A howl rose, not from beast, but from the world itself. Wind, dry as ancient bone, scoured the Ashfall Dominion, flinging razor-sharp dust in blinding sheets. Particles scraped, sharp as shattered glass, tearing at exposed skin. It mattered little to Kaelen. The very essence of the ash-wastes sang in his veins. A second skin of swirling grit settled around him, a natural extension of his will. Sand could not harm him; it was an intimate part of his being, a malleable shield against the ceaseless erosion. His Leviathan-hide cloak, supple and dark, clung close, a relic of their last oasis. During the merciless daylight, it breathed, drawing heat from his skin. By the frigid night, it held his warmth, a vital barrier against the chill that seeped from the petrified ground. It conserved his very life force, a precious commodity in Solara. Lean muscle now strung his frame, honed by the beast's potent ichor. Fatigue, a shadow that once clung, now recoiled. His stride, tireless and even, carried him through the endless dunes. He moved as a phantom, the grit of the world his silent companion. Vorlag strode ahead, an unyielding monolith against the indifferent horizon. His gaze, fixed on a distant point Kaelen could not discern, never wavered. Without a clear goal, no one could navigate these treacherous wastes with such singular purpose. Days blurred into a single, grinding march. Vorlag spoke no word of his past, nor of their destination. His silhouette, gaunt and formidable, was the only landmark in a world devoid of fixed points. What ancient hunger drove his mentor across this desolation? Often, at the sundering of day, when the twin suns dipped below the ash-line, Vorlag would speak. Not to Kaelen, but to Stoneheart, the obsidian axe resting across his knees. Etched with forgotten runes, the weapon seemed to listen, its polished surface reflecting the dying light. Kaelen watched, bewildered. A fleeting softness creased Vorlag’s hard lines, a flicker of emotion in eyes usually cold as obsidian. He spoke in low, guttural tones, a cadence of familiarity, as if sharing secrets with a long-lost friend. Yet, with the dawn, the madness returned, a fierce, tearing rage that seemed capable of unraveling the entire world. His stern face settled once more into a mask of grim determination. Dried sinew, tough and flavorless, grated between Kaelen's teeth. After weeks of travel, questions endlessly plagued him. Who was this man? What terrible purpose dragged him across this ruined land, and why had Kaelen, of all souls, been chosen to follow? Answering them seemed impossible. Vorlag's silence was a wall, as ancient and unyielding as the petrified forests of Solara. Nothing about this journey was straightforward. A faint gurgle from the Leviathan-skin pouch caught Kaelen's ear. Another gift from the slain beast, its hide proved an exceptional container, holding a surprising volume of water. Kaelen had filled it before the oasis vanished, before the green receded once more into memory. A single, measured sip touched his tongue, enough to quell the deep-seated thirst without squandering the precious liquid. He secured the pouch back at his waist. A tremor, deep in the ash, caught Kaelen's attention. Not the wind, not the grinding shift of dunes, but something else, something alive. His sharpened senses, a network of unseen filaments, spread into the ground. Ten paces, a growing sphere of awareness, now encompassed him. The enhanced perception, a lingering effect of the Leviathan's gallbladder, was a potent gift. Yet, this was no time for contemplation. It was a time for preparation. Low, chitinous forms scuttled beneath the surface. They moved slowly, deliberately, forming a tightening circle. Kaelen sensed ten entities, closing in from all sides. Obsidian plating, glistening like broken night, formed their armor. Sturdy pincers, split and cruel, jutted from their heads. Six segmented legs propelled them through the pulverized earth. Eyes like polished shards of jet reflected the harsh light of the setting sun. Ash-Stalkers. They were gargantuan ants, many times the size of a man. They hunted in packs, reflecting the ferocity of the ancient plains-wolves they were named after. One such creature signaled a nest nearby, a sprawling labyrinth of tunnels and larvae. Prey was dragged back, consumed by a ravenous queen. What made the Ash-Stalkers truly fearsome was their venom. Injected with a bite, it paralyzed the body entirely, leaving the mind excruciatingly aware. Victims writhed in silent agony, conscious as their flesh was devoured. Tales from the scattered settlements whispered of suicide as a mercy, a preferable end to the slow, agonizing consumption. They clashed their pincers, a dry, rasping sound that promised a grim end. Unperturbed, Kaelen unleashed his will. A guttural roar ripped from his throat as five jets of coalesced obsidian dust, Kaelen’s Ash Blast, tore the air. They slammed into the heads of the lead Stalkers. The monstrous insects staggered, their multi-faceted eyes blurring in the sudden impact. Unlike the softer carapaces of the Giant Horned Hyenas, their heads remained intact. The obsidian plates held, shuddering but unbroken. Their defense was legendary, repelling attacks that would shatter lesser beasts. Enraged by Kaelen's assault, the Ash-Stalkers charged with renewed ferocity. Kaelen retreated, his Ash Blast tearing the air in continuous bursts. Each impact shook the creatures, but none fell. He realized this strategy would not suffice. He honed his will, funneling every ounce of his power. He stopped retreating, planting