Vorlag’s endurance crumbled. His control, once a flowing stream, now a parched riverbed. No more power to twist the crystalline dust, to coax it into compliant forms. His limited internal reserves, utterly drained.
Beneath his feet, the obsidian grit lay inert. It refused to obey. Never had Vorlag pushed himself to such desolate limits.
Kaelen, a distant silhouette ahead, never glanced back. Vorlag, fueled by a stubborn refusal to show weakness, had clenched his jaw through the agony. Now, he was truly spent.
Legs gave out. He sprawled amongst the gleaming obsidian shards, a broken effigy. Gasps tore from his throat, ragged and thin.
A presence neared. He lifted his head. Kaelen stood over him, eyes glinting with a cold, almost surgical pity.
“Wasted my time, I did. On an idiot.” Kaelen’s voice, a rasp of crystallized ice.
Kaelen sat, producing two strips of cured meat from a pouch. One vanished into his own mouth, chewed with slow, deliberate precision. The other, a flick of his wrist, landed near Vorlag.
Vorlag’s body screamed in protest. Not an ounce of strength remained to rise. His throat, parched, felt like cracked obsidian. Water had been a forgotten luxury for what felt like an age. Eating that meat now would be a torment.
He knew. Without recovery, this unforgiving environment would claim him. Kaelen, too, knew. Still, Kaelen ignored him, focusing solely on his slow, rhythmic chewing.
“The old world, before the Great Sundering… it was soft,” Kaelen rasped, his voice cutting through the crystalline stillness. “Weaklings could limp by. Kindness wasn’t a death sentence.”
“Now? It’s the Obsidian Marches. Predator and prey. The strong take all. You hurt? You’re tired? Die, then. It’s easier.”
Vorlag gritted his teeth. His brief, isolated existence had shown him many faces. None so sharp, so brutally honest. Each word, a fresh shard through his chest.
“Crawl if you wish for oblivion. But if you want to breathe, even through screaming pain, rise. Fool!” Kaelen fell silent then. His focus, absolute, on the slow mastication of his own meager meal.
Kaelen, too, had foregone water, Vorlag realized. His measured bites preserved moisture, preventing the throat’s dryness. Soon, the jagged sun dipped below the obsidian horizon. Night brought a swift, biting chill. Hypothermia, a silent hunter in the wastes. Vorlag knew its whisper.
*Not here. Not like this.* His mind, a desperate mantra.
He writhed, a broken thing, across the glassy ground. Inches. An eternity. His fingers brushed the cured meat. He clawed it closer, stuffed the grit-dusted strip into his mouth.
No saliva. A rough, sandpaper texture against his tongue. He gnawed, he forced it down. A long, arduous swallow. A faint warmth kindled in his core. A spark of resilience.
He pushed. Sat upright. Kaelen, without a word, tossed another piece. No thanks offered. Vorlag chewed, a slow, deliberate act. A trickle of vitality. Mana, sluggishly, began to stir within his crystalline form.
Kaelen’s voice, as if reading the very cells of his being. “Body and power aren’t separate, boy. A strong vessel invites the flow. Never cease shaping your form.”
Vorlag nodded, wordless. He felt it in his very core. Lying there, broken, his attempts to draw power had been futile. Only the meager strength from the meat had roused his latent abilities. Mana, now a gentle hum, promised survival. A deep, shuddering breath escaped him. Death’s shadow, for now, receded. The world, anew.
Above, the obsidian-dark sky blazed with countless frozen stars. A shimmering, indifferent veil. Vorlag gazed, mesmerized. In his isolated existence, such beauty was a stranger. Never had he truly *seen* the stars. His brush with the void, a stark, profound lens.
Kaelen’s voice splintered the silence. “A good spot, Kreion. That particular vein remains untouched.”
Vorlag flinched. Only Kaelen and himself. No one else here in the vast, glittering expanse. He looked cautiously. Kaelen spoke to his shard-blade, resting point-down beside him. *Madness? Or does that blade possess a spirit?*
Kaelen, oblivious or uncaring, continued his conversation with the artifact. “Aye, memory fails me sometimes. Appreciate the reminder.”
Kaelen’s gaze then shifted to Vorlag. A shiver, inexplicable, traced Vorlag’s spine. Awakened or not, the night’s chill was merciless in the Marches. Vorlag huddled, teeth chattering, through a sleepless night. Kaelen, sprawled, slept with unnerving ease beside his shard-blade. A flicker of irrational anger ignited within Vorlag. To strike that peaceful, infuriating face.
