A twisting of space, a sudden wrench of reality, and Kaelen found himself elsewhere. The air, thick with the scent of ozone and the familiar tang of pulverized rock, pressed down, a phantom weight that sought to flatten bone and still breath. He braced against it, an old, unwelcome acquaintance. Moments ago, the air had shrieked through fissures in a canyon of black glass; now, it hung still, heavy with an arid, choking promise. They stood in the Ashen Marches, a landscape utterly devoid of the canyon’s jagged scars. Here, the world lay flat, an unending canvas of pale grey. Dust, fine as flour and deep as a man’s knee, stretched to horizons blurred by its own omnipresence. No landmark broke the monotony, no whisper of life stirred the suffocating quiet. Elder Xylos, gaunt and ancient, released Kaelen’s arm. His fingers had felt like talons, cold and unyielding. The elder’s eyes, chips of obsidian in a weathered face, raked over Kaelen’s form. “No marker on your wrist,” Xylos rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across ash. “Yet I witnessed you moving the dust, Ashwalker.” Kaelen felt a sharp, unexpected pain blossom in his right hand. Xylos’s gaze alone seemed to ignite it. A crushing pressure, as if an unseen fist squeezed his bones to powder. He bit back a gasp, sinking onto one knee. His vision swam, a blur of grey against grey. He understood then, the phrase: ‘too much agony to scream.’ His throat tightened, refusing to open. Xylos’s dark eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing within their depths. “The Blight leaves strange gifts. You are not the first anomaly. Perhaps not even the most foolish.” The pressure eased. Kaelen’s breath rushed out, ragged and uncontrolled. He clenched his jaw, the lingering ache a hot ember in his wrist. “You almost broke my hand, old man,” Kaelen ground out, his voice hoarse. Xylos merely scoffed. “A shard of your weakness, Ash-whelp. Easily shattered.” A cold, potent anger ignited within Kaelen. He wasn't accustomed to such blatant disdain. His power, usually a controlled, silent force, surged. With a thought, a gust of concentrated ash-laced wind erupted from his palm, a miniature vortex of fine grit. It struck Xylos square in the chest. The elder stood unmoving. A wisp of grey dust clung to his tattered robes, then slid away. Xylos let out a short, dry laugh, a sound devoid of mirth. “Indeed. A true Ashwalker. The power is undeniable. Heh.” “What of it?” Kaelen demanded, his voice tight. “What more is there to say?” “Only this,” Xylos said, turning to stride away, his steps impossibly light upon the deep ash. “You walk with me, fool.” “My name is Kaelen, not fool—” “Weakness earns the name,” Xylos cut in, not even turning his head. “Until you shed it, it clings to you like the ash itself.” Kaelen’s jaw clamped shut. Xylos was a legend, a relic of a forgotten age, a being who had walked these desolate lands since before the Great Blight. He commanded powers Kaelen could only dimly perceive. To defy him here, in this unending, featureless waste, was suicide. Xylos could crush him with a whisper, bury him beneath a mountain of dust without a thought. He watched Xylos’s back, a figure strangely impervious to the landscape. The elder muttered to himself, his gaze fixed on nothing Kaelen could discern in the endless expanse. “Barely a whisper of true Blight-sense. It will take time. Much effort.” Then, another dry chuckle. “But if he does not break, he will mend stronger. The only way forward in the wastes.” Kaelen knew, deep in his bones, that he was utterly at the mercy of a madman. Escape here, in this vast, open prison, was a delusion. Until he found a way to match Xylos, he had no choice but to follow. A sigh, heavy and laden with the dust he breathed, escaped him. Powerlessness was a chains. A suffocating reality. --- Xylos moved with an unsettling grace, his form leaving barely a ripple in the deep, powdery ash. The oppressive heat of the sun, filtered through the ever-present ash cloud, still baked the land. Kaelen, following a dozen paces behind, felt the abrasive grit pull at his boots with every step. Each lifted foot felt like tearing away from a tar pit. His stamina bled away with shocking speed. Sweat, gritty with fine dust, plastered his tunic to his skin. His breath rasped in his throat, dry and labored. His pace faltered. Xylos’s voice, sharp and mocking, drifted back. “Ashwalker, yet you trudge like a burdened mule. Not one fraction of your gift used. Such a waste.” Kaelen’s head snapped up. “It’s not so simple. I’ve only just begun to command it.” “What does that mean?” Xylos stopped, turning slowly. His gaze, scornful and ancient, pierced Kaelen. That look, that cold assessment, stirred the anger in Kaelen’s gut once more. “I am young,” Kaelen retorted, defiance hardening his voice. “Not a master, like you claim to be.” “That is why you are a fool,” Xylos said, his tone flat. “Who is born with perfect command? Some, perhaps, touched by the rarest stars. But you are not them. Does that mean you yield? Many would see your very existence as a blessing. Quit whining. Think. Utilize what the Blight has given. What good is an intact body if the mind within is naught but dust?” “Must you always call me fool?” Kaelen bit out. “Shatter the stubbornness in your skull,” Xylos replied, turning again. “Until then, you are but a fool among fools.” Kaelen’s mouth snapped shut. He had no retort, no counter, only a mounting, silent rage. Xylos resumed his relentless pace, leaving a single, undisturbed line in the ash behind him. Kaelen, meanwhile, left craters. He glared at Xylos’s retreating back. *Fool? Shatter my stubborn head?