A raw, burning ache throbbed in Rhys’s chest, a phantom echo of the Embergate’s heat. Drakk had vanished, then reappeared, a shimmering fissure tearing through the air before him. No explanation, no warning—just the silent command in the ancient warrior’s unblinking stare. Rhys had no choice but to follow. The Mist called to him, a faint, distressed murmur from beyond the shimmering curtain. Stepping through, the world shattered around him. The comforting, pervasive gray of the Evermist vanished, replaced by an inferno of light and a vast, oppressive emptiness. Rhys stumbled, his boots crunching on something brittle and sharp. His connection to the Evermist, usually a profound comfort, felt stretched thin, lacerated. They stood upon a shimmering expanse of crystalline salt, stretching to a horizon that blurred under a relentless, unblinking sun. The air was a furnace blast, dry and biting, stealing the moisture from his lungs. Above, the sky was a sickly, pale azure, utterly devoid of the usual swirling currents and veils of Mist that defined Aethelgard. This was the Salt-Scarred Expanse, a blighted land whispered about in hushed tones, where the Evermist barely touched. Rhys gasped, drawing in the scorching air. His skin prickled, his eyes ached from the blinding glare. A wave of profound disorientation washed over him, a dizzying nausea from the sheer absence of the Mist’s embrace. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a creature ripped from its natural habitat. Drakk stood before him, a silhouette against the searing white, utterly unfazed. Ancient eyes, hard as obsidian, fixed on Rhys. The warrior’s gauntleted hand shot out, seizing Rhys’s wrist with brutal force. A surge of icy numbness, then a piercing agony, lanced up his arm, severing his subtle connection to the sparse Mist around them. Rhys cried out, the sound swallowed by the vast silence. He buckled to his knees, his vision blurring from the pain. It was not merely physical; Drakk had attacked the very core of his being, twisting the delicate strands that tethered him to the Evermist. A scream clawed at his throat, but no sound emerged. Then, Drakk released him, the sudden absence of pressure leaving his arm tingling with pins and needles. He flexed his fingers, a dull ache throbbing in his wrist. Drakk’s voice, a gravelly rasp, cut through the silence. “Curious, your link to the Mists. Not a true weaver, not a true seeker, yet the currents bend to your whim.” He tilted his head, a predatory glint in his eyes. “A raw power, unrefined. A shame.” Rhys pushed himself up, his body trembling, the pain a distant echo compared to the deeper violation. “You… you discarded me back there,” he choked out, his voice hoarse, raw with indignation. “Left me to the Ash-Wyrm’s maw!” “A lesson,” Drakk replied, his tone flat. “A test. One you barely survived.” A scoff. “You are as fragile as you are foolish.” Rhys surged forward, a surge of adrenaline overriding caution. He gathered the meager, volatile Mist around him, shaping it into a compressed, crystalline shard. With a desperate snarl, he hurled it at Drakk’s chest. It struck with a faint *ping*, shattering into harmless vapor against the warrior’s stony hide. Drakk merely chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He brushed an invisible speck from his armor. “A child’s breath against a mountain.” His gaze hardened. “From this moment, you follow me. No questions, no hesitation. Understood?” “My name is Rhys,” he ground out, still seething, “not… not a lackey.” “Weakness defines your name, then,” Drakk countered, his voice dripping with disdain. “And until that changes, ‘fool’ is all you are.” He took a step closer, his shadow falling over Rhys. “Raise another hand against me, and I will tear the Mists from your very bones.” Rhys instinctively recoiled, his jaw clenching shut. The threat was chilling, entirely credible. Drakk was a force of nature, an ancient predator whose power dwarfed his own, even in this Mist-starved land. He was a mere fledgling, insignificant in the warrior’s eyes, a brittle thing easily crushed. --- 'Trapped by a madman,' Rhys thought, a bitter taste filling his mouth, dry from the scorching wind. He glanced around the endless expanse. No cover, no hiding place. Escape was a fool’s dream. Until he found his own strength, he was bound to Drakk’s relentless pace. A sigh escaped him, thin and raspy. 'Powerlessness is a brand. A curse.' Drakk strode across the crystalline flats, seemingly impervious to the searing heat and the brittle ground. His heavy boots barely left an impression. He moved with an effortless grace, a phantom in the glare, never once faltering. Rhys, however, struggled from the first step. Each footfall on the splintering salt crust was an effort, draining his stamina. The crystals groaned and crumbled under his weight, threatening to collapse into unseen pits. The unrelenting sun beat down, baking his skin, drawing the moisture from him in great, painful gulps. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with the salt dust. His breathing grew ragged, his strides slowing with every agonizing meter. He felt the Evermist, a faint, distant thrum, but it offered no comfort here, no cool embrace, no easy path. Drakk glanced back, a look of profound disgust on his face. “Pitiable. You claim connection to the Mists, yet crawl like a common worm. Your gifts are wasted on such feebleness.” He gestured to the shimmering ground. “Use the Mists, boy. Why lumber like a beast of burden?” Rhys squinted, shielding his eyes from the glare. “It’s not… not that simple,” he rasped, his throat tight. “The Mists here are thin. Volatile. It’s like trying to weave with smoke, not water.” Drakk stopped, turning fully. His eyes held a chilling contempt. “A weaver who cannot weave in the wind is no weaver at all. Your excuses are thinner than the air you breathe.