A low growl rippled through the pre-dawn gloom, a chorus of starved anticipation. Salt-Ghouls, born of the Expanse’s corrupted dust and the Evermist’s stagnant currents, were creatures of instinct and hunger. They hunted in packs, driven by a brutal hierarchy where the largest, most vicious female led. This matriarch, a hulking beast twice the size of her kin, bore a ridged spine of crystalline salt that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. She stood a head taller than Drakk, her form a twisted mockery of predator, all gaunt muscle and chitinous plates. Packs could number in the tens, sometimes hundreds, each ghoul a jagged maw and razor-sharp claws, utterly devoid of fear when numbers were on their side. They were nocturnal hunters, their grotesque forms perfectly adapted to the Evermist’s endless twilight. Now, they surged forward, a churning wave of snapping teeth and bony limbs. The air itself seemed to shudder under their combined momentum. Most of the pack instinctively veered towards Drakk, drawn by his sheer, imposing mass. But a cluster, perhaps a dozen strong, peeled off towards Rhys. Rhys felt a sickening lurch in his gut. His Evermist connection was a thin, frayed thread, his reserves still painfully low. He raised a trembling hand, attempting to draw forth a protective wall of mist. It wavered, thinner than spun silk, useless against the oncoming tide. ‘No,’ a desperate thought cut through his panic. One by one would be death. He needed more. He needed to be *more*. He forced his focus, dredging up every last flicker of Evermist. Instead of a shield, he tried to condense the vapor, shaping it into a single, needle-thin point. It pulsed, a faint silver against the grey. Then, with a grunt of exertion, he split it. Five tendrils of focused mist, sharp as slivers of glass, shot forth. They were fragile, barely visible, but they carried a sliver of his intent. The lead ghoul, a gaunt thing with milky eyes, crumpled as a pinpoint hole appeared in its skull. The others didn't flinch. Their comrade was just a discarded husk. Rhys repeated the action, sweat beading on his forehead. The first volley had been agonizing. The second, slightly less so. A gruesome rhythm began to form. Draw, condense, split, project. Each hit was precise, targeting the vulnerable eye sockets or the soft spot behind the skull. Five Ghouls fell. Then five more. His vision swam with the effort. He wouldn't last long, but he could buy time. Drakk, meanwhile, was a storm. Gorecleaver, his wicked blade, hummed a low, hungry song as it carved through the charging horde. He moved with a brutal elegance, each swing a statement of absolute dominion. He didn't dance; he simply *was* a force. Around him, the ground became a canvas of crimson and grey, painted with mangled limbs and shattered bone. “Kekeke! More!” Drakk’s voice was a ragged bark of perverse delight, carrying above the snarls and the sickening wet thud of his blade. He wasn't simply fighting; he was *feasting* on the chaos. Salt-Ghouls, in their desperation, sometimes managed to bite at his arms, his legs. Their teeth, honed on the grit and bone of the Expanse, merely sparked against his skin. His flesh seemed harder than the ancient stone of the forgotten cities. The Ghouls howled, their teeth splintering against an unyielding surface. “Just a tickle,” Drakk chuckled, seizing a Ghoul by its head as it latched onto his thigh. With a sickening crunch, the creature’s skull imploded under his grip. He flung the limp body like a discarded toy, sending it tumbling through the pack, bowling over three more Ghouls whose brittle bones snapped under the impact. He reveled in the slaughter. Each precise strike of Rhys felt like a whisper compared to Drakk's roaring storm of carnage. The Alpha Ghoul, until now merely observing, moved. A subtle hum filled the air, a crackle of raw, abrasive energy that gathered around its salt-crystal spine. Its eyes, deep-set and predatory, fixed on Drakk. A blast of superheated salt particles erupted from its maw, a concentrated force designed to erode stone and scour flesh. It tore through the air, shrieking. Drakk didn't flinch. He simply extended a hand, palm open. The searing salt blast vanished within his grip, swallowed by some unseen force. The air cooled instantly, leaving a faint scent of ozone and something impossibly ancient. A primal fear, cold and absolute, washed over the Alpha Ghoul. This was not prey. This was something beyond its understanding. It shrieked, a high-pitched sound that cut through the battle, a command to retreat. The remaining Ghouls hesitated, then turned, their instinct for survival overriding their hunger. Drakk had no intention of letting them go. He hurled Gorecleaver. The blade spun, a steel whirlwind, cutting through the fleeing Ghouls with a dreadful efficiency. Their screams echoed as it tore through flesh and bone, a trail of dismembered bodies marking its path. Rhys watched, numb with horror. Drakk’s