The wind gnawed. Kaelen stood on the rim of a long-dead crater, a desolate eye staring into the Cinderlands. Below, a faint glimmer pulsed. Not starlight. Something else. Something *new*. Ash writhed at their feet. It coiled around Kaelen's worn boots, a sentient current. They had felt this disturbance for days. A static hum, an itch beneath the skin of the earth. This was not the lingering sorrow of the cataclysm. This was a fresh wound, actively festering. Kaelen descended. Ash flowed ahead, cushioning each step. The slope crumbled easily, but Kaelen's will held it fast. Dust devils formed and dissolved around them, scouts for unseen threats. The glimmer grew stronger. A sickly greenish hue. It pulsed with an unfamiliar rhythm. Too steady. Too intentional. --- The source was a depression in the crater floor. A crude camp had been erected. Not the usual nomad tents. These were reinforced, dug partially into the ground, camouflaged with ash-dusted tarps. Four figures moved among them. Hard-faced men, armed. Not traders. Scavengers, perhaps, but with a purpose beyond simple salvage. They were digging. Their shovels scraped against something metallic. The green light intensified with each strike. Kaelen pressed closer. The ash rose, a creeping mist, masking their approach. Sounds sharpened. The scrape of metal. Gruff voices. A grunt of effort. One man pointed to a device. A crude contraption of twisted wire and dull crystals. It glowed faintly, mimicking the green pulse. "It's getting stronger," he rasped, his voice rough. Another, older, with a scarred cheek, nodded. "Almost there. Just a little more." Kaelen’s gaze fixed on the excavation pit. A massive, obsidian-like slab lay half-unearthed. Jagged and black, it drank the faint Cinderlands light. The green pulse emanated from its heart. It felt ancient. Not just old, but *primal*. A relic of the before-time. --- A gust of wind whipped past Kaelen, carrying the scent of metallic dust and something acrid. Burning ozone. The ash around the men began to stir independently. It swirled, a subtle rebellion. Kaelen felt a growing anger. These fools. Dabbling in forces they couldn't comprehend. They were trying to *extract* something from the slab. A concentrated form of the cataclysm's initial burst. The Ash Weaver felt it, a distant echo of the planet's scream. The scarred man crouched, brushing ash from the slab's surface. A rune etched into the black stone became visible. A symbol Kaelen vaguely recognized from fragmented whispers within the Ash itself. A symbol of binding. And release. He produced a small, silver chisel. The green light throbbed, reacting to its proximity. "Now," he muttered to his companions. "Prepare the extractors. We don't want to lose a drop." Kaelen acted. A wall of ash erupted behind the scarred man. Fine grit slammed into his back. He grunted, stumbling forward. His companions spun. Their hands went to their weapons. Crossbows. Short, brutal swords. "Who's there?" one snarled, peering into the swirling dust. Kaelen stepped out of the ash, their figure indistinct against the grey backdrop. Only the outline, tall and lean, gave them form. "Leave it," Kaelen's voice was a dry whisper, like sand sifting through rock. The scarred man recovered, spitting ash. His eyes narrowed. "The Ash Wraith." A flicker of fear, quickly replaced by defiance. "Don't interfere. This doesn't concern you." Kaelen extended a hand. The ash around the men's feet grew dense. It coiled, binding their ankles. They struggled, their boots sinking slightly. "It concerns me," Kaelen stated. "This land. This ash. All of it." One man raised his crossbow. A bolt hissed through the air. Kaelen barely registered it. Ash rose, catching the projectile mid-flight, disintegrating it into a puff of grey dust. "Fools," Kaelen said, a hint of weariness in the words. "You do not understand what you touch." The scarred man lunged. Not at Kaelen, but towards the slab. He gripped his chisel, bringing it down towards the glowing rune. "No!" Kaelen surged forward. A wave of concentrated ash, dense as stone, struck the scarred man. He flew backward, slamming into the camp wall. His head hit with a dull thud. He lay still. His companions screamed. They pulled at their ash-bound legs. One managed to free a boot. He scrambled, grabbing his sword. The ground beneath the man's feet became unstable. The ash liquefied, sucking him down. He bellowed, flailing. The other two watched, horrified. They dropped their weapons. Their faces were pale beneath the ash-dust. "Get out," Kaelen commanded. "Tell your masters to abandon this folly." The surviving men needed no second invitation. They tore free from the remaining ash-tethers, scrambling up the crater wall, heedless of the loose scree. Their fear was a palpable thing. Kaelen watched them go, a sigh of ash escaping their lips. Such short-sighted greed. It was always the way. --- Silence returned. Only the persistent, sickly green pulse from the slab remained. Kaelen approached it slowly. The obsidian-like surface was cold, absorbing all warmth. The rune pulsed, mirroring the light within. It wasn't just a binding rune. It was a *seal*. A prison for something dangerous. The shattered remnants of an elemental force, maybe. Or a fragment of Aethel's ancient heart, warped and twisted by the cataclysm. Kaelen placed a hand on the cold stone. A jolt went through them. Not pain, but a surge of information. Images flashed: a blinding burst of light, a