A figure emerged from the colossal Shard-Strider’s maw, descending a ramp of hardened crystalline plates. He moved with the brittle grace of a wintered branch, small and gnarled, barely reaching Kaelen’s sternum.
Wrinkled eyes, the color of faded twilight, fixed on Kaelen. “So, the old rock-hide still draws breath, Kaelen.”
“Silas. Your teeth are fewer than last sun-cycle.” Kaelen’s voice, a rumble of shifting stone, held no warmth.
“You are unnatural. Still clinging to this dust-choked existence past a hundred score.” Silas, the Strider’s master, rasped. Most of his teeth were gone, a few yellowed stubs remaining. Kaelen, by contrast, stood vibrant, a monument to defiance.
They were two different chapters of the same desolate history.
Kaelen’s gaze swept the shimmering landscape. “What drifts you here? This is not your known hunting ground.”
“Crystalline Reavers have grown bolder, carving paths too close to our old stead.”
“Thought you scoured them away, last we spoke.”
“Pests return, Kaelen. New ones, sharper of claw and hungrier of maw. No profit in tangling with them. Only weariness.”
“Hmph! Sounds like the Strider’s master has learned fear, spinning tales to justify retreat.”
“I am not you. There’s no wisdom in seeking out pointless battles. Call it prudence.”
“Just living to talk…” Kaelen scoffed.
Silas’s aged face showed no trace of shame. He may not wield Kaelen’s raw force, but he had weathered countless cycles of the Sundering, a survivor of formidable resilience and ancient cunning.
Beyond the Strider’s immediate shelter, life eked out its stubborn existence. Pockets of breathable air, scattered veins of rare ore, and thermal springs—precious oases in a world of obsidian teeth. Humans clung to these fragile havens, constantly vigilant.
Reavers preyed on these scattered settlements. Silas had moved his colossal dwelling, the `Heart-Strider`, to a new vantage point, following the shifting currents of danger and opportunity.
His gaze drifted to Vorlag, standing silently beside Kaelen.
“This one I haven’t seen. A new Shadow?”
“A companion? You, with another tagging along? The Obsidian Marches will crack.”
“Enough bluster. Come inside. There are exchanges to be made.”
“Normally, I’d turn away strangers. But for you, Silas…”
“Drop the theatrics, Kaelen. Lead the way.”
Silas snorted, turning to climb the ramp once more. Kaelen followed, his heavy boots crunching faintly on the obsidian. Vorlag came last, his crystalline form absorbing the muted light.
As Vorlag ascended, he glanced at the colossal, crusted face of the Heart-Strider. Its ocular fissures, larger than his entire body, reflected his sharp, obsidian visage. No interest showed in those ancient depths, only a slow, rhythmic shifting as the beast turned its head further into the opening.
*To command such a force, a moving fortress, a leviathan of crystalline plates.* The thought was cold, alien. Vorlag’s understanding of power was rooted in reshaping the land itself, not tethering another entity to his will.
Inside the Heart-Strider, the world inverted. Not hollow, but vast. A hidden settlement bloomed within the colossal shell, lit by the glow of geothermal vents and captured sun-shards. Figures moved through narrow crystalline alleys, their voices echoing softly against the hardened walls.
“A tribe? A bloodline, you mean?” Vorlag’s voice, rough as ground crystal, drew Kaelen’s attention.
“Aye. All descendants of Silas.” Kaelen’s words were clipped.
Survival in the Marches was a daily battle. To sustain such a lineage, to raise children in this razor-edged world, seemed an impossible feat.
“This… is only possible because the Heart-Strider shields them from the outside.”
The Marches harbored beasts of impossible scale, some rivaling the largest canyons. Yet, none could match the Strider’s immense bulk or its impervious hide. Its back, a mountain of adamantine obsidian, shrugged off the most savage attacks.
Thus, few creatures dared provoke it. Within its mobile sanctuary, Silas’s descendants, the Glimmer-Kin, flourished.
“They call themselves the Glimmer-Kin, after Silas’s own name, long forgotten.”
“Deluded fools, believing themselves chosen. Without the Strider, they are dust.” Kaelen’s contempt was clear. To him, the Glimmer-Kin’s hearth, nestled within the armored beast, was a fragile glass bloom, one breath from shattering.
The Strider’s unwavering protection stemmed from Silas’s mastery. After Silas’s eventual passing, the beast’s loyalty to his kin would vanish. A bonded creature’s allegiance died with its master.
Silas led them deeper, to a dwelling carved into the Strider’s heart-chamber. He dropped onto a seat of polished obsidian.
“Where do we begin?”
Kaelen, cold and direct, began to unload various trophies from his travel pouch. A gnarled horn from a `Sand-Leviathan Alpha`, the armored carapace of a `Queen Chitin-Spinner`, and the preserved husks of creatures he’d felled long before meeting Vorlag.
Each item was a relic of power, born from the apex predators of the Marches. Such materials were rare, almost impossible to obtain. Their worth shifted with the skill of the artisan.
Silas, peering over horn-rimmed spectacles, scrutinized Kaelen’s offerings. Every piece was flawless, charged with latent potency.
“As expected. Impressive, all of them.”
“No need for ceremony. Name your price.”
“Payment in Glimmer-Shards?” Silas offered, referencing the refined energy crystals that served as currency in the few established trading posts.
“Have your wits abandoned you, old man? Why would I need Glimmer-Shards?”
“True. You cannot enter the few protected strongholds. No use for their petty coinage.”
Glimmer-Shards were the lifeblood currency of the age. Yet, Kaelen, for reasons he kept veiled, could not tread in those guarded places, preferring tangible goods.
“What, then, do you seek?”
