A fine, biting dust storm stirred. Wind, dry as ancient bone, scoured the plains, lifting the fallen ash in swirling gusts. Even brief exposure left skin raw, burning. It was nothing to Kael. Ash was his domain. It could not harm him. It felt like an extension of his own flesh, of his will. The immediate area, though limited, offered ample shielding in this desolate expanse. Scorching daylight and the piercing chill of night found balance beneath the robe he wore. Crafted from the cured hide of an Ash Grubber, it was deceptively thin, remarkably light, yet possessed a potent insulation. Day’s heat rebuffed, night’s cold contained. His energy, precious in this world, remained conserved. Walking beside Master Valerius, Kael scanned the unending grey. Only ash drifts met his gaze, rolling dunes of particulate matter. No familiar landmark, no ancient ruin, broke the horizon. Standing amidst the vast Ash Wastes, one felt acutely insignificant. Master Valerius walked ahead, a gaunt, determined silhouette. He never paused, never glanced back, always pressing forward. Such single-minded progression, without visible markers, was unnerving. Only those with an ironclad purpose could navigate these wastes in such a straight line. Days had passed since their paths intertwined, yet Master Valerius offered no word of his goals, no whisper of his past. Each evening, as the twin moons climbed, he would settle and place a chipped, grey crystalline fragment before him: The Silent Shard. Then, he would speak to it. Initially, Kael dismissed it as the ramblings of a man broken by isolation, a survivor’s madness. He knew of ancient relics, items rumored to hold the echoes of forgotten minds, but dismissed them as myth. He did not believe The Silent Shard to be such a thing. But the ritual repeated, night after night. Master Valerius spoke, his voice low, a soft counterpoint to the wind. In those moments, the harsh lines of his face would soften. His eyes, usually sharp and distant, would gleam with a profound, almost aching emotion. Then, with the return of dawn, his gaze would harden, reflecting a stern, fierce resolve. His eyes held a madness, a deep-seated rage that seemed capable of tearing apart the very fabric of Aethel. Kael could not fathom its source. Today, that gaze remained, pushing through the relentless ash. Dried meat, tough and flavorless, grated between Kael’s teeth. He chewed, following in Valerius’s silent wake. Consuming the Ash Grubber’s liver and concentrated essence had wrought a fundamental change in Kael. All excess refined away, his body now taut, endlessly resilient. The arduous trek registered only as a steady rhythm, not fatigue. Without Master Valerius, Kael would have remained ignorant of the Ash Grubber’s existence, or its transformative properties. ‘Who is he? What drives him through these wastes alone? Why am I here, following him?’ Questions, like the ash, settled relentlessly upon Kael. Asking Valerius directly seemed futile, an impossible undertaking. ‘Nothing about this journey is simple.’ Swallowing the last of the jerky, Kael’s throat tightened. His hand went to the water pouch secured within his robe. It, too, was crafted from Ash Grubber hide—light, flexible, holding a generous store of water. He had filled it at the Sunken Spring days ago, before that fleeting oasis vanished beneath the accumulating ash. He drank sparingly, only when absolute necessity demanded it. A single sip sufficed to quell the worst of his thirst. As he re-secured the pouch, a subtle tremor registered deep within the ash. Kael focused his senses, the fine particles around him humming with a nascent awareness. Ten distinct movements. They approached from every direction, closing a circle. Within a radius of ten meters, his dust-sense had extended. No time for celebration, though, for this heightened perception meant danger. Preparation was paramount. Slow, inexorable, the creatures advanced, forming a living trap. Their bodies, armored in glistening, compacted ash-shell, reflected the muted light of the ash-choked sky. Sturdy pincers, six jointed legs, a pair of twitching antennae. They were ants, but monstrous. These were Cinder Swarmers. Larger than any man, they moved in packs, their ferocity earning them their name. In the Ash Wastes, Cinder Swarmers were the bane of any who dared traverse their territory. One swarmer usually meant a nest nearby, a vast, subterranean labyrinth housing hundreds, thousands, of the creatures. Prey caught was dragged down, fed to the queen and her countless larvae. Their true terror lay in their venom. A bite delivered a paralyzing toxin, locking the body while leaving the mind agonizingly aware. Victims felt every tearing pincer, every burrowing larva, in stark, conscious horror. Tales whispered in the Enclave’s under-city spoke of choosing self-inflicted death over the bite of a Cinder Swarmer. Kael recognized them instantly from those grim legends. The Cinder Swarmers clashed their massive pincers, an ominous click-clack, as they closed in. Their mineral-like eyes, dull grey, caught the ash-light, creating dizzying blurs against their dark shells. Kael stood his ground, unleashing a torrent of condensed ash. Five Dust Lances shot forth, aimed at the swarmers’ heads. They staggered, chitinous legs scrabbling, but their heads remained intact. Their ash-shells were an impenetrable defense, able to repel all but the most powerful strikes. Lesser dust-sensitives, those whose control was rudimentary, would flee at the first sight of Cinder Swarmers. Kael, unaware of the creatures’ legendary resilience, pressed his attack. Enraged by his assault, the swarmers charged with renewed