A guttural gasp tore from Elias’s throat, ragged and hoarse. Each breath scraped like grit against his parched windpipe. Geomantic energy, a vital current that usually pulsed through his core, was a distant, dying echo. His connection to Aethel’s vast, unfeeling crust felt frayed, a thread stretched to snapping. He had pushed too far.
Beneath his boots, the elemental dust, once an extension of his will, lay inert. It defied his frantic, whispered commands, refusing to coalesce, refusing to lift. His muscles, accustomed to the subtle strain of moving earth, now screamed with a raw, unfamiliar fatigue.
He had never known exhaustion this profound. Not in the quiet, desolate plains he’d walked alone, not even during the first painful lessons of the Sundering’s tremors.
Rhydian, a gaunt silhouette against the searing horizon, hadn't faltered. Not once. His stride remained relentless, uncaring. The elder didn’t glance back, offered no word of encouragement, no pause for Elias’s flagging pace.
A bitter bile rose in Elias’s throat. He had sworn he wouldn’t show weakness. Not to this man. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, each step a testament to sheer, unyielding spite. But the world tilted.
His legs buckled. He fell, a heavy, dead weight, into the hot, powdered rock. The dust-sea swallowed him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with its ancient taste.
Panting, buried shoulder-deep in the warmth of the parched grit, a shadow fell over him. He forced his head up. Rhydian stood there, looking down, his weathered face etched with an expression Elias couldn't quite decipher. Pity? Scorn? Indifference?
“Wasted effort,” Rhydian rasped, his voice dry as the land itself. “All because of your pathetic fragility.”
He dropped to a crouch, settling beside Elias with an ease that spoke of endless endurance. From a pouch at his hip, Rhydian pulled two thin strips of something dark and leathery. Dried flesh, Elias realized. Jerky.
Rhydian bit into one piece, chewing slowly. The other, he tossed into the dust near Elias’s outstretched hand. An unspoken command: *get up, eat it yourself*.
Elias barely had the strength to twitch a finger. His mouth felt like a hollow cave, parched and rough. Swallowing the dry jerky would be an act of monumental effort, a sure way to choke.
He knew this. Knew his body, depleted of water and geomantic energy, couldn’t process such rough sustenance. Rhydian knew it too.
Yet the elder chewed on, a slow, deliberate rhythm, ignoring Elias’s desperate gasps.
“Aethel used to be different,” Rhydian said, his voice a low rumble. “Before the Sundering, before the plates shifted and the dust-seas claimed the fertile lands. A gentler world. Weakness didn’t mean death. Kindness wasn’t a folly.”
He tore another piece from his jerky. “But the world changed. It shattered. Now, the weak are just… fertilizer. Prey. Only the survivors claim a piece of the shifting land. Does it burn? Does it hurt? Then lay down. Die. It’s easier that way.”
The words were a blade, piercing through Elias’s exhaustion, sparking a fire. He had met many souls in his solitary travels, people clinging to fragile hopes, hardened by loss. None spoke with such cold, brutal clarity.
“If you want easy, then melt into the dust,” Rhydian continued, his gaze sharp. “But if you want to live, truly live, even when every shard of rock grinds against your bones, then rise. On your own. Fool.”
Rhydian fell silent, returning to his slow, methodical chewing. He hadn't touched water all day either, Elias realized. The elder conserved every drop of saliva, every resource, against the world’s indifference. He was a monument to efficient survival.
Hours crawled by. The scorching sun began its slow descent, painting the dust-sea in hues of bruised violet and burning ochre. The desert’s breath cooled rapidly as twilight crept in. Hypothermia, in this boundless expanse, was a swift, silent killer.
*I won't die. I can't die.*
The anger, a quiet, stubborn flame, refused to be extinguished. Elias began to move. A slow, agonizing crawl. He dragged himself through the grit, like a broken thing, until his fingers, stiff and trembling, brushed against the dried meat.
He forced his mouth open, scooped the jerky, sand and all, into his mouth. The taste was abysmal: salt, dried blood, and bitter dust. He chewed, slow and deliberate, mimicking Rhydian’s movements. No saliva to moisten it, just raw, scraping friction. It took an age to soften, to become something he could force down his throat.
