Chilled air clung to Rhys, damp and heavy within Whisper-Pit 97. The meager light of his crude helmet lamp carved a small, struggling circle against the absolute black. Dust motes danced, an eerie, silent ballet in the stagnant air.
His pickaxe, worn and blunt, felt impossibly heavy. Each swing against the unforgiving rock sent jarring pain up his arms, a dull throb echoing the ache in his ribs from Borin’s 'lesson.' Other marks scarred the wall, ghosts of desperation left by those who toiled before him.
Prospectors disappeared in these pits. Their names were whispered warnings, not epitaphs. There was always a reason. A cause for every grim effect.
Rhys paused, pressing a palm to the cold stone. Beneath the earth, the Evermist usually sang, a constant, low thrum against his skin. Here, it was different. An unnatural stillness. A pocket of silence in the world’s pervasive hum.
This wasn't merely dead air. It was a dense, almost viscous concentration of Evermist, but not in its natural, flowing state. It felt… compressed. Straining. Like a held breath in the lungs of the world. Why only here?
He thought of Borin, the captain's thick hands wrapped around his bottle, oblivious to the subtle shifts in the Mist, to anything beyond his own petty tyrannies. Borin wouldn't sense this. He’d just see rock, and a man to break it.
Rhys knew the tales of prolonged Mist exposure. Slow decay. Minds unraveling. The old ones called it 'Mist-rot.' If this was true, these abandoned tunnels weren't just dark; they were tombs.
He scraped a pickaxe along the rough-hewn wall, listening. The sound was flat, dead. A different resonance, subtly alien. His gaze fell upon the silent Void-stone tucked into his pouch. It remained inert, a black pebble against the Mist’s subtle pressure. It offered no answers.
Rhys lifted the pickaxe, its tip a dull point of resolve. He struck the wall. Sparks flew, a brief, angry burst of light. Rock crumbled, a fine powder misting the air. Again he struck, harder this time, his focus a pinpoint of grim determination.
One strike landed with a sickening *thunk*. The pickaxe didn’t bite; it rebounded, a jarring metallic shriek. He’d hit something else. Something beneath the rock, unyielding.
Furrowing his brows, Rhys raised the tool once more. With a guttural cry, he brought it down, all his desperate strength behind the swing. A deep, hollow crack echoed through the pit.
The wall groaned, then collapsed inward with a roar, sending a shower of loose rock and dust cascading into the newly revealed space. Beyond the crumbling stone, an elliptical void shimmered. It was impossibly dark, an absence of light so profound it seemed to swallow the weak beam of his lamp.
Then, a sudden, powerful force seized him. Not the gentle pull of the Evermist, but a violent, wrenching grasp. It tore at his senses, a brutal assault. Before he could react, Rhys was yanked forward, into the swallowing darkness.
---
Crushing pressure engulfed Rhys, a weight that threatened to squeeze the very air from his lungs. Pain screamed through every nerve, a sensation of being twisted, compressed, then violently stretched. His mind went blank, consciousness shattering under the sudden, agonizing assault.
Just as swiftly as it came, the pressure released. Rhys tumbled through nothingness, then slammed onto solid ground, rolling several times before skidding to a halt. His body screamed in protest, every muscle protesting, every bone aching.
He pushed himself up, gasping, hands scrambling for purchase on unfamiliar terrain. What had just happened? What hellish landscape was this?
An entirely different world assaulted his senses. The air, thick and acrid, scorched his throat with a taste of brimstone and ash. A colossal mountain, black as obsidian, clawed at the sky in the distance. Its summit spewed not clouds, but viscous, dark smoke and rivulets of molten fire.
The sky hung heavy, choked with volcanic ash, a perpetual twilight beneath a sickly, jaundiced glow. Rivers of molten rock snaked across the desolate land, their glow the only illumination. All around, the ground was a crust of solidified lava, radiating an oppressive, suffocating heat that made the pit’s chill feel like a forgotten dream.
Rhys’s clothes, already damp from the pit, clung to him, now soaked with sweat. His skin prickled, burning. This was no illusion. This was real.
He glanced behind him, searching for the elliptical void, the jagged 'throat' that had swallowed him. It was there, but even as he watched, its edges wavered, blurring like a watercolor in rain. The portal pulsed, shrinking rapidly, pulling itself back into the fabric of whatever reality it belonged to.
Rhys staggered forward, a desperate cry escaping his lips, but it was too late. The shimmering breach contracted, then vanished, leaving only a seamless, obsidian wall in its place. Not a trace remained. He was trapped.
His breath hitched, a dry, rattling cough in his chest. His fingers went to his pouch, seeking the smooth, unyielding presence of the Void-stone. It was still cold, still silent. A tiny anchor in a world utterly alien.
He prided himself on his pragmatism, but the sheer absurdity of this situation threatened to overwhelm him. In Aethelgard, tales of such breaches existed, but they were rare, almost myth. And never did one step into them without preparation. Never without a team, careful readings of Mist concentrations, protective measures.
This was beyond unlucky. This felt… orchestrated. From Borin’s beating, to this pit, to this impossible landscape. A bitter laugh escaped him, raw and humorless.
---
First, he had to check. Rhys reached out, a tendril of his will extended into the unfamiliar air. He sought the Evermist, the ubiquitous essence of his world. Here, it was attenuated, thin, like a whisper in a hurricane. But it was present, clinging to the volcanic ash.