scream of rock, the world tearing itself apart. The genesis of the Cinderlands. And something else. A whisper within the ash. A name. *Ignis*. Ignis. Fire. But more than just fire. The consuming flame, the heart of the cataclysm. A living, dying entity that had almost devoured Aethel. These men, these greedy fools, were trying to unleash a piece of it. To harness its destructive power for profit or conquest. Kaelen poured their will into the slab. The ash within the stone responded. It writhed, trying to mend the minuscule fracture the chisel had caused. But the green light resisted. It was a persistent infection. The Ash Weaver closed their eyes. This was not a simple task of repelling raiders. This was an ongoing war. The cataclysm wasn't just a historical event. Its echoes still resonated, powerful and perilous. They needed to reinforce the seal. To re-bind the nascent Ignis. Kaelen gathered the ash around them. It swirled, a miniature galaxy of grey. It compressed, becoming denser, harder. They began to sculpt. New runes formed on the slab's surface. Not merely etched, but *grown* from the very matter of the Cinderlands. Kaelen's own essence flowed into them, strengthening the ancient prison. A web of power, dark and resilient. Hours passed. The sky above turned from bruised purple to the deep indigo of pre-dawn. The green light dimmed, then brightened, fighting Kaelen's efforts. A new hum resonated from the slab. A lower frequency. A growl. It was pushing back. The Ignis was awake. Aware. Kaelen gritted their teeth. Sweat, mingled with ash, streaked their brow. This was draining. More than any storm-weaving, more than any fortress building. This was a battle against a cosmic scream. The ground around the slab began to tremble. Small fissures appeared in the crater floor, radiating outwards. The air grew heavy, smelling of burnt metal and ozone. The ash Kaelen had gathered became harder to control. It vibrated, attempting to pull away, to scatter. The Ignis wanted release. It wanted to consume. "Not today," Kaelen whispered, their voice strained. They pushed harder. Their connection to the Cinderlands, usually a gentle flow, became a torrent. Every grain of ash, every particle of dust, was an extension of their will. The green light flickered, then stabilized. It receded, shrinking inward, struggling against the new bonds. Finally, with a soft, resonant thrum, the seal re-formed. The new ash-runes fused with the ancient obsidian. The green pulse became a mere pinprick, then vanished entirely. Silence descended once more. The hum faded. The tremors ceased. Kaelen leaned against the cool stone, their body trembling with exhaustion. The Ignis was re-bound. For now. --- Kaelen rested, eyes closed. The memory of the contact lingered. The ancient scream. The overwhelming hunger. And the name. *Ignis*. Why had it been sealed here? What was its purpose? The original Ash Weavers must have known. Their knowledge was fragments now, lost to the ages. Their task was not over. The men who had come. They had masters. Someone knew about the Ignis. Someone wanted to unleash it. This was more than simple banditry. This was organized, informed. A dangerous faction was probing the Cinderlands, searching for its darkest secrets. Kaelen rose, still stiff, still weary. They surveyed the desolate crater. The disturbed earth, the abandoned camp. Evidence of interference. They could not stay here. They had to follow the trail. To find these masters. Kaelen began to walk, their steps slow, deliberate. The ash responded, closing the tracks of the fleeing men. But Kaelen didn't need tracks. They needed the *direction* of their fear. They reached the crater rim. The dawn light painted the distant dunes in shades of bruised purple and dull gold. The vastness of the Cinderlands stretched before them, indifferent. A flicker caught their eye. Far, far on the horizon. A plume of dust. Too large for a single rider. Too fast for a caravan. It was heading away from the Cinderlands. Towards the west. Towards the few scattered settlements that clung to the edges of the desolation. It was an encampment, then. Or a stronghold. These men weren't just pawns. They were part of a larger design. Kaelen felt a cold dread settle in their chest. The Cinderlands had been a prison for the past. Now, it seemed, the past was reaching out, threatening to ignite the present. They stepped onto the crest. The wind picked up, tugging at their cloak. Kaelen lifted their hand. The ash responded, swirling into a dense sphere. A scrying lens. The distant dust plume resolved. Not a large caravan. A small, elite force. Riding hard. And at their head, a figure Kaelen knew. A man with eyes like polished obsidian and a scar that bisected his left brow. The one Kaelen had thrown into the wall. He was alive. He was leading them. And behind him, strapped to the back of a riderless pack beast, was a device. A smaller version of the contraption that had pulsed with green light. It glowed faintly even from this distance. They had not lost a "drop." They had taken a sample. A living fragment of the Ignis. Kaelen's breath hitched. A sample they would carry back. Back to whoever wanted to weaponize the heart of the cataclysm. The Ash Weaver stared, unmoving. The realization hit like a physical blow. The Ignis was not just re-bound. It had been *breached*. And a piece of Aethel's ancient terror was now on the move. Heading straight for the populated lands.

The Veiled Intentions