A faint warmth bloomed in his stomach. A spark. A tiny, almost imperceptible surge of vigor.
He pushed himself up, still shaky, but no longer prone. As he sat, legs splayed, another piece of jerky arced through the air. He caught it, his movements still sluggish but no longer entirely devoid of purpose.
He chewed again, the vitality slowly returning. A faint thrum. His geomantic energy, dormant moments ago, began to stir, a sluggish current in a vast, empty riverbed.
Rhydian’s gaze, unnervingly knowing, fixed on him. “Body and telluric power are not separate currents. A weak vessel cannot hold the world’s strength. If you seek mastery, your body must be its equal.”
Elias nodded, his throat too tight for words. He felt it now. While he lay helpless, the geomantic energy had remained distant. Only as his physical strength trickled back did the power within him begin to answer. A quiet hum, growing stronger with each swallow of the gritty sustenance.
Survival. He had crossed that precipice. A profound relief washed over him, leaving him hollowed out, but alive. He gazed up.
Above, the deepening canvas of the Aethel night unfolded. Uncountable stars, sharp and brilliant, glittered like shattered diamonds scattered across an obsidian floor. He hadn’t truly *seen* them in years, not with such stark clarity. In the fleeting settlements, amidst the constant struggle, such beauty felt like a forgotten luxury.
An alien beauty. A fragile wonder.
“Good spot,” Rhydian muttered, and Elias’s brief reverie snapped. He looked at the elder. Rhydian was speaking to something. His gaze fell to a gnarled, obsidian-tipped pick, ‘Grave-Caller,’ impaled in the dust before him.
*Is he mad? Or is that thing… sentient?*
Rhydian continued his one-sided conversation, tracing unseen lines in the dust with a calloused finger. “Yes, the fault-line here pulses strong. We haven’t scoured that rift yet.” He chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “My memory isn’t what it was. Grave-Caller remembers.”
He turned, his eyes piercing Elias. A chill, inexplicable and profound, coursed through Elias’s veins. It had nothing to do with the falling temperature.
Throughout the long, frigid night, Elias shivered. Sleep was a restless, fitful thing, broken by tremors and the crushing cold. He huddled in a meager hollow, teeth chattering, picturing the biting wind flensing the last warmth from his bones.
But Rhydian slept. A deep, comfortable slumber. His breathing was even, his form relaxed, almost serene. Elias wanted to shake him, to scream at him, to punch the unbothered elder. The injustice burned hotter than the cold itself.
As the first sliver of dawn pierced the horizon, Rhydian stirred. His first conscious act was to slowly wring out his rough-spun tunic. A surprising amount of dew beaded and dripped from the fabric, caught in a small cup. He drank it, a slow, deliberate swallow.
Elias watched, a sudden, sharp realization dawning. Rhydian had spread his clothes to gather the precious moisture. He had known.
Belatedly, Elias mimicked the action, wringing his own tunic. A few meager drops trickled into his cupped palm. It was barely enough to wet his tongue. An unwarranted surge of resentment flared.
*Knowledge.* It was a weapon. Every subtle action of Rhydian’s, every seemingly casual movement, was a deliberate act of survival. Elias made a silent vow.
*I will learn everything. Every tiny nuance, every forgotten trick.*
He drank his scant dew, the thirst briefly abated. Rhydian rose, his expression unreadable. “Forward.”
Elias nodded. No point in asking where. Rhydian wouldn’t answer. He had gleaned much in the single, brutal day. Rhydian was self-centered, utterly without kindness. He offered no help, only the stark demand to survive. To walk this path with him, Elias had to become quick-witted, resourceful.
Rhydian was already a distant speck. Elias’s geomantic energy, thankfully, felt replenished overnight. He pushed forth, unleashing the rudimentary skill he’d discovered yesterday. He called it 'Grit-Glide'.
