A sudden void swallowed Kaelen. One moment, the volcanic maw bellowed, a torrent of ash and sulfur-laced air clawing at his skin. The next, silence, vast and suffocating, pressed in from all directions. The crushing weight of the earth itself seemed to settle upon him, yet Kaelen held fast to the last tremors of the Ashwyrm’s dying throes, a fading echo in his bones. Then, searing heat. An unfiltered sun beat down, a malevolent eye in a sky bleached of color. His lungs burned with air so dry it tasted of ancient dust. Just moments ago, the world tore itself apart in fire. Now, the Scarred Lands stretched, an infinite canvas of ochre and rust, barren save for the skeletal spires of forgotten cities that pierced the horizon like broken teeth. Sand shifted under his boots, a hungry, whispering thing that pulled at his steps. Kaelen’s gaze swept the desolation. No landmarks, no shelter. Just endless, burning grit. An iron grip clamped Kaelen’s wrist. Rax, the old man, his eyes like chips of volcanic glass, fixed on Kaelen’s hand. The pressure intensified, a silent, crushing vise that threatened to splinter bone. Kaelen’s breath hitched. “No mark of the Ascended on your skin,” Rax rasped, a note of grim amusement in his voice. “But the sands moved for you, didn’t they? A whisper of the desert’s will.” Pain flared, a white-hot agony that shot through Kaelen’s arm. He gasped, a guttural sound that tore from his throat. His knees buckled, sending him to the scorching ground. The desert floor pulsed with the sun's wrath. He understood now, the old adage of pain so profound it stole even the scream. The old man released him. A sigh of agony escaped Kaelen, a ragged sound he could no longer hold back. The phantom ache lingered, a throbbing testament to Rax’s casual strength. “Plenty of Awakened,” Rax mused, dusting imaginary grit from his dark cloak. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing, a… peculiar case like you.” Kaelen pushed himself up, every muscle screaming. His voice, when it came, was a raw whisper of fury. “Damn you, old man! You nearly tore my arm from my body!” “Weakness and foolishness often walk hand in hand.” Rax’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. A primal surge of defiance ripped through Kaelen. His mind reached out. The sand beneath them recoiled, then burst upward, a concentrated torrent of grit and dust, aimed at Rax’s chest. It struck with the force of a battering ram, a miniature sandstorm confined to a lethal point. Rax didn’t so much as sway. He merely brushed a hand across his chest, dislodging the fine grit, a faint chuckle rumbling in his throat. “Undeniable. You command the sand. Heh.” “So what?” Kaelen demanded, his voice hoarse. “What more do you want?” “From this moment,” Rax declared, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the heat, “you walk with me, fool.” “My name is Kaelen, not fool,” he retorted, the words tasting like sand. “And you are a damned old man!” “Weakness invites scorn.” Rax’s gaze sharpened, piercing Kaelen like a desert thorn. “You are the desert’s echo, yet you stand here, a fledgling sparrow in a land of hawks.” Kaelen felt his mouth snap shut. The raw power Rax had displayed, the nonchalant ease with which he’d battled the Ashwyrm, now loomed over him like a shifting dune. Rax was a force of nature, a predator of the Scarred Lands. Kaelen, in comparison, was less than a grain of dust to him. Rax looked past Kaelen, his eyes scanning the empty horizon. “The whispers grow, the Blight stirs. An F-rank at best. It will be some time before you are truly useful.” He turned his gaze back to Kaelen, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Harsh tutelage awaits. If you do not break, you will sharpen.” Kaelen's mind reeled. He was caught. A desolate expanse with no refuge, no escape. Survival meant following this madman. Until he forged his own strength, he had no other choice. A heavy sigh escaped Kaelen, swallowed by the immense silence of the desert. He fell into step behind Rax. Powerless. That was the true crime here. The desert demanded strength. Rax moved with an unnatural ease across the blistered landscape. The relentless sun, the shimmering heat that warped the horizon, seemed not to touch him. He strode over the shifting sands as if on solid rock, his pace unwavering. Kaelen, however, struggled. Each step was a battle against the yielding grit, which sank to his ankles with every lift of his foot. The searing heat clawed at his skin, stealing his breath, drawing sweat that evaporated before it could cool him. His vision blurred at the edges. His lungs burned. “Ha,” Rax scoffed, not even turning his head. “The foolishness of man. One percent of your given ability, not even that, you waste.” Kaelen stumbled, regaining his footing with a grunt. “I only recently… awakened this connection. It’s not so simple.” “What’s simple about a dying world?” Rax’s voice held no sympathy. He stopped, finally turning to face Kaelen. Disdain etched itself onto his ancient features, a cold judgment that stoked the embers of Kaelen’s own frustration. “I am merely an echo, not the desert’s voice itself,” Kaelen countered, the words tight in his chest. “Not a master of this domain like you.” “Foolish. What does the strength of an ‘echo’ matter in the face of survival? Who is born a master? Some are blessed, yes, but does a lack of blessing mean you lie down and rot? You, too, are blessed in the eyes of others. Quit your whining. Your body stands, but your mind remains trapped in the softness of the before-time.” “Stop calling me fool,” Kaelen ground out, his jaw clenched. “Break your stubborn head, then the name might change,” Rax sneered. “Until then, fool among fools.” Kaelen bit back a retort, his throat tight. He understood. Arguments were useless. Rax held all the cards. With a dismissive turn, Rax resumed his relentless pace. “Your power. Know it. Master it. Your connection is your burden, your weapon.” “And if I cannot?” Kaelen called out, a desperate edge to his voice. “Then the sun claims you,” Rax said without looking back. “Or I do. One will surely make an end.” Two lines of footprints stretched behind Rax, stark against the unbroken sand. Kaelen glared at the old man’s retreating back. Fool? Break his stubborn head? A hot, bitter bile rose in Kaelen’s throat. Anger at Rax. Anger at his own weakness. It churned within him, a brewing sandstorm of emotion. ‘Yes,’ he vowed, gritting his teeth. ‘You will never call me that again.’ Kaelen followed, his mind alight with a new, fierce resolve. The desert was his power. He had to understand it. To bend it. He had only used his connection improvisationally before, in desperate moments. This was different. This was survival. He had to learn the boundaries, the subtleties. He reached out, a tendril of his will touching the grains beneath his feet. Slowly, obediently, the sand began to gather, to rise toward him in a silent, swirling current. ‘Within a five-meter radius,’ he noted. The sand closest responded swiftly, a hungry murmur. Farther out, it moved sluggishly, a reluctant serpent. That was a problem for later. The immediate concern was the treacherous ground. The sand, deep as his ankles, drained his energy with every step. If he didn't solve this, the desert would claim him, slow and agonizing. ‘Compacting the sand. What if I make the ground solid beneath me?’ He’d used a similar method to cross the lava rivers of the volcanic realm. He focused, tightening his will, and the loose grains beneath his boots solidified, hardened into a temporary, stable platform. Walking became effortless, like paved stone. But a sharp, sudden drain followed. His connection, his very essence, flowed outward too rapidly. At this rate, he’d deplete his power within a few dozen steps. He pictured the inevitable: mana utterly spent, abandoned to the sun. He saw himself a desiccated husk, or worse, carrion for the scavenging beasts of Aerthos. The image sent a chill through him, despite the blistering heat. He abandoned the method. Reckless, unsustainable. His pool of power was nascent, not yet a deep well. He needed efficiency. He needed to be the desert, not just command it. ‘Concentrate the mana in my legs?’ He tried it. A subtle shift in his steps, a newfound lightness, a reduction in the sheer physical effort. It worked, to a degree. But it felt… external. It wasn't the manipulation of sand; it was an augmentation of his own body. Not the path to mastery. His true power lay in the sand itself. He had to learn to dance with it, not just walk upon it. He focused again, narrowing his intention, trying to move only the thinnest layer of sand directly beneath the soles of his boots. A mere centimeter of controlled grit. Concentration became a torment. Such narrow focus was harder than broad dominion. His will wavered. The sand, unwilling to be constrained, scattered. He tumbled backward, landing hard on his backside, a cloud of fine dust erupting around him. His mouth filled with grit, dry and unpleasant. He spat, the action burning his already parched throat. No water. Just endless sand. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a creeping shadow under the relentless sun. Rax remained a distant, unwavering dot on the horizon. Not once had the old man looked back. He cared nothing for Kaelen’s survival. That indifference, cold and absolute, fueled a fresh wave of rage. Who had brought him to this agonizing brink? If not for Rax, he might be resting, seeking cool refuge in some forgotten ruin. The injustice festered, threatening to overwhelm what little sanity he clung to. He had to find a solution. Quickly. Before the desert, and Rax, broke him. Kaelen focused, again, on the grains beneath his feet. A flicker of will. The sand obeyed, a slow, grudging slide forward, like ancient gears grinding. It was agonizingly slow. His nascent control was like a child’s grip on a powerful current. Too much focus, too little, and the fragile coherence shattered, sending him sprawling. Again and again, he fell, spitting sand, his limbs aching, his mind a raw nerve. But he didn’t stop. The falls became less jarring, the recovery quicker. A subtle shift, an intuitive understanding, began to blossom. His command over the thin layer of sand grew steadier. It moved under him, no longer scattering, but guiding him forward, a whisper of motion. The sand itself seemed to carry him, a living extension of his will. Still, the power drain was significant. Unsustainable. He pushed harder, striving for greater efficiency, for a seamless flow between his will and the desert's response. He refined the movement, honed the connection, until the sand glided, almost weightless, beneath him. His mana, though still strained, held steady. He moved with a new grace, no longer fighting the desert, but flowing with it. Far ahead, Rax felt the subtle change. A ripple in the vast, silent sea of the Scarred Lands. The faint fluctuations of a nascent power, the almost imperceptible shift in the air currents, even the rhythm of Kaelen’s breath – all spoke to Rax. He did not need to turn. He knew. “A somewhat useful fool, at last.” Rax’s voice was a low murmur, carried away by the ceaseless winds of Aerthos. By his standards, Kaelen still had an eternity to walk.

A World of Cinders and Sand