---
Dawn. Kaelen stirred. His first act: squeezing moisture from his tunic. He drank the precious dew, slowly, deliberately. Understanding bloomed in Vorlag’s mind. Kaelen’s choice of sleeping attire, a deliberate, calculated survival tactic. Vorlag, clumsy, wrung his own damp clothes. Far less liquid yielded.
*Knowledge. I lack it.* A flicker of resentment, quickly suppressed. Kaelen’s every gesture, every calculated movement, spoke of one thing: survival. Vorlag made his vow then. *Learn. Everything. From him.* Mimicry. The only path to strength.
He squeezed every drop. Thirst, finally, receded. Kaelen stood. “Moving.”
Vorlag nodded. No point asking directions. Kaelen wouldn’t answer. A day with Kaelen. Enough to map his nature. Self-serving. Unkind. No hand-holding. No quarter. He would force Vorlag to survive. Survival, he realized, demanded quick wits.
Kaelen was already a distant speck, moving with impossible speed over the crystalline dunes. Mana, thankfully, fully recharged during the night. He unleashed the technique forged yesterday, the skill he now called *Obsidian Glide*. Mana management. The near-death experience, a stark, brutal teacher.
*A way to restore power as fast as I spend it…* Kaelen might know. But he wouldn’t share. He had to discover it himself. Always. Vorlag glided over the crystalline grit, mind racing with improvements, with adaptations. The sun climbed higher. The Marches seared. Ground heat rose, an oven. Above, the sky blazed with relentless fire.
He gritted his teeth, endured. Endurance birthed patience. Obsidian Glide grew smoother, more instinctive, a natural extension of his will.
---
Sun dipped once more. Kaelen halted. Vorlag gasped a ragged breath, dropping to one knee. Mana held. But exhaustion etched itself onto his face, deep as the canyons in the Marches. A day of constant, precise manipulation. Body and mind screamed. He swayed, fighting the urge to collapse.
Kaelen tossed jerky. No fumbling this time. Vorlag caught it with surprising dexterity, tore off a small piece. Slow chew. Thorough moistening with what little saliva he could muster. Deliberate swallow. He stretched the meager meal, making it last.
Midway through, he risked a glance. Kaelen, still on his first third. Far more remained in his hand than in Vorlag’s. A pang of frustration, sharp as a fresh obsidian shard. He slowed further. Almost thirty minutes to eat a single strip.
*Still ravenous.* Vorlag, still growing, found meager satisfaction. Hunger would gnaw at him through the night. Asking for more? Impossible. His pride, as sharp and unyielding as the Marches themselves.
He would sleep hungry. But first, preparations. His tunic removed, spread flat on the ground. For morning’s dew. Then, shelter. The Marches’ night cold. A death sentence for him. For Kaelen, a mild inconvenience, perhaps even a comfort.
His solution: a bunker. Enough mana remained, a faint pulse within him. A gesture. The obsidian dust shifted, responding to his will. A single-person pit formed, roughly shaped. He slipped inside. Another gesture. The grit above him coalesced, solidified into a roof.
Ordinarily, it would crumble, sand having no cohesion. Not this. The dust held, firm and unyielding, solidified by his will. Mana expended to form. Once set, no more drain. A shuddering sigh escaped him. Regret for last night’s misery. Tonight, comfort. He thought of Kaelen. Invite him in? He shook his head. Pointless. Kaelen would find his own way. Sleep claimed him. Outside, the temperature plummeted. Inside, a welcome warmth. Rest, deeper than the previous night.
---
An odd tremor. Vorlag’s eyes snapped open. A faint vibration through the solidified ground of his bunker. He pressed his hand flat against the crystalline earth. The tremor intensified.
Vorlag emerged. Kaelen was already standing, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn gloom. His gaze fixed ahead. The shard-blade, point down, before him. Vorlag followed Kaelen’s stare. Dense, pre-dawn gloom. Nothing visible. For ordinary eyes. Kaelen’s vision, Vorlag knew, was something else entirely.
*Thud! Thud! Thud!* The vibrations grew into dull, rhythmic impacts. Vorlag’s pupils dilated. *Dozens, no, hundreds. Too many.* Kaelen’s voice, a low chuckle, cut through the growing thrum. “Survive, idiot! Hah!”
His face, twisted into a feral grin, seemed oddly excited. Gleeful. Like a mischievous child anticipating a grand, destructive display. Vorlag felt no mirth. Kaelen meant it. No help would come. A cold knot tightened in his gut. *I will. I must.*
The impacts crescendoed. Through the impenetrable gloom, forms began to emerge. Hundreds of eyes, glinting with predatory hunger. Closing fast on Kaelen and Vorlag. “Obsidian Scavengers,” Kaelen hissed, his voice laced with manic delight. “A full hunting pack.”