toughen you.” He looked back at the endless ash dunes. “Heh. A harsh road ahead. If you don’t break, you might yet prove useful.”
Just like that, Kael was chained. Trapped with this mad old man in a world of endless grey. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Until he found strength, Kael was bound to follow.
A sigh, heavy with resignation, escaped Kael. Powerless. A curse worse than death in these blighted lands.
Cinder Lord moved with an effortless stride across the ashen plains, seemingly oblivious to the suffocating environment. His form cut a stark silhouette against the bleached sky, leaving twin tracks in the deep dust.
Kael followed, each step an arduous effort. The ash shifted and gave beneath his boots, pulling him deeper, sucking at his stamina. It was like walking through thick, dry water, every muscle screaming in protest. His clothes, already soiled, were now coated in a fine, gritty film. His mouth felt like parchment, his throat raw from the dust-filled air.
His breathing grew labored, a rasping sound in the pervasive silence. Steps slowed, heavy and deliberate.
“Ha!” Cinder Lord’s voice, though distant, carried clearly across the still air. “There is none more foolish. You command the ash itself, yet you sink within it like any common scavenger.”
Kael squinted, the glaring grey making his head throb. “I’m no master weaver like you! I’ve barely learned to pull a thread!”
Cinder Lord paused, turning slowly. A look of profound disdain crossed his ancient features. It stoked the embers of Kael’s fury, burning away the pain and exhaustion.
“You call yourself a nascent weaver? A fledgling thread? What difference does that make? Does anyone begin as a master? Perhaps some are blessed, yes, born with the power of the Sundering coursing through their veins. But do you wallow in pity for lack of such a blessing? Others would see *your* gift as a miracle, boy. Quit your whimpering. Think. Adapt. What good is a body whole if the mind is dust?”
“Will you stop calling me a fool?” Kael's voice was low, dangerously quiet.
“Shatter that stubborn mind, boy. Only then will the name ‘fool’ cease to cling to you.”
Kael clamped his mouth shut once more. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against the grey dust clinging to his skin.
Cinder Lord turned away, resuming his relentless pace. “It is your ability. Yours alone to master. Discover its limits, find its paths to growth.”
“What if I can’t?” Kael asked, the question escaping him before he could stop it.
“Then this ash will claim you, or I will. One of the two.”
Cinder Lord continued, his form shrinking into the distant haze. Kael glared at his retreating back, a maelstrom brewing within him. Anger, raw and potent, towards the Cinder Lord, and a bitter, self-lacerating fury at his own weakness.
‘Fool? Stubborn mind?’ Kael gritted his teeth, the grit of ash grinding between them. ‘Very well. I will show you. I will never be called a fool again.’
He forced himself to focus, to calm the storm in his mind. He commanded the ash. He must use the ash.
Kael had awakened to this power recently, his manipulation crude and improvisational, merely a tool for desperate survival. Now, he had to understand it, push its boundaries, make it an extension of his will.
He reached out, mana flowing. Ash around him stirred, a silent, grey current.
‘Perhaps five meters in every direction,’ he observed, feeling the pull. Ash closer to him responded readily, swifter. Further particles moved sluggishly, a dull, resistant drag. The radius of his command felt limited, the distant ash heavy and unresponsive. This was a problem for later. A more immediate issue consumed him.
His boots sank ankle-deep with every step, draining his precious energy. If he couldn’t solve this, the ashen expanse would swallow him whole long before the Cinder Lord did.
‘What if I compress the ash beneath my feet?’
He focused, sending mana down. The loose, yielding ash beneath his boots hardened, compacting into a dense, solid plate. For a few steps, it felt like walking on solid ground, almost effortless. A brief reprieve. But then the mana flared, a hungry, consuming burn.
At this rate, he would exhaust his meager mana reserves within a hundred paces. He couldn’t risk it. Mana depletion here meant immobility, a slow bake under the oppressive sky, or worse, becoming a meal for whatever unseen things stirred beneath the dust. Kael abandoned the method, the solidified ash dissolving back into powder with a sigh.
He had to be efficient. His mana pool was shallow, a tiny well in a vast desert. Reckless consumption was suicide.
‘Focus mana to lighten my steps?’
He tried. Mana flowed into his legs, a subtle vibration. His steps became noticeably lighter, less energy expended. It worked. But it wasn’t *ash* manipulation. He was a weaver of ash, not a phantom of air. For long-term growth, he had to hone his core ability. He sighed, dismissing this method too.
Thirdly, Kael tried a different approach: manipulating only the narrow layer of ash directly beneath the soles of his boots.
‘A thin sheet, a mere centimeter thick, the size of my foot.’
This was harder. Concentrating mana so precisely, so narrowly, was a task of intense focus. Broader commands felt easier. When his concentration wavered, the ash scattered, losing coherence, refusing to obey. Time and again, he stumbled, lost balance, crashing backward onto the soft, forgiving dust.
He spat a mouthful of ash, gritty and dry. His throat screamed for water, now even drier. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a relentless beast. He forced himself up, spitting out more ash, his grim reflection staring back from the endless grey.
Cinder Lord was a distant speck now, uncaring, unyielding. He hadn't glanced back once. The indifference solidified Kael’s rage, honed it into a sharpened tool.
‘He’s to blame for this. For all of it.’
In the heart of his pain, his anger, a dangerous resentment bloomed. It clouded his thoughts, threatened to break his resolve. He had to solve this, or he would lose himself to the madness of this place.
He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing aside the raw emotion, centering himself. His focus returned to the ash beneath his feet. He commanded, gently, subtly. A faint vibration, a whisper of power. The ash began to move, infinitesimally, like the slow, inexorable turning of ancient gears.
It was agonizingly slow. Each shift required absolute concentration. His focus wavered, the ash scattered, and he fell again, a choked curse escaping his lips.
Again. He stood. Again. He focused. Again. He fell. His body screamed, but he ignored it. His failures weren't wasted. With each stumble, with each small burst of control, he learned. His control grew, a slow, arduous process. The ash began to obey more readily. The thin layer beneath his feet moved with a smoother, almost fluid motion.
It felt as if the very dust carried him, a silent, gliding sensation over the uneven terrain. This wasn’t some innate gift manifesting; it was the fruit of countless falls, bitter failures, and the stubborn refusal to yield.
Yet, mana still drained too quickly. Not as fast as before, but still unsustainable for this endless journey. He concentrated harder, seeking the precise balance, the most efficient flow. A deep breath, a clenching of his will. Mana consumption slowed. He glided, not effortlessly, but consistently, his pace matching the Cinder Lord’s distant march.
Without a backward glance, without a break in his stride, Cinder Lord felt Kael's progress. The subtle shifts in the ash, the minute disturbances in the parched air, Kael’s steadier presence—all spoke volumes. He sensed the newfound efficiency, the controlled flow of mana, the stubborn will hardened by adversity.
“You begin to be a somewhat useful fool,” Cinder Lord murmured to the indifferent, ashen sky.
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