A sudden wrenching force tore at Elias. He plunged through the geomantic rift, a scream of protesting earth echoing in his ears. Pressure, immense and crushing, seized him once more. It was a familiar weight, the raw, untamed power of Aethel itself, threatening to flatten bone and spirit alike. He had felt it before, navigating the treacherous heart of a seething magma fissure. He held his breath, grounding himself against the telluric forces that sought to unravel him. Then, release. The world spat him out. Intense heat struck him first, a dry, suffocating blanket. He stumbled, catching himself before he fell, dust gritty against his tongue. Moments earlier, the air had shimmered with volcanic haze and the reek of sulfur. Now, an endless expanse of scorching dust stretched to a hazy horizon. No mountains, no crumbling plateaus, just a vast, undulating sea of fine, sun-baked particles. The sky above was a merciless, bleached white, devoid of clouds. Elias scanned the desolate vista. Not a single landmark broke the monotony. The dust-sea offered no solace, no direction, only an oppressive, blinding glare. Rhydian moved like a shadow, already a dozen paces away. Without a word, the older man turned, his eyes like chipped obsidian. A hand shot out, seizing Elias’s left wrist. Iron fingers closed, not just around his bone, but around the subtle currents of geomantic power that coursed beneath his skin. A sharp, searing pain erupted. “No mark of rank on your flesh,” Rhydian’s voice was a low rasp, “yet I felt the earth stir beneath your touch back in the vents. You commanded the very dust there.” The grip tightened. Elias gritted his teeth, a tremor running through his frame. His wrist felt caught in the grinder of a mill, every sinew, every nerve screaming. He knew this sensation; it was a geomantic lock, severing his connection to the earth’s subtle hum, amplifying the raw agony of bone against bone. Collapsed to one knee, Elias fought to breathe. Pain, pure and unadulterated, choked him. The saying about pain so great it stole your scream now held meaning. Rhydian released him abruptly. A faint ring of dust, fine as ash, rose from where his fingers had pressed. “Many awaken to the world’s whispers these days. A rare one like you, who bends the dust itself, is not so strange.” A ragged groan tore from Elias’s throat, a sound he’d forced down until the pressure eased. The ache lingered, a dull throb in his wrist, reminding him of his vulnerability. “You almost shattered my arm,” Elias managed, his voice a low growl, devoid of his usual stoic calm. “Weakness invites breakage,” Rhydian replied, brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “And foolishness invites pain.” Quiet fury ignited in Elias. He clenched his fist, drawing on the elemental dust around him. A small, violent vortex of grit spun up, a miniature dust-devil forming at his command. He hurled it at Rhydian. The high-pressure blast of elemental dust struck Rhydian’s chest. The man didn't flinch. A faint shimmer, like heat haze, surrounded him, absorbing the impact. He merely chuckled, the sound dry as the desert itself, then brushed the lingering dust from his attire. “So, confirmed. Dust-sense. Hehe.” “Is there more you wish to say?” Elias asked, his voice strained. “From this moment, you follow me, boy,” Rhydian declared, already turning to stride into the vast dust-sea. “My name is Elias.” “A name means little if the spirit behind it is soft,” Rhydian countered, not bothering to look back. “Show weakness, and you are a fool.” “Speak another word of insult, and I will shape this ground into your tomb,” Elias hissed, a dangerous tremor in his voice. The ground beneath him rumbled faintly, a subtle threat only he could summon. Rhydian paused, a faint smile playing on his lips. “A flicker of spirit. Good. But the foolish are broken first, then remade.” Elias clamped his jaw shut. Rhydian was beyond him. He felt the vast, ancient power radiating from the man, a force that could reshape mountains with a thought. His own nascent connection to the earth was a mere whisper compared to Rhydian’s roar. He was a speck of grit in the older man’s indifferent gaze, easily ground to nothing. Rhydian glanced at the featureless expanse, murmuring, “Barely stirring the F-rank currents. Will be some time before he’s useful.” A dry chuckle escaped Rhydian. “Harsh tutelage is the only path. If he doesn't break, he will rise.” Witnessing Rhydian mutter to himself, utterly unconcerned, sent a chill through Elias. Trapped. He had been snared by a madman, wandering this dead world. Running was unthinkable. No cover, no refuge in this endless, shifting expanse. Until his geomantic abilities matured, Elias was bound to this dangerous companionship. Sighing, Elias followed. Powerlessness was a brand, a crushing weight heavier than any mountain. A curse. Rhydian walked as if on solid ground, impervious to the scorching heat. No sign of fatigue, no bead of sweat on his brow, despite the sun’s relentless assault. Elias, trailing behind, felt exhaustion gnaw at him with every step. The dust, fine and hot, sank beneath his boots, draining his stamina with each effort to lift his foot. Sweat plastered his tunic to his skin, his breathing growing ragged. His steps faltered. “Ha! No one is more foolish,” Rhydian called out, still not looking back. “You possess the gift, yet you use less than a shard of it.” “You can command the very dust. Why exert yourself walking?” “It’s not as simple as it sounds,” Elias retorted, his voice thick with dust and irritation. “I barely awakened to this connection a moon ago.” “And that is an excuse?” Rhydian stopped, turning. Disdain etched his weathered face. His gaze, colder than mountain ice, stirred Elias’s quiet anger anew. “I am still nascent in my connection, not an Elder like you,” Elias said, struggling to keep his tone even. “Hence the fool. What matters the depth of your awakening? Is anyone born with the strength of ancient stone? A few, perhaps, blessed from birth. But because you were not, will you abandon the journey? Others see your very awakening as a blessing. Cease your whining. Begin to understand the dust beneath your feet. What good is a body whole, if the mind is a barren wasteland?” “Cease calling me a fool,” Elias ground out, his hands clenching at his sides. “Shatter the stubbornness in your skull, and I shall. Until then, you are the fool of all fools.” Elias bit back a retort, his jaw aching. Arguing with Rhydian was like shouting at a shifting dune. Futile. Rhydian turned away. “Your power. Only you can truly know its bounds. Find the way to shape it, to grow it.” “What if I cannot?” “The dust-sea will claim you, or I will. One of the two.” With that, Rhydian resumed his relentless pace. Two faint lines of footprints stretched behind him, disappearing into the heat haze. Elias stared at Rhydian’s back, a roiling storm brewing within him. ‘Fool? Shatter my stubborn head?’ A deep, primal anger surged. Anger at Rhydian for his cruelty. Anger at himself for his weakness. Both feelings intertwined, fierce and consuming. Elias gritted his teeth. ‘Very well. I will never allow you to call me that again.’ With grim determination, Elias followed, his mind already working. ‘All I have is this connection to elemental dust. I must use it.’ He had awakened his dust-sense, yes, but its full scope remained elusive. His prior uses were desperate, improvised bursts of power to escape immediate peril. Now, he needed understanding. He had to probe its limits, its potential, with purpose. Elias focused his geomantic energy. Around him, the fine, sun-warmed dust began to stir, gravitating towards him in a slow, swirling pattern. ‘Within a five-meter radius, roughly.’ The dust closest to him responded quickest, while the particles further out moved sluggishly, reluctantly. This sluggishness was a problem, a drain on his concentration, but a lesser one. His immediate struggle was the sinking sand, sucking at his ankles, stealing his strength with every step. If he failed to overcome this, the dust-sea would certainly claim him. ‘What if I compact the dust under my feet, just a thin layer?’ He had used a similar principle to stabilize crumbling rock faces, to create temporary footholds on unstable ground. Elias focused. A small circle of dust beneath each boot hardened, solidifying into a firm, though temporary, disc. Walking became easier, almost like treading on worn flagstones. But the consumption of geomantic energy was brutal. Each compaction, each step, tore through his reserves. At this rate, he would be drained in mere moments. This method was unsustainable. He abandoned the approach. The vision of what would follow total depletion was clear: baked into a dessicated husk by the sun, or torn apart by some buried creature of the dust before that. Terror, cold and sharp, pierced him. Elias contemplated a new approach. ‘My energy reserves are shallow. This desert demands efficiency. I must find a way to minimize the drain.’ His next idea: concentrate geomantic energy directly into his legs. This lightened his steps considerably, easing the physical burden, but it felt like a cheat, a bypass of his true ability. It was effective, yet it didn't hone his connection to the dust itself. He was a whisperer of earth, a shaper of dust. He needed to master that. Discarding the second method, Elias chose a third path: direct, localized manipulation of the dust beneath his soles. A thin layer, perhaps a centimeter thick, directly mirroring the shape of his foot. Focusing geomantic power so narrowly was far more challenging than a broad command. Excessive concentration, or a moment’s lapse, caused the delicate coherence of the dust to shatter, scattering it into inert particles. Each failure sent him tumbling, landing hard in the yielding, hot dust. Fortunately, the soft dust prevented injury, but it filled his mouth, gritty and vile. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of fine particles. Parched from the heat, his throat now felt even drier, scratched raw. Exhaustion etched itself on Elias’s face, a deep weariness in his eyes. In the distance, Rhydian continued his relentless march, a small, dark silhouette against the glaring sky. He hadn’t glanced back once. Elias’s survival seemed utterly inconsequential to him. That indifference fueled Elias’s anger. “Who is to blame for this suffering?” Resentment surged, hot and bitter. If not for Rhydian, he might be finding solace in the deep, cool stone of an ancient mine. The pain, the struggle, the sheer impossibility of his task, twisted his thoughts. He felt sanity fraying at the edges. He needed a solution, and quickly, or he feared he might truly break. Elias refocused, turning his attention to the dust beneath his feet. The particles, at his silent command, began to shift. Slow, agonizingly slow, like the first turn of a ponderous wheel. He was still new to this, to the precise, delicate control of geomantic energy. Concentrating it on such a confined area was an immense effort. Each lapse in focus, each tiny tremor in his resolve, caused the dust to lose its cohesion, sending him sprawling backwards into the hot, loose expanse. Time and again, he fell. Dust coated his clothes, his hair, his very spirit. Yet, despite the growing fatigue, he did not surrender. He rose, again and again, pushing against his limits, focusing on the fine layer of dust under his boots. His efforts, agonizing as they were, were not wasted. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, his manipulation improved. The dust, responding to his sustained will, began to move with a smoother, more coordinated flow. It felt as if the dust itself carried him, a silent raft upon a shifting sea. But it was the fruit of countless falls, bitter failures, and relentless thought. Still, energy wastage remained significant. He couldn't maintain this for long. Elias concentrated harder, pushing for efficiency, for a true understanding of the dust’s innate properties, of how to move it with the least exertion. Slowly, his connection refined. His geomantic energy held, barely, and he moved across the shifting dust-sea with a newfound, if still fragile, grace. Rhydian, far ahead, did not turn. Yet, he sensed it. The subtle fluctuations in the geomantic currents, the infinitesimal shifts in the air, even the changed rhythm of Elias’s breathing. He registered every detail of Elias’s struggle and his hard-won progress. “A somewhat less foolish fool,” Rhydian murmured, the words barely audible against the whisper of the dust. By his measure, Elias was still far from truly capable. But he was no longer utterly insignificant. He was beginning to listen to the world’s true voice.

The Unbound Dust