Silas’s reach for the mist came up empty. He strained, a hollow ache blooming behind his ribs. Every tendril of his will extended, grasping for the familiar, boundless ether, but found only the biting wind. His reserves were a dry well. The vibrant, living fog that defined his existence, the very essence of his being, was a mere memory on this desolate, wind-scoured peak.
His limbs buckled. A shudder ran through his weary frame, an involuntary tremor that seized his knees. He pitched forward, a cloud of fine, grey dust erupting where his face met the stark ground. Gasping, he lay there, the frigid air searing his lungs, a desperate, rasping sound tearing from his throat.
Dyoden hadn’t slowed. Vorlag, a silhouette against the bruised sky, had continued his relentless climb, his heavy boots crunching on the scree. Not a glance backward, not a flicker of concern. Silas had steeled himself against showing weakness, had gritted his teeth and pushed past the agony. Now, there was nothing left to grit.
As he lay sprawled, dust clinging to his clammy skin, a shadow fell over him. He lifted his head with immense effort. Vorlag stood there, looking down. A faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip. Contempt, sharp and cold as the mountain air.
“Wasted effort,” Vorlag grunted, his voice rough as granite. “All because of an idiot like you.”
Vorlag dropped onto a nearby rock, retrieving two strips of sun-cured beast flesh from a pouch. He tore into one with a savage rip, then tossed the other near Silas. It landed with a soft thump, just out of reach. An unspoken command: *get up and take it.*
Silas could not. His muscles screamed with even the thought of movement. His mouth was a desert, parched and cracked. Swallowing the tough, dry meat in this state felt impossible. He knew, instinctively, that without strength, without water, this environment would claim him.
Vorlag, chewing slowly, spoke again, his gaze fixed on the horizon, not Silas.
“The old world… it knew softness. Weakness was tolerated. Kindness was not a foreign tongue. But the Sundering changed that. The mist receded, and the world hardened. Now, only the strong survive. The weak become dust, or food.”
He tore another piece of meat. “You hurt? You suffer? Then yield. It’s easier when you’re dead.”
Silas’s jaw clenched. The words struck with the force of a physical blow, sharper than any blade. He had met many souls in his long, solitary watch, but none spoke with such brutal clarity, such unyielding truth. Each word a shard of ice in his chest.
“If ease is what you crave, remain there.” Vorlag’s eyes finally met Silas’s, glinting like flint. “But if life calls to you, even through the agony, get on your own two feet. Fool.”
Then silence. Vorlag resumed chewing, oblivious. He too had likely gone without water, consuming the dried meat with deliberate, measured bites, relying on saliva to soften it, to stave off the thirst for as long as possible. A lesson in itself.
The pale sun dipped below the jagged peaks. The temperature plummeted with alarming speed. Silas knew the danger. Hypothermia would soon follow exhaustion, then oblivion.
*I will not die. I cannot.*
He began to crawl, a desperate, graceless scramble across the dust. Every inch an agony. His fingers scraped against the rough ground, his knees burned. He moved like a broken thing, but he moved. Reaching the meat felt like crossing a continent.
Finally, his trembling fingers closed around the sun-cured flesh. He brought it to his mouth, ignoring the grit that coated it. He chewed, slowly, deliberately. His mouth was still dry, but he forced moisture, a tiny trickle of defiance, from his parched glands. Each swallow was a monumental effort.
A spark. A faint flicker of warmth spread through his belly as the meat settled. A whisper of strength returned. He pushed himself upright, sitting, swaying slightly. Vorlag tossed another piece.
Silas caught it. He chewed again, a silent ritual of survival. The vitality seeped back, drop by slow drop. And with it, the faintest stirring of the mists within him. They were thin, ethereal, but present.
Vorlag’s voice, low and resonant, broke the silence. “Body and spirit are one. A strong vessel holds the mist deep. To command the ether, first command your flesh.”
Silas nodded, wordlessly. He felt the truth of it in his very bones. When he had collapsed, depleted, the mists had seemed to flee. Now, with a mere shard of physical recovery, they returned, tentative but real. Had he remained weak, they would have stayed dormant.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped him. He had stared into the maw of nothingness and returned. The world, now bathed in the stark, diamond-bright glow of countless stars, seemed sharper, more visceral. He had forgotten such beauty could exist beyond the ceaseless veils of his home.
Vorlag’s voice cut through his reverie, oddly conversational. Yet, there was no one else on the peak save them.
Silas turned, curiosity stirring despite his exhaustion. Vorlag was speaking to Stonefist, the ancient, heavy hammer he carried, resting upright against his knee. He spoke to it as if it could reply, as if it were a loyal companion, an extension of his own fierce will.
“Aye, a good spot, Stonefist. Remember the Ridge-Stalkers there? We’ve yet to clear their dens.” He paused, listening to an unheard response. “It’s been too long, old friend. My memory fails. Thank you.”