He focused. A subtle tremor beneath his feet. The elemental dust compacted, then liquefied into a low-friction surface. He pushed off, gliding forward, propelled by his will. It wasn't effortless, not yet, but it was faster, more efficient than walking.
Managing his geomantic energy remained paramount. The near-death experience of exhaustion still haunted him. He needed to find a way to replenish his power as he expended it. Rhydian might know, but asking would be futile.
*I must discover it myself.*
As the sun climbed, its heat baked the dust-sea, radiating up from the ground, pressing down from above. Elias endured it, the Grit-Glide becoming smoother, more instinctual. Endurance bred precision. He refined the subtle shifts in cohesion, the nuanced manipulation of the dust beneath him.
Another day of relentless travel. The sun, a blood orange orb, dipped below the horizon, painting the world in stark, elongated shadows. Only then did Rhydian halt.
Elias gasped, his chest heaving. His geomantic energy hadn't depleted this time, a small victory. But his body screamed. Every muscle ached, his mind felt stretched thin. He wanted to collapse, to surrender to the overwhelming fatigue. But he forced himself to stand, shoulders back, defiance a quiet hum within him.
A piece of jerky. Tossed with the same casual indifference. This time, he caught it. No desperate scramble. He tore it into small, fibrous strips, chewing slowly, thoroughly moistening each piece before swallowing. A lesson learned.
He watched Rhydian. The elder consumed his jerky with even greater deliberation, still only a third finished when Elias had already eaten half. A peculiar sense of defeat settled over Elias. He bit his lip. He slowed his own chewing, drawing out the meal for nearly thirty minutes.
*Still hungry.*
His body, still growing, still burning through energy, yearned for more. But he couldn't ask. Not with Rhydian’s eyes on him. His pride, a stubborn companion, wouldn’t allow it.
Hungry, Elias prepared for the night. First, he stripped his outer tunic, spreading it flat on the ground. A meager offering to the coming dew.
Next, shelter. A bunker. The night’s cold was an inconvenience for Rhydian, whose geomantic control likely rendered him immune. For Elias, it was a threat. He still possessed enough geomantic energy for this.
He focused, envisioning a hollow. The dust stirred, rising, shifting. A pit formed, just large enough for his frame. He lowered himself into it, then willed the dust to cover him. Unlike loose sand, this dust held its form, hardened by his geomantic will. A solid roof, impervious to the wind, held firm above him.
Mana had been consumed, but the structure, once formed, required no further effort to maintain. A sigh of relief escaped him. Last night’s restless shivering wouldn’t be repeated.
A thought flickered. *Should I offer Rhydian shelter?*
He immediately dismissed it. No one would hear even if he called. If the elder couldn’t bear the cold, he would surely make his own arrangements. Rhydian needed no one.
Within the dust bunker, a strange warmth enveloped him. He sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, a profound rest he hadn’t known in weeks.
A tremor. Faint at first, then growing. Elias’s eyes snapped open. He pressed his hand against the compacted dust floor. The vibrations intensified, a rhythmic thrum through the earth itself.
He scrambled out, emerging into the darkest hour before dawn. Rhydian was already standing, Grave-Caller impaled before him, pointing into the gloom.
Elias followed his gaze. Nothing but dense, impenetrable blackness. Yet, Rhydian’s eyes, ancient and sharp, saw past the veil.
*Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!*
The vibrations grew louder, closer. Elias’s heart hammered against his ribs.
*Dozens. No, hundreds. At least.*
Rhydian’s face split into a wide, feral grin. A glint of madness, of raw excitement, flickered in his eyes. He looked like a child anticipating a spectacular fireworks display. “Survive on your own, fool!” he cackled, a wild, breathless sound.
Elias couldn’t echo the mirth. He knew. Rhydian would offer no aid. The frustration, cold and sharp, ignited a fierce resolve.
*I will survive.*
The thudding intensified, a thunderous roar. Through the gloom, forms materialized. Hundreds of eyes, glowing pinpricks of malevolent light, rushed towards them. A low, guttural growl echoed across the dust-sea.
“Shard-Hounds,” Rhydian whispered, his voice laced with delight. “And they’re hungry.”