Kael moved, a blur of motion, vanishing into the shimmering void. Rune followed, stepping into the rift, the air tearing at him. A familiar pressure crushed his chest, but he held firm. This wasn’t his first passage through a dimensional fissure. Each time, the sheer force threatened to unravel him, yet he endured. Then, the pressure vanished. Rune staggered onto solid ground, a gasp catching in his throat. Not the familiar damp rock of a subterranean passage, nor the choking heat of the Ash-Caverns. Instead, a desolate expanse stretched before him, an endless, undulating ocean of fine, grey powder. Beneath a sun, bleeding weak orange light through layers of particulate matter, the ash-laden air shimmered. Heat pressed down, a stifling weight. Moments ago, he navigated a labyrinth of churning lava; now, this. No landmarks broke the monotony, only the endless, pale grey, stretching to a hazy horizon. Before Rune could truly orient himself, a hand clamped around his wrist. Iron bands, not flesh, it seemed. Kael’s grip tightened, twisting. “No Guild mark, boy,” Kael’s voice rasped, dry as bone. His eyes, ancient and cold, fixed on Rune. “But I saw you. Moving the dust.” A white-hot spike of agony shot up Rune’s arm. His wrist felt caught in a rock press, tendons stretching, bones groaning under the impossible force. A grunt escaped him, involuntary, primal. He dropped to his knees, vision blurring. The pain was absolute, eclipsing thought, sound, everything. He understood the whispers now. The tales of pain so profound, the throat clamped shut, no sound possible. His jaw clenched, body trembling. Suddenly, the pressure eased. Kael released him, a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Many awakened. Not strange to find an anomaly like you.” A ragged, choked breath tore from Rune. He cradled his throbbing wrist, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Ancient one! You nearly tore it from me!” “You are as frail as you are slow-witted.” Kael’s gaze was unyielding, devoid of remorse. Fury, cold and hard, coiled in Rune’s gut. He lashed out, ash churning around him. A blast of compressed powder, sharp as glass shards, erupted from his palm. It slammed into Kael’s chest, a dull impact that raised a small cloud. Kael didn’t flinch. A low, dry chuckle rattled in his chest. He brushed a few specks of ash from his dark tunic. “So it is true. Control over the dust. Heh.” “What of it?” Rune snapped, jaw tight. His arm still ached, a deep, persistent throb. “From this moment, you walk with me, fool.” Kael turned, already moving. “My designation is Rune, not ‘fool’… old man!” “Weakness makes you a fool.” “Utter one more insult, and I will silence you.” Rune’s voice was a low snarl. He clamped his mouth shut instantly. Kael was a legend, a shadow of the old world, spoken of in hushed tones even in the deepest havens. A monster who had slain the Ancient Ash-Wyrm itself. His power transcended Rune’s understanding. Momentary fury had blinded him. Kael was not an opponent. Not even a rival. He was a force of nature, and Rune, beside him, was less than a mote of ash. Kael glanced at the distant, hazy line of the horizon, murmuring to himself, a sound like grinding stone. “F-rank. Barely. Will take time before it becomes...useful.” A dry, mirthless laugh. “Good. No death, only strength. The harsh road is the only road.” He watched Kael, the way his lips moved, the utter lack of humanity in his eyes. A chilling thought solidified in Rune’s mind. He was bound to a madman. No escape in this desolate, ash-choked expanse. No refuge. Only Kael. Rune sighed, a plume of fine ash escaping his lips. He followed. Powerlessness. It was a brand, a heavy, suffocating weight. Kael moved with an unnerving ease, seemingly untouched by the oppressive heat or the ever-shifting ash. His steps left crisp impressions, never sinking. Rune, however, floundered. Each stride was a struggle, his feet plunging into the fine, hot powder up to his ankles. Stamina drained rapidly. Sweat, gritty with ash, coated his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, his pace slowing to a desperate shuffle. “Ha!” Kael’s voice cut through the silence. He didn’t look back. “None more foolish. One percent. Not even that. You possess the ash, boy. Why lumber like a beast of burden?” Rune’s teeth ground. “I awakened days ago. Not a master, like you.” “Meaningless.” Kael stopped, turning. His face was a mask of disdain, cutting Rune deeper than any insult. “I am F-rank. Not an Elder, like you.” Rune’s voice was raw, laced with exhaustion and defiance. “And there is the fool. Rank. What does it matter? Who is born S-rank? Perhaps some, blessed by the old world. But are you to yield because you are not? Others would call you blessed, boy. So cease your whimpering. Think. Utilize. Your body is sound. Your mind, full of dust.” “Can you not refrain from calling me ‘fool’?” “Shatter your obstinance. Until then, you are the chief of fools.” Kael turned, resuming his relentless pace. Kael’s words hung heavy in the stifling air. “Your power. Yours to command. Yours to nurture. Yours to master.” “If I fail?” “Sun takes you. Or I do. One of the two.” With that, Kael resumed his march. Two precise lines of footprints stretched behind him, stark against the unbroken grey. Rune stared at Kael’s retreating back. Fool. Shatter his obstinance. Something deep within him, cold and hard, began to thrum. Anger. At Kael’s cruelty. At his own weakness. Both surged, a bitter tide. Rune grit his teeth. Yes. He would do it. Never again would that ancient, withered man call him ‘fool.’ He took a deep, ash-laden breath, the grit catching in his throat. He had control over the ash. He needed to use it. Not just to blast, not just to shield, but to move. To survive. He was a master of the ash. Yet, his understanding was shallow. He had wielded it, yes, but only in moments of raw desperation. Now, he needed to comprehend. Its limits. Its potential. He extended his will, a subtle pulse in the air. Fine ash particles, for meters around him, stirred. They shifted, drawn by an unseen force. Perhaps five meters in diameter. That was his immediate sphere of influence. Closer ash responded swiftly, a swift, eager hum. Farther particles stirred sluggishly, a dull drag. A problem for later. The immediate concern lay beneath his feet. Sinking ash, up to his ankles, was a relentless drain. It sucked at his boots, threatening to strand him, a statue of ash under the dying sun. He wouldn’t last. He knew this. What if he compacted the ash? Beneath his feet, a solid path. He had used a similar trick, solidifying the dust, crossing the fiery fissures of the Ash-Caverns. Rune focused, compressing the loose powder into a hard, dense platform beneath his boot. It worked. The ground felt firm, like solid rock, effortless to walk upon. But a cold dread seized him. Mana. It poured from him, a torrent, not a stream. Rapid depletion. He would drain himself dry in dozens of meters. A horrifying vision flashed in his mind: mana spent, body exhausted, collapsing into the suffocating ash. Baked into a husk. Or worse. Torn apart by scavengers of the wastes. He abandoned the method. Mana. His reservoir was small, fledgling. Such reckless consumption was suicidal. Efficiency. That was the answer. He needed a method that conserved, that honed his skill. Next, he considered focusing mana directly into his legs. A light step, a reduced burden. He tried it. His steps felt lighter, his muscles protested less. But this was an internal power, a boost to his body, not a manipulation of the external world. He was an Ashbound King, not a flesh-weaver. It didn’t align. He had to polish his unique gift, even if the path was harder now. The third attempt. Manipulation. Precise, minute. Moving the ash directly touching the soles of his boots. A layer, perhaps a centimeter thick, spanning the length of his foot. He focused his will. It was harder than broad dominion. Concentrating mana in such a small, confined area was like threading a needle in a sandstorm. His focus wavered. The delicate film of ash beneath him scattered. He stumbled, pitching forward, catching himself on his hands. Ash filled his mouth, gritty and bitter. He spat, the dry powder clinging to his parched tongue. Exhaustion etched itself onto his face, deeper lines around his eyes. Kael was a distant, dark silhouette. He hadn’t glanced back. He cared nothing for Rune’s struggle, for his survival. Rage, cold and clean, flared again. Who brought him here? Who subjected him to this? If not for Kael, he might be resting in the Vault-City, safe within its hardened walls. Amidst the grinding pain, the relentless heat, resentment surged. His rational mind teetered on the edge. He was losing himself. He had to find a solution. Quickly. Before the madness took hold. Rune returned his focus to the ash beneath his feet. He commanded it. A thin layer. Move. Slowly. Like a great, grinding wheel, turning beneath him. It was excruciatingly slow. He was unaccustomed. Unpracticed. The fine control eluded him. His focus would waver. The ash would scatter. And he would fall, again and again. He fell countless times. Face-first, backward, sideways. Each time, ash, bitter and dry, coated him. But he didn’t give up. He persisted. He pushed through the fatigue, through the burning in his muscles, through the despair. His efforts began to bear fruit. The ash responded. Slowly, clumsily at first, then with increasing fluidity. He began to glide. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift beneath his feet. The ash itself seemed to carry him, a whisper-thin platform. It was the fruit of his agony, his countless falls, his unrelenting resolve. He moved. The sensation was alien, exhilarating. Yet, mana still drained, albeit slower. He needed more efficiency. He concentrated. Harder. His mana, a thread stretched taut, held firm. He glided, no longer sinking, no longer struggling. The relentless march became manageable. Kael, without turning, knew. Mana fluctuations in the air, the subtle shift in the ash currents, Rune’s steadier breathing – all spoke volumes. He had no need to look. “A useful fool. Marginally.” Kael’s voice drifted back, a dry whisper on the ash-laden wind. By his standards, Rune still fell short. But he was no longer a useless burden. Not yet, at least. ---

Ashfall Wastes