ferocity. Kael retreated, maintaining a continuous volley of Dust Lances. The ash projectiles hammered relentlessly against their heads, each impact a dull thud. Despite the repeated shocks, they held strong. This approach was fruitless. Kael realized. He would be overwhelmed. Darting back, he focused his entire output onto a single target. A Dust Lance, thicker, denser, struck with concentrated force. Finally, the targeted swarmer’s head exploded in a cloud of grey ichor and pulverized ash-shell. Kael clenched his fists. He unleashed Dust Lances in rapid succession. With each concentrated eruption, another swarmer’s head burst like a foul firework. Traveling with Master Valerius had refined his control, amplified his ability. It bridged the gap in their natural defenses. Confidence surged, the effectiveness of his Dust Lances affirmed. Then, a shriek. One of the remaining Cinder Swarmers emitted a bizarre, high-frequency clicking. It sounded like terror, a desperate cry for aid, as primal as Kael’s own fear. Kael immediately launched a Dust Lance at the source of the sound. The swarmer’s head shattered. Only three remained. Kael thought to finish them swiftly, to catch up with Master Valerius. He should have known better. Suddenly, Kael sensed dozens of new movements. Startled, before he could even react, Cinder Swarmers burst through the ash, thrusting their armored heads skyward. Their numbers were unimaginable, exceeding a hundred. Only now did Kael understand: the clicking sound was a call. A rallying cry to countless comrades. The Cinder Swarmers closed in, completely surrounding him. An eerie cacophony of clicks and chitinous scrapes exploded into the air. They charged, a tide of grey, relentless death. Kael moved, a blur of motion. Ash Glide propelled him, a shimmering ripple across the ground, narrowly avoiding the swarmers’ pincers. In a hair’s breadth escape, he dodged a biting attack, countering with a focused Dust Lance to a swarmer’s head. It detonated, coating him in its putrid remains. The other Cinder Swarmers, spurred by the scent of ichor and the sight of their fallen kin, attacked with even greater ferocity. Kael fought back, a silent scream of defiance rising within him. In the heat of battle, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Master Valerius. He sat atop a high ash drift, a stoic sentinel. The Silent Shard rested beside him as he observed Kael’s desperate struggle. “Cinder Swarmers flock when one of their kind is threatened,” Valerius murmured to the shard, his voice a dry rasp. “Never assume those attacking are all there are.” Even now, as Kael fought, the clicking calls reverberated through the ash, summoning yet more reinforcements. Valerius sensed it too—a vast horde of Cinder Swarmers approaching rapidly from beneath the earth. A deep nest, an anthill of colossal scale, must be nearby. Kael exerted himself fully, unleashing Dust Lances with furious precision. Each blast caused another swarmer’s head to erupt. “It’s not enough,” Valerius rasped, his gaze fixed on Kael. “Far from sufficient.” Kael had awakened to a rare, potent ability in this broken world. Dust manipulation was a blessing, unparalleled in these ash-choked lands. Yet, Kael failed to grasp its true scope, its boundless utility. Such things could only be discovered through personal experience, through hardship. The Enclave judged an Awakened’s strength by their insignias. Martial categories, arcane categories, lesser or greater dust-sensitives—Sovereigns at the pinnacle. Such superficial designations dictated hierarchy, prescribed potential. When Awakened gained new capabilities, they were guided not to explore their own utility, their own unique path, but pushed towards a standardized, safe method of development. Their true potential remained untapped, confined. One had to collide with adversity, stare into the maw of oblivion, recognize one’s own shortcomings, then desperately, brutally, fill those gaps. That, Master Valerius believed, was the only true path for an Awakened’s growth. But the powerful figures of the Enclave disagreed. Valerius’s approach was too slow, too inefficient, they claimed. Hence, the influential looked down on him, saw him as an anachronism. “Hard-headed fools,” Valerius scoffed, his voice laced with bitter contempt. “So engrossed in their petty power struggles, they cannot even comprehend the true state of this world.” A century had passed since the Sixth Sundering. Most had perished, forgotten beneath the ash. Only a handful remained, remnants of a bygone era. Master Valerius was one such survivor, one of the very few who remembered the horrors of that time. He had witnessed firsthand how the cataclysm began, how countless souls suffered and faded in despair. Civilization crumbled overnight, while mutated horrors crawled from the earth to feast upon the dying. No one could fathom the immense anger he felt, watching helplessly as his family, his beloved, became mere prey, vanishing into the ash. Awakened, surviving into this moment, Valerius never once forgot the terror. Some told him to forgive himself. How could he? Even after a hundred years, he could not forgive himself for watching helplessly as his wife died. While he called everyone else an idiot, in truth, the greatest idiot was himself. A mad gleam entered his eyes as he watched Kael. Kael battled fiercely against the Cinder Swarmers—dodging with Ash Glide, attacking with Dust Lances. A standardized approach, refined through basic training. Kael might believe it his best, but it had not reached Valerius’s expectations. Not yet. “Prove your worth by surviving on your own, you fool!”

Chapter 13: Cinder Swarmers