* Something deep within Kaelen began to churn. A furious storm of indignation, aimed at Xylos, but also, disturbingly, at himself. Both angers surged, hot and consuming. He gritted his teeth. *Yes. I will. You will never speak that name to me again.* The vow was a cold, hard stone in his chest. Kaelen forced his thoughts away from his anger, pushing himself to concentrate. *All I have is this affinity for ash. I must use it.* He had manipulated it by instinct, in moments of desperation. He had yet to truly understand its limits, its potential. This unending waste, this torment, would be his forge. --- Kaelen extended his will. A faint hum vibrated through the air, and the fine ash began to stir. Not a gust of wind, but an intelligent, directed movement. Within a roughly five-meter radius, dust began to orbit him, a grey, shifting halo. The ash closest to him responded swiftly, a flowing current. Farther out, the movement was sluggish, reluctant. *My reach is limited. And slow.* He filed the observation away. A more immediate problem presented itself: the ceaseless pull of the deep ash beneath his boots. Every step was an immense drain. If he did not solve this, he would simply collapse, buried alive in this desolation. *Compact the ash beneath my feet?* He’d used a similar technique to cross a unstable ground in the canyon. Kaelen focused, driving his latent power into the ash directly under his boot. It solidified instantly, becoming a temporary, brittle platform. Walking became effortless. It was like traversing packed earth. But the relief was short-lived. A fierce, hungry drain on his reserves accompanied each step. His internal well of energy plummeted. At this rate, he would exhaust himself completely within a few dozen paces. He abandoned the method, the chill of dread replacing the heat of anger. To be without power here, in this unforgiving place, was a death sentence. To be baked into a husk by the sun’s distant gaze, or worse, become a meal for whatever grim things survived in the deeper ash. Kaelen breathed deep, forcing himself to think again. *My well is not limitless. I need efficiency.* He rejected a simple focus of power to lighten his step. That was not Ashwalking. It was a crude, temporary measure. He needed to *manipulate* the ash, to truly master his gift. This hardship was inevitable, a path to true command. His next attempt was more subtle. He focused his will on a thin layer of ash, perhaps a centimeter thick, directly beneath the soles of his boots. Concentrating power so narrowly was far more difficult than a broad sweep. His control wavered, the fine particles scattering, losing their coherence. Each time, Kaelen stumbled, collapsing backward into the suffocating dust, coughing and spitting the acrid grit from his mouth. His throat, already parched, burned anew. He pushed himself up, his muscles aching, his face grimed with sweat and ash. Far ahead, Xylos continued his relentless march, not once glancing back. The elder’s indifference was a cold, hard slap. *Who placed me in this hell?* Resentment festered, a toxic bloom in the desolation of his mind. If not for Xylos, he might be finding a moment of peace, a breath of clean air. The pain, the exhaustion, the mounting frustration threatened to overwhelm him, to shatter his carefully constructed stoicism. His grip on sanity felt tenuous, slipping. He had to find a solution. Quickly. Kaelen refocused on the ash beneath his feet. He pictured it as a river, flowing under his command. Slowly, painstakingly, the particles shifted. It was like trying to move a river with a single finger. But the ash began to cooperate, a subtle, almost imperceptible current forming. He concentrated with every fiber of his being, the effort immense. Each lapse in concentration, each flicker of doubt, sent him sprawling. He fell countless times, swallowing more dust, his body screaming for rest. Yet, he pushed on. The anger, the defiance, the grim determination hardened within him. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, a change came. His control grew. The ash under his boots became less resistant, more pliant. It moved with him, a living extension of his will. He was no longer walking *on* the ash, but *with* it, carried by an unseen current he himself commanded. Still, the mana consumption was too great. He refined his technique, picturing the smallest possible field of manipulation, the most efficient flow. He sought the precise point between power and grace. And then, it clicked. His steps lightened, the ash gliding with him, a soft, almost soundless movement. His energy held steady. He moved not with struggle, but with an eerie, quiet efficiency. Far ahead, Xylos did not turn. Yet, a subtle shift in the ancient man’s stride, a barely perceptible pause, indicated his awareness. The Ashwalker’s faint, nascent power, the currents of his will, the very air displaced by his movements—nothing escaped Xylos’s senses. *A slightly less foolish fool.* Xylos’s thoughts were as dry and vast as the waste itself. But he still fell short. So very far short.

Dust and Discipline