actions seemed to escalate beyond any sane measure. The Gorecleaver returned to Drakk’s hand as he surged from the ground, launching himself skyward. He became a plummeting meteor, aimed squarely at the Alpha Ghoul, who had just begun to turn. The impact was devastating. The salt-cracked earth erupted, spitting dust and debris high into the pale sky. A final, guttural shriek from the Alpha was abruptly cut short. When the dust settled, the matriarch lay broken, a mangled heap of flesh and crystal. Only the largest salt-crystal spur on its head remained intact, glowing faintly. Drakk stood over the corpse, unblemished. Not a bead of sweat, not a tremor of fatigue. He actually looked… invigorated. A wide, feral grin split his face, his eyes alight with a terrifying zest. Rhys could only stare. He barely dared to breathe. Was this what strength truly looked like? Not through the careful manipulation of Evermist, not through the nuanced dance of abilities, but through sheer, unadulterated, horrifying power. No Evermist skill had been visibly cast. No intricate weaving of illusion or precise shaping of vapor. Drakk had simply *done* it. Crushed an apex predator with nothing but his own, brutal might. “Kekeke!” Drakk finally turned, his gaze sweeping over Rhys. “You survived.” Rhys could only manage a slow, shaky nod. Words felt trapped in his throat. Drakk chuckled, a rasping sound. He knelt, his massive hand closing around the phosphorescent crystal spur on the Alpha’s head. With a grunt, he wrenched it free. The air around the crystal shimmered, and it vanished from Drakk’s hand, seemingly absorbed into his palm. Rhys blinked. No sign of a mist pouch, no visible storage. “These carry a useful resonance,” Drakk grunted, rising. “Bind the mist, ward off the hungering ones. Refine it, and it holds a sharper edge.” Rhys’s mind reeled. What was Drakk? A manipulator of Evermist in a way Rhys couldn’t fathom? Or something else entirely, blurring the lines between strength and subtle power? Drakk sheathed Gorecleaver. From his belt, he unclipped a crude dagger, its blade fashioned from a jagged bone. He tossed it to Rhys. “Now. Your turn to earn your keep.” Drakk gestured to one of the fallen Salt-Ghouls. “Most of the flesh is poison. Corrupted. But the flank, near the ribcage… scrape away the grey, it’s edible. Barely. Dry it, it’ll last.” Drakk knelt, demonstrating. He sliced a small, economical portion from the Ghoul's side, barely the size of Rhys's palm. The flesh beneath the grey, pustuled skin was an unappetizing pale white. Rhys watched, trying to imprint the movements in his mind. He remembered the strips of dried meat Drakk had given him. Monster flesh. He had grown up in the desolate settlements, where hunger was a constant companion. If it was edible, it was survival. He approached a smaller Ghoul, mirroring Drakk’s motions with clumsy hands. He scraped away the outer layer, the stink of corrupted flesh assaulting his senses. He carefully cut a large portion, much more than Drakk had taken. Drakk, after all, could simply hunt again. Rhys needed to be prepared. He couldn't afford to run out. He fashioned a bundle from his tattered cloak, securing nearly thirty pieces of the pale meat. It was more than he could comfortably carry, but the alternative was worse. “Kekeke. Resourceful,” Drakk grunted, a flicker of something akin to approval in his eyes. “Still soft. But resourceful.” “Time to move,” Drakk said, already turning. “Before the scent of this draws more.” Rhys nodded, grateful for the command. The stench of blood and rendered gore was cloying, turning his stomach. He didn’t want to linger among the torn bodies, the silent witnesses to Drakk’s horrific power. The pre-dawn murk was beginning to lift, revealing the full extent of the carnage. Shapes stirred in the distance, high above in the Evermist. Carrion-mist creatures, drawn by the promise of a feast, were already descending. The law of the Salt-Scarred Expanse was stark: the strong preyed, the weak became sustenance. The dead nourished the living. Rhys followed Drakk, pushing his exhausted body. He attempted to channel the Evermist for a faster pace, expecting the familiar drag of depleted reserves. Instead, a subtle change had occurred. His connection, though still faint, felt… smoother. The desperation of the battle, the precise control he’d been forced to exert, had honed his senses, sharpened his manipulation. His movements were more fluid, less taxing. He had grown stronger. A grim, terrifying strength, born of violence and desperation, but strength nonetheless. He watched Drakk’s broad back as his mentor strode ahead, a dark silhouette against the strengthening light. He didn't understand Drakk's motives, why he was being dragged along this brutal path. But one thing was clear: if he survived, he would emerge from this, transformed. He would be stronger. Or broken. Rhys trudged onward, a silent, determined shadow in Drakk's wake.

A Feast for Carrion