A whisper, barely audible, stirred the still air. Not a sound from the wind, but a subtle tremor through the packed salt crust beneath Mara's cot. Tick. A single grain, displaced. Her eyes, already open, narrowed to slits in the deep pre-dawn gloom. Stillness was her only shield. Her hovel-hollow, a crude cavity carved into a low salt-ridge, offered little else. No window pierced the walls of hardened brineslate and scavenged metal. A single warped door, secured by a scavenged iron latch, was the only way in or out. Breath held, Mara watched the latch. It trembled. Then, a faint *click*, followed by a soft, insistent scraping. Someone tried the handle. *Clunk!* The bolt gave way, a sigh of strained metal. The door eased inward a sliver, a thin line of grey light bleeding into the dark. Intruder. He pushed through the gap, a hunched silhouette clutching something long and glinting. A shard of broken engine casing, sharpened to a cruel point. He stepped inside, his movements tentative, eyes unaccustomed to the stygian black. Mara remained a shadow, pressed against the rough wall. Her pulse beat a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. He moved deeper, searching, his bootfalls muffled by the fine, restless dust on the floor. Then, a sharp, metallic *snap*. Something beneath his foot gave way. His weight shifted, unbalanced, and a low, guttural cry tore from his throat. *Thud!* A dull impact. The man stumbled, clutching his side. A glint of black brineslate jutted from his ribs, a crude, silent arrow launched by Mara’s tripwire trap. “Agh! What in the–” He fell, writhing on the packed earth, his weapon clattering. Pain choked his words. Mara moved. A swift, silent surge from the wall. Her small frame launched, landing with desperate grace atop his chest. She snatched the sharpened shard from his hand, the metal cold and slick, and pressed its point against his throat. Eyes wide with disbelief, Rauth stared up at her, gasping. “You little viper!” “Wondered who’d creep like a scavenging rat,” Mara's voice was a low rasp. “Just the next hollow over. Rauth, isn’t it?” Rauth. Known him by sight, a gaunt, desperate man from the adjacent salt-hollows. His gaze had always been too sharp, too hungry, whenever their paths crossed at the communal brine-wells. Lightly, she tapped his cheek with the flat of the shard. “Seems a poor way to treat your fellow hollow-dwellers, creeping for scraps.” “Scraps? What’s a child like you have worth taking in this dust-heap?” Rauth snarled. “Let go, girl. You know who my brother is?” “How should I?” Mara’s brows drew together, genuine perplexity in her voice. “Tell me, Rauth.” “Kaelen. A Prime Gale-binder. He commands the heat-winds.” A bitter laugh escaped Mara. “And a Prime Gale-binder’s kin lives in this sun-blasted hollow? Lies, Rauth. Even your desperation sounds thin.” “It’s true. Temporary. Just… a situation.” “Then tend your own affairs, instead of slinking in to prey on a lone weaver, no?” “Ha! Damn it all. You expect me to just ignore a Brine-heart Crystal, glowing like a damned ember, right in front of me?” “Saw it, did you?” Mara’s mouth thinned. She’d been mesmerized by the small, pulsating crystal, a rare find, its internal light like captured starlight. She’d laid it on her crude table, a momentary lapse in caution. A mistake. This world offered no such luxury. The Sunken Hollow, a desperate collection of shelters scabbed onto a dry riverbed, held no law but the brutal one of survival. Strength seized. Weakness withered. Mara, forged in its harsh crucible, understood this truth in her bones. Born beneath a sky that wept no rain, raised among the parched and yearning, her earliest memories were of silent, stark landscapes. She remembered hunger, the constant, gnawing ache, and the cold indifference of the Shallows. She remembered the day she simply walked away from the scattered, transient families she’d known, leaving no trace but the faint impress of her small, bare feet in the salt dust. Mara, the name, was simply her own. Survival had taught her every trick, every silent move. Pilfering, foraging, even the construction of hidden snares – everything short of ending a life. Her meticulous traps, like the one that held Rauth now, had saved her from many a desperate encounter. Now, this. Her gaze swept Rauth, weighing his life against her own precarious existence. Kaelen, a Prime Gale-binder, was a force to be reckoned with. Dangerous. Just then, a cunning gleam sparked in Rauth’s eyes. *Swoosh!* A smaller, shiv-like blade appeared from his sleeve, a desperate, last-ditch effort. “Die, little weaver!” He screamed, a raw, primal sound, and plunged the blade upward. Mara recoiled, a blur of motion. Her bare heel scuffed the dirt as she sprang back. Rauth, fueled by adrenaline and spite, lunged, his eyes alight with venom. He wanted the crystal, wanted her dead, wanted to erase his humiliation. Mara grappled, her smaller frame twisting and turning, deflecting the wild swings of his shiv. His breath was hot and foul against her cheek. A desperate parry, a sudden shift in weight. *Plop!