He focused, urging the residual Mist. Slowly, a cloud of fine ash grains levitated from the ground, swirling gently above his palm. It was faint, weaker than usual, but his connection held. His abilities worked.
Relief, sharp and sudden, cut through the despair. Had the Mist connection been severed, he would have been truly lost. Here, in this desolate expanse, the ash itself could become a weapon, a shield.
Next, he checked his pack, the small satchel Borin had grudgingly allowed him. Crude rations—dried fungi, a few strips of cured meat—remained intact. Enough for a few days, perhaps. A grim comfort.
Food secured. Abilities confirmed. Now, to find a way out. His eyes scanned the oppressive horizon, always drawn to the colossal, smoking mountain. It dominated the landscape. Such a focal point had to hold a secret.
He started walking towards the volcano, each step sending tremors through his weary body. The ground burned through the thin soles of his boots. The ash-laden air tore at his lungs. He pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket, tying it clumsily over his mouth and nose. It offered scant protection against the acidic air, but it was something.
The closer he drew, the more horrifying the scale became. This wasn't some minor vent. This was a titan, a force of primal destruction. Molten rivers flowed with terrifying majesty, carving paths through the solidified wastes. Heat shimmered, distorting the air, making his vision waver.
An ordinary human, even one not beaten to within an inch of their life, would perish within moments here. Rhys, hardened by the Mist and the solitude, felt his resolve waver, a sliver of primal fear worming its way in.
Was there truly a way out of a place like this? He had no choice but to find one.
---
A vast river of molten lava, dozens of meters wide, blocked his path. Its surface pulsed with an angry, liquid fire, a barrier of impossible heat. He couldn’t possibly leap across. The radiant heat alone threatened to blister his skin.
Rhys followed its banks, searching for a narrower point. After what felt like an eternity, he found a section where the river narrowed to perhaps ten meters. A dangerous leap, but potentially survivable.
He paused, taking several deep, burning breaths. His muscles tensed, his body screaming for rest, not exertion. A misstep, a moment of weakness, and he would plunge into that burning maw, instantly consumed.
With a silent prayer to the distant, unseen Evermist of his home, Rhys sprinted. He launched himself from the precipice, arms flung wide, soaring over the inferno.
At the peak of his arc, a ripple disturbed the lava. Not a current, but a monstrous displacement. Something surged upwards, breaking the surface with a roar that vibrated through his bones.
Rhys looked down, his heart lurching into his throat. A gigantic maw, wider than his entire body, gaped open. Its teeth, jagged and obsidian-sharp, were like forearm-length daggers. Scabby, scaled skin, slick with molten rock, covered a serpentine body that twisted with terrifying power. A Cinder-Drake, ancient and terrifying, had found its prey.
He was suspended in mid-air, nowhere to escape. Instinctively, he tried to compress the air around him, to conjure a concentrated blast of Evermist, but the surrounding essence was too weak, too thin. The creature lunged, its massive jaws snapping shut with a force that would crush him instantly.
Rhys twisted his body mid-jump, a desperate, impossible contortion. The Cinder-Drake’s teeth scraped his side, a searing pain, but he evaded the direct bite. He lost all balance, plummeting downwards, straight into the molten current below. The creature widened its jaws again, anticipating its meal.
Then he saw it. The faint, almost imperceptible cloud of ash he had levitated earlier, now a tiny, swirling eddy caught in the scant air currents. With a desperate surge of will, Rhys focused, straining his connection to the sparse Evermist.
He visualized it. A solid platform. A desperate anchor. Beneath his falling body, the fine ash condensed, compacting, forming a shimmering, temporary disc of solidified Mist and ash. Not truly solid, but enough.
Rhys pushed off the fragile platform with all his might, propelling himself across the remaining gap. He landed hard on the opposite bank, not on his feet, but with a bone-jarring impact on his back. A grunt of pain escaped him, but there was no time to register the agony.
The Cinder-Drake roared, heaving its colossal body from the river, its short, thick legs churning against the cooled lava. It advanced, fast, too fast.
“Damn you!” Rhys scrambled backwards, his breath ragged. He extended his hand, throwing a desperate, concentrated burst of what little Evermist he could muster. It met the beast’s fiery aura, dissolving into nothingness before it could even touch the creature’s skin. The heat was too intense.
The Cinder-Drake lunged, jaws agape, a final, inescapable strike. Rhys stared, frozen, unable to react, the heat a suffocating blanket.
“Using ash, hmm? An intriguing talent for these wretched lands.”
The voice was rough, like grinding stone, yet it carried an undeniable authority that cut through the roaring heat. Rhys involuntarily twisted his head towards the sound.
From the ash-choked sky, a figure descended with impossible speed. A human form, ancient and imposing, carrying a massive, impossibly gleaming sword. The individual struck the ground with the force of a falling meteor, colliding directly with the charging Cinder-Drake.
An explosive sound erupted, a shockwave that kicked up solidified lava and sent plumes of ash skyward. Molten rock splashed like droplets from a tempest. Rhys instinctively shielded his eyes, his ears ringing from the deafening impact. When he lowered his arms, the sight was unbelievable.
The colossal Cinder-Drake lay crushed, its scaled hide shattered like glass. Standing atop its ruined body was the figure: a huge, weathered individual, their face grim, eyes burning with a terrifying, ancient fire. Their gaze swept over Rhys, cold and assessing. The voice, when it spoke again, rumbled with a power more intimidating than any beast.
“Get up, boy. You’re wasted if you die here.”