his feet firmly in the shifting ash. A single, focused strike, a concentrated spear of raw obsidian, erupted from his hand. It slammed into the forehead of the nearest Ash-Stalker. A grotesque pop, like a bursting bladder, split the air. The Stalker’s head erupted, showering Kaelen in a spray of black ichor and chitin shards. He clenched his fists, then unleashed the Ash Blast in rapid succession. One after another, the monstrous heads exploded, gruesome fireworks against the darkening sky. His ability had grown, its potency amplified by the challenges of the journey, bridging the gap between his nascent power and the creatures' formidable defenses. A chilling realization tightened Kaelen's gut. He had gained confidence. That's when it happened. A shrill, scraping cry split the air, high-pitched and alien. It was a sound of terror, yes, but also of warning. Kaelen launched an Ash Blast at the creature's head, silencing it mid-scream. Three Ash-Stalkers remained. He moved to finish them, to catch up to Vorlag, who had continued his endless march. Then, the ash around him began to boil. Numerous creatures, unseen until now, surged forth. A wave, not of ash, but of glinting horror, erupted from the pulverized earth. Their numbers exceeded a hundred, a tide of scuttling dread. Kaelen’s mind reeled; the high-frequency shriek had been a call to arms, a summons to the swarm. The Ash-Stalkers closed in, a living wall of chitin and fury, completely surrounding him. An eerie cacophony, a thousand dry clicks and scrapes, filled the air. They charged, a black tide of segmented limbs and snapping pincers. Kaelen moved, a blur of ash and defiance, using Ash Glide to weave through the onslaught. He dodged the crushing embrace of a Stalker's pincer by a hair's breadth, retaliating with a blast that tore its head clean off. Another spray of ichor coated him. Seeing their brethren fall, the remaining Ash-Stalkers attacked with even greater ferocity. Kaelen fought, screaming, each Ash Blast a desperate pulse of raw power, each step an act of survival. He felt the world narrowing to the arc of his arm, the crunch of chitin, the metallic tang of ichor. High atop a petrified dune, overlooking the swirling vortex of combat, Vorlag sat. Stoneheart rested across his knees, its obsidian blade reflecting the fading light. He watched Kaelen, a silent, unmoving sentinel. Ash-Stalkers flock, Vorlag mused, when one of their kind is threatened. The boy should know this. Each shrill cry sent out a summons. The true nest, a sprawling labyrinth beneath the ash, would soon empty itself. A legion approached, a crawling death that would test Kaelen’s limits. He sensed their movement, a great tremor beneath the entire dune field. The boy, Kaelen, roared, each Ash Blast causing a Stalker's head to explode. A standardized approach, Vorlag thought. A predictable series of reactions. He blasted, he dodged. Not enough. Not even close. Kaelen had awakened to a rare, potent gift, Sand Manipulation. In this world, a desolate monument to cataclysm, it was a blessing unparalleled. Yet, the boy grasped the dust, but not its true tongue. He knew not the full extent of his potential, the terrifying utility of his connection to this ruined world. Such revelations could not be taught. They had to be clawed from the maw of adversity. The powers that ruled the few remaining bastions of the Sundered Earth, the influential figures of what they now called the Dust Council, judged an Awakened's strength by rigid insignias, by ranks and categories. They guided aspiring practitioners down safe, predictable paths, fearing the wild, untamed expressions of true power. They stifled innovation, preventing any true understanding of one's own capabilities. One had to collide with adversity, cross the boundaries of life and death, realize their own gaping shortcomings, and then ponder how to fill those chasm-like gaps. That, to Vorlag, was the only true path for an Awakened's growth. But the Dust Council, obsessed with efficiency and control, called his methods archaic, savage. They looked down on him, and on his history. “Hard-headed fools!” Vorlag snarled, a low rasp against the wind. “Engrossed in petty power struggles, they remain blind to the world’s true state.” A hundred years had withered since the Sundering, since the sixth extinction. Most survivors perished, reduced to ash and memory. Vorlag was one of the very few who remembered the horrors of that time, who bore the scars of a green world ripped asunder. He had witnessed firsthand how the cataclysm began, how countless souls suffered and perished in despair. Civilization crumbled overnight, the transmogrified monsters of the new world ravaging the old. The immense anger he felt, watching helplessly as his family and friends became mere prey, had never faded. It had festered, a wound that refused to close. Fortunately, he had awakened. He had survived. He had remembered. Some whispered to Vorlag, telling him to forgive himself. Forgive? How could he forgive the ghost of his own helplessness, watching his wife fade to dust? Even after a century, the phantom touch of her dying hand still burned. He called them all idiots. Yet, the biggest idiot was himself. A mad gleam entered his eyes. Vorlag watched Kaelen, a small figure battling a rising tide of chitin and rage. He dodged with Ash Glide, attacked with Ash Blast. A standardized approach. The boy might believe it his best, but it was far from what Vorlag knew he was capable of. “Bleed for your worth, boy,” Vorlag whispered, his voice carried away by the wind. “Prove it.”

The Scythe of Ash