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You possess a unique link, a rare gift. Yet you squander it with a mind as fractured as this ground. What good is a body whole if your will is broken?” “Would you… stop calling me a fool?” Rhys pleaded, a desperate edge to his voice. “Prove you are otherwise,” Drakk snarled. “Until then, you are but a pup yelping at the moon. A fool among fools.” Rhys clamped his mouth shut. No retort was possible, no argument would sway this ancient, uncompromising warrior. Drakk merely turned, resuming his inexorable march across the flats. “Your gift. Your burden,” Drakk called over his shoulder, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. “Master it, or this land will claim you.” A pause. “And if it does not, I will.” Rhys watched the warrior’s retreating back, a tremor of fury running through him. *Fool? Broken will?* The insults stung, igniting a simmering fire deep within. Anger, sharp and hot, coiled in his gut—anger at Drakk, yes, but also a deeper, more profound anger at his own perceived inadequacy. He gritted his teeth, the taste of salt on his tongue. *He will not call me that again.* Rhys would prove him wrong. He would command the Mists, even here, in this desolate, unforgiving place. He had no choice. He forced his thoughts away from his rage, focusing instead on the problem at hand: movement. The Evermist, even in this bleached realm, was still present, however diminished. He felt its faint pulse, a nervous tremor beneath the crystalline crust. He had to learn its rhythms here, adapt. Rhys extended his perception, reaching out with his connection, feeling the ambient Mist within a few meters of his immediate vicinity. It was barely a breath, diffused and weak, yet it was there. Manipulating it required extreme precision. *Perhaps I can compact it, create a solid surface?* He concentrated, drawing the sparse currents together, attempting to mimic the firm, ethereal platforms he could form in denser Mist. A faint hum vibrated under his boots. The crystalline ground beneath his feet momentarily solidified, holding his weight. He took a step, then another. It was like walking on air, effortless. But the strain was immediate. His internal energy, his connection to the Evermist, drained from him with alarming speed. Each step was a rapid siphoning, leaving him lightheaded. At this rate, he would exhaust himself within a dozen paces. He abandoned the method, stumbling as the Mist dissipated, his foot plunging into the sharp, gritty salt. His exhaustion was already profound, and the thought of being stranded, depleted, in this hostile land sent a shiver down his spine. *A slow, agonizing death by sun and thirst, or by whatever creatures stalk this blighted ground. No.* He needed efficiency. He leaned back against the scorching air, eyes closed, trying to calm his racing heart. The Mist was a part of him, an extension of his will. But here, it felt alien, resistant. He needed a different approach. Not force, but finesse. *What if I don't solidify it, but merely… guide it?* Rhys opened his eyes, focusing on the thin layer of Mist directly beneath the soles of his boots. He tried to coax it, to shape it into a frictionless film, a subtle cushion that would glide over the splintered salt. Concentrating his will so narrowly was far more difficult than wielding the Mist broadly. His focus wavered, the delicate currents scattering, and he lost his footing, tumbling onto the rough, burning crystals. He pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of gritty salt. His throat felt like sandpaper, raw and parched. Drakk was a distant, unwavering figure on the horizon, not a single glance cast back. The indifference was infuriating. *Who put me in this wretched place?* The resentment flared anew, hot and bitter. It clouded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him, to make him give up. He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the crystalline dust. No. He would not surrender. Not to Drakk. Not to this land. Not to his own weakness. He refocused, ignoring the burning fatigue, the thirst, the aching muscles. Again, he tried to manipulate the thin currents directly under his feet. The Mist responded, reluctantly, like a sleepy child. It moved, slowly, an almost imperceptible glide. He wobbled, his balance precarious, but he didn't fall. He concentrated harder, coaxing the Mist to gather, to shift, to bear the barest fraction of his weight, allowing his feet to skim just above the jagged surface. It was excruciatingly slow, a painstaking dance of will and minute perception. His focus would break, the Mist would scatter, and he’d stumble, catching himself just before a full fall. Time ceased to exist. He fell countless times, rose, spat salt, and tried again. Each stumble, each effort, refined his control. Gradually, painstakingly, the Mist began to obey. A subtle current, a low-lying stream of barely visible vapor, began to move with him, under him, carrying him forward. He was no longer sinking, no longer struggling against the crumbling ground. It wasn't flying, not even a true float, but a whisper-light glide, a frictionless slide across the salt flats. It consumed far less energy than his initial attempts, though it still demanded unwavering concentration. Far ahead, Drakk continued his march. He didn’t stop, didn’t turn. But a flicker of something, a subtle shift in the air around the ancient warrior, betrayed his awareness. He registered Rhys’s progress, a faint, almost imperceptible nod of something that might have been approval. “A persistent fool, then,” Drakk’s voice carried on the wind, a dry, faint whisper. “Perhaps not entirely useless.”

The Salt Road