“A breastplate, crafted from the Queen Chitin-Spinner’s shell. And a void-shard artifact.”
“A breastplate? You have armor enough. And a void-shard piece you already possess.”
“They are not for me.”
Silas’s gaze, sharp as flint, landed on Vorlag. “For this young one?”
Silas had known Kaelen for centuries. Never had he seen the old warrior act for another’s benefit. This young, silent crystalline man must hold unusual significance.
“He seems a useful instrument.”
“Silence. Can it be done?”
Silas paused, contemplating, then called a name. Moments later, a woman entered, perhaps twenty cycles past her Sundering day.
Sun-kissed skin, eyes the pale blue of a glacial crevasse, her bearing spoke of a resilient vitality, like a crystal bloom pushing through cracked stone.
“Grandfather?”
“Lyra. The void-shard gauntlet I bade you make, remember?”
“The one from the void-shard fissure? I finished it. Its enchantment held beyond expectation. A truly potent artifact.”
“Present that gauntlet to this traveler.”
“That… precious artifact?” Lyra’s surprise was clear.
She was a rare talent, an Enchanter of the highest order. She could imbue items with properties and abilities, but the success rate was dismal, barely three-in-ten attempts yielding any result, and fewer still becoming true artifacts.
Most Enchanters in the few surviving enclaves used scientific methods. Lyra was a pure channeler, perhaps the finest in their desolate corner of the world.
The gauntlet Silas spoke of was her masterpiece – a void-shard piece with expansive internal dimensions, easily encompassing a small dwelling. Its worth was incalculable.
To surrender such a treasure to a stranger, met but moments ago, seemed reckless.
Silas continued. “And tell Jax to craft a breastplate for him, from the Queen Chitin-Spinner’s carapace.”
“Jax? A breastplate too?”
Jax was Silas’s youngest son, a renowned smith. Items he crafted, imbued by Lyra, fetched incredible prices, sustaining the Glimmer-Kin through trades with distant caravans. The Heart-Strider’s interior contained a wealth of such goods and provisions.
Lyra’s gaze lingered on Vorlag, a question in her blue eyes.
*Does he possess some hidden faculty?* Her grandfather’s temperament was sharp, dismissive of the weak. He would not show such generosity without reason.
Kaelen spoke then. “So, the whelp became an Enchanter?”
“Oh, Kaelen. It has been many sun-cycles.” Lyra, startled, offered a hasty greeting.
“You awakened as an Enchanter. A useful skill, indeed.”
“Thank you. Still as critical as ever.”
A faint apprehension touched Lyra’s features. She knew Kaelen’s power. The memory of him rending a massive crystalline beast with bare hands, when she was a mere child, still haunted her.
Lyra sought escape from Kaelen’s presence. She turned to Vorlag. “Come with me. I will retrieve the gauntlet.”
Vorlag followed, his features impassive, yet a subtle hum vibrated through his crystalline essence. Kaelen’s void-shard pouch had always been a marvel; to possess such a thing himself, and for free, was a rare, quiet satisfaction.
“What is your bond with that old monster?” Lyra asked, her voice low.
“We met by chance. We travel together.”
“Chance?” Lyra’s brow furrowed. She found Vorlag’s words difficult to credit, but pressed no further.
Lyra led Vorlag to her workshop, a chamber filled with the muted hum of concentrated energy. Gleaming artifacts hung from crystalline hooks, radiating faint, raw power.
Vorlag’s attention sharpened. The very air thrummed with the weight of her craft. A soft, involuntary rasp escaped his lips.
Lyra’s expression softened, a hint of pride in her eyes. “These are all my workings. What do you think?”
“Potent. All are artifacts?”
“Indeed! Save for those excavated from the deepest, forbidden fissures, these are among the finest.”
Some excavated artifacts pulsed with such uncontrolled energy they distorted the very fabric of reality. Lyra’s ambition was to create pieces of comparable power.
She took down a gauntlet from a polished display. It was crafted from dark, gleaming void-shard, covering the back of the hand and forearm.
“I fashioned this from the chitinous plates of an Ironclad Gazer, reinforced with adamantine dust. A dual-composite structure, unmatched in resilience, defense, and striking force. Beyond the internal void-space I mentioned, it has a core of self-renewal.”
“Self-renewal? It mends itself?”
“Yes! Unless utterly shattered, it will reconstruct itself from ambient essence.”
“And there is more. Perhaps from the Gazer’s own innate power, the gauntlet holds a latent fire attribute. Now, it emits only a whisper of heat, but its full potency depends on what you affix here.” She indicated a rounded depression on the gauntlet’s back, a perfect socket.
“A flame-attuned artifact?”
“Yes! It requires something of great power. Once fixed, it cannot be removed. To be frank, this gauntlet is a fortunate anomaly. I cannot guarantee I could ever replicate it.”
“Understood. And this… you simply give it to me?”
“Grandfather bade me do so.”
Lyra extended the gauntlet. Vorlag took it, his crystalline fingers cool against the dark void-shard. He slid it onto his right hand. Initially, it felt loose, but as it settled, the material contracted, molding itself perfectly to his forearm.
He flexed his hand. No restriction. His wrist and fingers moved freely, as if unburdened. A faint, internal warmth emanated from the gauntlet, a subtle thrum against his own cold essence.
Lyra crossed her arms, a proud, expectant look on her face.
Then, a keening wail echoed through the Heart-Strider’s vast interior. It was the beast’s alarm, deep and guttural.
Lyra’s eyes widened. She bolted from the dwelling, scanning the external monitors. In the distant, shimmering plains, a colossal cloud of pulverized obsidian billowed towards them, sharp as a predator’s breath. Its approach was swift. Too swift.