* A wet, sickening sound. Rauth’s scream died in his throat, a gurgling gasp. He stumbled back, staring at Mara with vacant disbelief as his own shiv, somehow turned, protruded from his chest. He clutched at it, a tremor running through his limbs, then collapsed, breath rattling, eyes fixed on the dim ceiling until their light faded. “Blast it all!” Mara slumped to the floor, the brineslate shard still clutched in her hand. Her fingers trembled. She’d never taken a life before. The eerie, visceral feel of the blade sliding, the sudden cessation of struggle – it was a cold, alien thing that settled deep in her. “Why… why did you have to crawl in here?” Her whisper was raw, her gaze fixed on the slack face of the dead man. She knew this day would come. To survive in the Shallows, where the desperate clawed at one another, violence was inevitable. But not today. Not now. A cold dread pierced through her exhaustion. Kaelen. The Prime Gale-binder. This was not a wound he would let fester. Hiding a body was impossible in the cramped, exposed hollows. She had to vanish. Swift action was her only recourse. She secured her door, the rusty latch groaning in protest. Then, she slipped out through a hidden breach in the hovel’s rear, a tight squeeze between crumbling rock and scavenged metal sheeting. The Sunken Hollow stretched before her, a labyrinth of makeshift dwellings: corrugated metal shacks, salt-stone hovels, sun-bleached fabric tents. All crammed together, without order, like some organic growth on the scarred land. Mara, a fleeting shadow, melted into its maze. *** “Blast it! A Prime Gale-binder. How could this be my luck?” Mara muttered the words through chapped lips, hunched in the stifling confines of a Dune-crawler. The massive, armored transport groaned and rumbled, its multi-wheeled frame shaking the dust from her hair. Rauth’s brother was no idle boast. Kaelen, a true Prime Gale-binder. Not merely a local bully, but a figure of considerable power, known to command the abrasive, superheated winds of the Shallows with terrible precision. Such individuals were rare, almost revered. For a nameless weaver like her to have killed his kin… it was a death sentence. Even a low-tier Weaver, a novice at shaping the brine, commanded respect. A Prime Gale-binder was akin to royalty among the scattered, struggling settlements. Kaelen’s rage, they said, was like the sun’s fury. He wouldn't care for Rauth’s thieving, only his brother’s demise. He’d be scouring the Sunken Hollow, leaving no salt-crust undisturbed, no hidden niche unexamined. He, too, knew the harsh intricacies of the hollows, having risen from them. Mara was hunted. Cornered. This Dune-crawler, a heavily armored leviathan ferrying desperate souls from the coastal settlements into the interior, was her only escape. Once beyond the loosely defined 'safe' zones, beyond the reach of Kaelen’s local influence, her trail would be lost in the vastness of the Shallows. ‘Never thought I’d willingly board one of these.’ Mara bit the inside of her cheek. Outside, the world was a canvas of endless red-orange dust. No verdant green, no soft soil. Only the desiccated remains of a forgotten ocean, now a burning desert. All manner of horrors lurked in that searing expanse. Beneath the shifting sands, colossal sand-skimmers hunted. On the surface, packs of salt-manes and horned dredgers roamed. And human predators, the scavenger gangs, constantly stalked the travel routes, waiting for the Dune-crawlers to falter. No place was truly safe. That was why the desperate clung to the edges of the Sunken Hollow, enduring a life barely above subsistence. Some vague, unproven ward seemed to keep the worst of the beasts from encroaching too close to the settlements. But Kaelen’s wrath was a greater terror than any beast. “Blast it! If only they understood a Brineheart Weaver’s power…” Mara knew her abilities were vast, subtle, and often underestimated. She could raise walls of gleaming salt, summon stinging gales of crystal dust, draw sustenance from the residual energies of the deep. But these powers were quiet, less immediately devastating than a Gale-binder’s storm of fire-wind. The world, in its broken state, valued brute, overt force. A century ago, the Great Retreat had scoured the world, leaving desiccation in its wake. Ninety percent of humanity perished. The survivors clung to what remained, scratching out lives on exposed seabeds and salt flats. Those who *Awakened* – those who could manipulate the elements, the Brineheart Weavers, the Gale-binders, the Earth-shapers – became the linchpins of this new, broken civilization. Even the lowest-ranked among them earned a place, a scrap of dignity. Mara, for all her unique power, remained an anomaly, often isolated, her abilities sometimes seen as strange or even ominous. No one would mourn a lone weaver, should she disappear into the Shallows. Her choice, then, was this Dune-crawler bound for the Deep Vein Pits. Seventy kilometers from the Sunken Hollow, buried within the jagged Salt-Tooth Mountains. All the precious Brine-heart Crystals, the crucial fuel for the remaining settlements, came from there. Mining Brine-hearts demanded a relentless toll. Tunnels were tight, air thin, the work brutal, demanding pickaxe and shovel. Miners perished constantly, leaving a perpetual hunger for labor. Thus, the Dune-crawlers accepted anyone, no questions asked, no identities checked. This was how Mara, a killer by accident, found herself on a path to a deeper hell. ‘No matter what, I’ll survive the Deep Vein. And then, Kaelen. I’ll make him taste the brine.’ While Mara gazed out the reinforced viewport at the blurring landscape, a hulking figure settled onto the bench beside her. Jorn. A scar-faced, burly man, clearly accustomed to hard labor. “Hey, little one! To the pits, are we?” Jorn’s voice was rough, his breath reeking of stale synth-ale. “What of it?” Mara’s response was clipped, her gaze unwavering on the view. “Got a sharp tongue, don’t ya? But the pits… they’re full of men who like sharp tongues. And slender bodies.” His laugh was a wet chuckle. Jorn’s eyes, heavy-lidded, slid over her, a slow, predatory appraisal that stripped her bare. *This foul animal.* Mara recognized the look. The hollows had been full of such men, their gazes like physical invasions. Her small frame, her sharp features, had always drawn them. Only her quick wit, her fierce independence, and the hidden traps of her own making had kept her safe from countless unwelcome advances. Her hand, beneath her threadbare cloak, curled around the rough hilt of the brineslate shard, still warm from the recent killing. A cold promise settled in her heart.

A Taste of Salted Blood