Vorlag looked up, his gaze finding Silas. A shiver, colder than the wind, ran through Silas. He had survived the day, but the night was a different beast.
He spent it shivering, curled tight, sleep an elusive ghost. Vorlag, in contrast, lay spread out, seemingly at peace, slumbering deeply. An urge, primitive and potent, to strike the man in his repose flickered through Silas.
Sunrise painted the peak in hues of stark grey and nascent gold. Vorlag stirred, unhurried. His first act: wringing a small amount of dew from the cloth of his cloak, collecting it in his palm, and drinking. Only then did Silas understand. Vorlag hadn’t merely slept; he had harvested.
Silas, belatedly, wrung his own garments. A few precious drops, barely a mouthful. A flash of resentment, unwarranted, pierced him. *If only I had known.*
Then, understanding bloomed. Every action Vorlag took, every seemingly mundane movement, was a calculated step towards survival. A stark, brutal efficiency.
*I must learn everything from him. Every single thing.*
Silas vowed it. By mimicking Vorlag’s every subtle act, every honed instinct, he might, one day, rise to stand beside him. Or surpass him.
He squeezed the last drop of dew from his worn tunic, the cool moisture a balm to his throat.
Vorlag rose. “We move.”
Silas nodded. Asking where was pointless. Vorlag wouldn’t answer. He had gleaned much in their brief, harrowing day together. Vorlag was a creature of singular focus, utterly self-reliant. He tolerated Silas’s presence, but offered no quarter. Survival was an individual burden.
Vorlag already strode ahead, his figure diminishing in the distance. Silas’s mists, though thin, had replenished overnight. He pushed them outward, a new sensation. No longer forming vast, opaque banks, but something smaller, more precise.
He called it ‘Mist-Step’. A fleeting condensation beneath his foot, just enough to propel him, a breath of vapor made solid for an instant. Mana management was paramount. The previous day’s near-death had seared that lesson into him.
*If only there were a way to recover mist as quickly as I expended it.*
Vorlag might know. But asking would be futile. Silas would have to discover it, just as he had discovered everything else.
He pushed through the morning heat, the sun already relentless on the barren rock. The effort refined his Mist-Step. Each subtle burst of vapor, each fleeting platform, became smoother, more intuitive. Endurance bred patience. Patience honed his skill.
Day faded to dusk. Vorlag halted. Silas, though utterly spent, had not fully depleted his mist. His body throbbed with fatigue, his mind a dull ache. He forced himself to remain standing. Vorlag tossed him another piece of sun-cured flesh.
No desperate crawl this time. Silas caught it, tore a strip. He chewed slowly, meticulously, moistening each bite before swallowing. It took nearly half an hour to consume the single piece. He glanced at Vorlag. The older man had eaten perhaps a third of his own portion. A strange sense of defeat stung Silas.
*Still hungry.*
His growing body craved more, but pride clamped his jaw shut. He would sleep hungry. But first, he had to prepare.
He spread his tunic flat, a hopeful offering to the coming dew. Next, shelter. He still possessed a precious reserve of mist.
Focusing, Silas extended his will. Wisps of vapor, almost invisible, gathered. They swirled around loose scree and dust, binding the particles, making them momentarily cohesive. He carved a shallow depression, just large enough to curl into.
He climbed in. With another surge of will, he drew more mist, compacting the dust above him, forming a temporary, solid roof. The ambient air here possessed no innate cohesion. Normally, it would collapse. But Silas’s mist held it firm.
Mana was spent in the creation, but once formed, the structure required little upkeep. He breathed a sigh of relief. Last night’s shivering torment was replaced by a comforting warmth. He closed his eyes.
A thought, fleeting and unwelcome, of Vorlag. Should he invite him into the mist-den? He shook his head. Vorlag would not come. If the cold became too much, he would find his own means. With that, Silas drifted into a deeper slumber.
A faint tremor. Silas’s eyes snapped open. A vibration, subtle but growing, resonated through the solidified dust of his bunker. He pressed a hand to the ground. Stronger now. He emerged, wary.
Vorlag was already standing, Stonefist planted point-down before him. His gaze was fixed on the encroaching darkness. It was the deepest hour before dawn, a thick, impenetrable blanket over the peak. But Vorlag saw past it.
*Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.*
The vibrations intensified, a rhythmic pulse against the rock. Silas’s pupils dilated, trying to pierce the gloom.
*Dozens. No, hundreds.*
Vorlag’s lips peeled back in a feral grin. “Survive on your own, you fool! Heh.” A strange, manic delight sparked in his eyes, like a child anticipating a grand display. But Silas felt no joy. He knew Vorlag meant it.
*Alright. I will survive.*
The thumping grew to a roar. Shapes resolved themselves from the blackness. Countless pairs of eyes, glittering like chips of ice, converged rapidly on their position.
“Gale-Hounds,” Vorlag whispered, his grin widening.