Kaelen turned the obsidian shard in his gloved palm. Its surface, polished by the very friction of the Blight’s dust, gleamed with an unnatural, pre-Blight blackness. Smaller than his fist, it bore no visible cracks, no marring by the perpetual ash-storms that scoured Aerthos. He had found it nestled within a crumbling wall, a relic from a time before the world fractured. Before the Great Blight. A strange pull had drawn him to it, a resonance he couldn't quite name. Not a call of power, but something deeper, an echo of forgotten solidity. Kaelen focused his will. Ash, thick and fine, usually responded to his every command, a malleable extension of his very being. He sought to imbue the shard, to feel its essence bend to his unique mastery of the Blight’s residue. He pushed. A faint warmth pulsed through his fingertips, a fleeting sensation like the last ember of a dying hearth. Its black surface remained inert, cold, stubbornly its own. Again, he concentrated. His vision narrowed to the shard, attempting to coax even a whisper of a reaction. Still, nothing. The black surface reflected his grim visage, unwavering. “Worthless,” Kaelen muttered, a rare sound in the desolate quiet of his thoughts. He slipped the shard into a hidden pouch inside his ash-dusted coat. He’d traded a day’s worth of scavenged water purifiers for the right to claim that wall’s contents. A bad start to the cycle, perhaps. He would learn soon enough how much worse it could become. --- Returning to the communal sleeping quarters – a low, collapsing structure half-buried in a drift of solidified ash – Kaelen found a man waiting. A hulking shadow, broad as a boulder, filling the doorway. Scars webbed his bare chest, stark white against weathered skin, a testament to countless close encounters with raw Blight-stuff or less forgiving scavengers. He moved with a heavy, deliberate gait, his presence a physical weight. Their gazes met. His eyes were like chips of dirty quartz, hard and unyielding. “New arrival, aren’t you?” the man’s voice grated, like rock ground against rock. Ash shifted under his heavy boots. Kaelen inclined his head. “I am.” “Where in the name of the Silent Sky were you at first light?” His voice rose, shaking dust from the timber beams above. “Thought you could just stroll in when it suited you?” This was Jarek. Foreman of the Ash-Harvesters, a brute force in this corner of the Ashen Marches. He controlled the flow of raw ash-dust, the lifeblood of this isolated outpost. His authority stemmed from his sheer physicality and a cruel, opportunistic cunning. Jarek held sway over the harvesters and the meager security detail. He was one of the few figures who commanded any semblance of respect or, more accurately, fear, in this desolate patch. Kaelen started to speak. “No one gave me…” “No one needs to hold your hand, scavenger! You arrive, you work. That’s how it is here. You’re lucky I came looking.” Jarek gestured with a dismissive sweep of his arm. “Follow. Now. No more talk.” Experience had taught Jarek how to break men. Newcomers like Kaelen were just another soft target, easily bent to the outpost’s harsh will. A fresh vein to be bled dry. Kaelen saw the truth in Jarek’s cold eyes, in the hungry stares of the few others who lingered in the common room. They were a pack of starved carrion-eaters, circling. No one here offered help, only waited for weakness. His true strength remained a secret, a heavy burden in his solitude. He could not openly defy this man. Not yet. Revealing his Ashwalker abilities here would attract too much unwanted attention, the kind that might unravel his careful, isolated existence. Resist, his instinct screamed. But he held it in check. He swallowed the bitter taste of forced compliance. Jarek was an imposing figure, his rough hands hinting at raw, unrefined strength. A seasoned survivor, undoubtedly. Kaelen knew raw power, but Jarek possessed a different kind: the power of a predator in its own den. ‘A bad cycle,’ Kaelen thought, his gaze fixed on Jarek’s broad back. This hadn't been his intent. He’d hoped to pass through, unnoticed, a shadow among shadows. The sand-worms had taken the other travelers, leaving him the sole arrival, a glaring anomaly. Jarek stopped suddenly, turning. “Still dawdling?” His fist shot out, a blur of hardened knuckles. It slammed into Kaelen’s jaw, a shocking impact that reverberated through his skull. Kaelen stumbled, falling back into a pile of ash-blankets. Jarek moved closer, his heavy boot thudding into Kaelen’s ribs. “You defy me, ash-rat? You think yourself special?” Blow after blow rained down. Kaelen curled, protecting his head, absorbing the impacts. Pain flared, a dull roar in his bones. Yet, it wasn’t debilitating. An Ashwalker’s body, hardened by constant exposure to the Blight’s lingering energies, possessed a resilience few could match. He could have struck back. His hands twitched, feeling the phantom itch of ash-shards forming, ready to defend. But time wasn’t right. Retaliation now would be foolish. He needed to understand the terrain, to gather his strength in the dark. Revenge, like a slowly hardening ash-effigy, could wait. Eventually, Jarek’s fury seemed to ebb. He drew back, breathing heavily, his eyes still burning. “Another moment’s disrespect, and I’ll bury you myself. Understand?” Kaelen pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. His face throbbed, a bruised ache blooming across his jaw. He tasted coppery blood. He watched Jarek turn, his broad back disappearing through the low doorway. Kaelen followed, each step a deliberate act of will. ‘You will fall,’ Kaelen thought, his gaze sharp on the retreating figure. ‘I promise you that, Jarek.’ Jarek ignored Kaelen’s injuries. To the foreman, harvesters were expendable, a constant churn of broken bodies replacing fresh ones. Their well-being was irrelevant. --- Jarek led him to the gaping maw of the ash-veins, where the true work began. Other harvesters, gaunt figures with ash-caked faces, already waited, pickaxes slung over shoulders. Jarek barked at a nearby overseer, a thin, nervous man whose eyes darted like trapped birds. “Gear this one. Get him started.” Quickly, the overseer thrust a heavy pickaxe, a battered helm with a dim lantern, and a small canvas pack into Kaelen’s hands. Ash-dust clung to everything, tasting of iron and decay. “Tool cost, rations… deducted from your eventual yield,” the overseer mumbled, avoiding Jarek’s stare. “The pack’s for raw ash-dust.” “And instruction?” Kaelen asked, his voice rough. Jarek’s head snapped around. “Instruction? You swing the pick, you break the wall. It ain’t complex, scavenger. You want a lesson in digging?” His voice soared, rattling the very ash on the ground. Flinching, the overseer shrank back. Jarek was known as the ‘Vein Tyrant,’ his temper as volatile as a settling ash-storm. Few dared cross him. Kaelen felt a cold dread. To simply throw someone into these deep, unstable tunnels without guidance was a death sentence. It wasn't mining; it was sacrifice. “Gulch 77. Throw him in there.” Jarek pointed a thick finger at a particularly dark opening. “Now. No more delays.” Grabbing Kaelen’s arm, the overseer pulled him forward, deeper into the earth’s grim throat. Jarek’s voice echoed behind them, a chilling promise. “Don’t resurface without a full pack, ash-rat! Remember my words.” Something coiled tight in Kaelen’s chest. A burning coal of defiance. ‘That brute. He means to break me.’ He swore vengeance upon Jarek. He would survive. He would learn. He would shatter this man’s pathetic reign. Dynamics of this outpost, this desperate pocket of false civilization, were starkly clear now. No allies. No quarter. Weakness meant consumption. Every other survivor was a potential threat, every interaction a subtle struggle. Kaelen chastised himself for a moment of lapsed vigilance. He had allowed himself to be caught, vulnerable. That would not happen again. He hardened his resolve, following the overseer down the narrow, winding passage. Even at its mouth, the tunnel was cramped, pressed in by the unstable earth and compacted ash. These were not engineered paths, but crude gouges, clawed out by desperate hands. Then, the overseer spoke, his voice low, conspiratorial. “You’re… lucky. Jarek lost all his scrap-tokens in the dice pits last night. Bad mood.” “There are ‘dice pits’ here?” Kaelen asked, surprised by the sudden human interaction. “Everything’s here. For a price. Dust-gems, flesh-peddlers, rot-wine. Best avoid it. You’ll just work to line other men’s pockets.” The overseer sighed, a sound thin with exhaustion. “Been here five cycles. Many who came with me… they never left. Or left broken.” “Keep your wits, though. If you want out, you need to be sharp.” “What of Gulch 77?” Kaelen pressed. He knew, instinctively, this assigned vein was no ordinary place. His mind flickered with thoughts of escape. But the Ashen Wastes stretched for untold leagues beyond the outpost, a lethal expanse of starved earth and toxic air. A hasty flight would be a slow death by desiccation. He needed time. Time to understand the limits of his abilities, to plan. The tunnels branched, a labyrinth of dark arteries. The overseer pointed to subtle markings. “Look for the arrows. Scarred into the rock. Red means deeper. Blue means the surface. Follow blue when you’re done. Don’t get lost.” They had descended hundreds of meters, the air growing thick, heavy with the scent of raw mineral and a faint, acrid tang that pricked Kaelen’s lungs. Finally, the overseer halted. “This is Gulch 77.” He pointed to a fissure, darker than the surrounding rock, as if light itself refused to enter. “Go in. Begin work.” “A bad feeling comes to me,” Kaelen said, a rare admission. “Four prior harvesters met their end in there. Be cautious.” “Met their end?” “They died. No one knows how. No one else will enter it. That’s why Jarek sent you. New meat.” Kaelen looked at the overseer, who returned his gaze with a flicker of shared despair. Guilt shadowed the overseer’s eyes, but there was also resignation. He was just another cog in Jarek’s merciless machine. “I hope you emerge from the black,” the overseer said, his voice barely a whisper. Then, he turned and scurried into his own assigned tunnel. Left alone, Kaelen stared into the black maw of Gulch 77. Air grew colder, charged with a subtle, unnerving hum. ‘Everyone who enters dies?’ A bitter laugh caught in his throat. ‘You wanted me dead, Jarek. Just for your petty temper.’ Kaelen’s vow solidified, hard as diamond. He would emerge. And Jarek would witness the Ashwalker’s lament, firsthand. The time for quiet observation was over. The time for enduring was just beginning. Blighted earth seemed to swallow him whole.

A Shard of Old Earth