A ragged gasp tore through Rhys’s throat, tasting of salt and dust. His connection to the Evermist, usually a vibrant hum within him, had dwindled to a threadbare whisper, stretched too thin across the desolate, Mist-starved expanse. Every instinct screamed for the comforting embrace of the deep Evermist, but here, it was a cruel mockery, just enough to taunt, never enough to sustain. His limbs, heavy as granite, refused to respond. The ground, a churning, treacherous mix of saline grit and dust, no longer yielded to his will. Mist-weaving, once an almost unconscious reflex, had become a desperate, flailing effort. Never had Rhys felt so utterly spent, his spirit as eroded as the land around him. From behind, Drakk’s heavy, rhythmic steps continued, a relentless counterpoint to Rhys’s own failure. The larger man hadn’t spared a glance, hadn’t paused for a second. Rhys had fought against the collapse, gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, refusing to give Drakk the satisfaction of seeing him break. But now, the fight was gone. His legs buckled. Rhys crumpled to the ground, a heap of aching bone and dust-choked muscle. He lay there, face pressed into the scorching grit, panting raggedly, the metallic taste of exertion thick on his tongue. A shadow fell over him. Drakk was standing above him, a contemptuous glint in his eyes. “Wasted time,” Drakk grunted, his voice rough as grinding stone. “All because of an idiot like you.” Drakk dropped to his heels, producing two strips of cured meat from a pouch at his hip. One he tore with his teeth, chewing with slow, deliberate movements. The other, he tossed carelessly into the dust beside Rhys, a silent command to rise and eat. Rhys couldn’t move. His mouth felt like parchment, his throat a constricted sieve. Chewing, let alone swallowing, seemed an impossible feat in this parched state. Even a sliver of knowledge told Rhys that without water, without recuperating his strength, he would simply succumb. Drakk knew it too. He simply chewed on, indifferent. “The old world,” Drakk rasped, each word a shard of rock. “They say it was soft. Peaceful. Kindness wasn’t a weakness. But that’s gone, isn’t it? The Great Descent changed everything. Now, it’s only the strong. The weak are just… fodder. Does it hurt? Is it hard? Then die. It’s easier.” Rhys’s gut twisted. He had seen suffering, faced the slow despair of the settlements, but Drakk’s words were a cold, surgical cut. They echoed the quiet desperation Rhys carried, but twisted it into something brutal, unforgiving. A familiar numbness threatened to engulf him, but a sharp, defiant spark ignited deep within. “Lay there if you want an easy grave,” Drakk finished, dropping the last morsel into his mouth. “But if you want to breathe another breath, get up. Now. Fool.” Drakk fell silent, his gaze distant, chewing his jerky with a measured pace. He hadn’t drunk water all day either, Rhys realized. Every slow bite, every deliberate moistening, was a survival tactic. He was preserving every drop of saliva. Already, the sun dipped below the jagged horizon, painting the sky in violent hues of crimson and bruised purple. The air grew sharp, thin. Night in the Salt-Scarred Expanse brought a chilling cold that could steal warmth from bones, even from the Mist-touched. Hypothermia, Rhys knew, was as lethal here as thirst. *I won’t die. Not here. Not like this.* The thought was a raw, guttural prayer. Rhys shifted, pushing his elbows into the dust. A groan tore from his chest. He pushed again, dragging himself forward, a broken thing crawling in the grit. His fingers scraped against the jerky. He seized it, a primal hunger overwhelming all else. He stuffed the sandy meat into his mouth. It resisted, a dry, fibrous lump. He chewed. Slowly. Torturously. His jaw ached, his throat burned, but he persisted. Grit ground between his teeth. Finally, after an eternity, he swallowed. A small, almost imperceptible surge of warmth spread through him. A flicker of his Mist-connection returned, a faint pulse within his core. He pushed himself upright, chest heaving. Drakk tossed another piece of jerky. Rhys caught it, this time. He didn’t offer thanks, simply began the slow, deliberate process of chewing again. With each painstaking bite, more strength seeped into his limbs, more of the Evermist’s gentle current flowed through his veins. Drakk, as if reading the subtle shift in Rhys’s aura, spoke without looking at him. “Body and Mist are one. Let the body falter, and the Mist follows. Neglect one, you lose both.” Rhys nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He had felt it. While lying broken, he’d tried to coax the Evermist, but his internal well remained stubbornly dry. Only now, as his physical strength slowly returned, did the Mist-currents begin to flow freely once more. A long, shaky breath escaped Rhys. He had pulled himself back from the brink. The vast, darkening canvas of the Salt-Scarred sky unfolded above him, studded with countless, diamond-sharp stars, a startling contrast to the harshness below. In the enclosed settlements, light pollution and the constant anxiety had always obscured such sights. Now, after flirting with oblivion, he found an unexpected, raw beauty in the cosmic display. “Good spot,” Drakk’s voice, low and rumbling, broke the silence. He was speaking to his blade, a gnarled, obsidian-dark cleaver he called ‘Mist-Blade’, planted upright in the sand before him. “Plenty of fresh trails here. Haven’t cleared the dens in this sector for a while, have we?” Rhys watched, a prickle of unease crawling over his skin. Was Drakk mad? Or was the blade truly sentient? He remembered whispers from the settlements, legends of 'Ego-Weapons' that bonded with their wielders, gaining a fragment of their consciousness. Drakk’s next words erased any doubt. “No, you’re right, it has been too long. My memory gets hazy out here. Thank you for the reminder.” He spoke to the blade as if it were an old companion, completely oblivious to Rhys’s incredulous stare. Drakk then turned, his gaze sweeping over Rhys. A shiver, colder than the deepening night, traced Rhys’s spine. --- Sleep was a distant luxury. Rhys shivered, hugging his knees to his chest, the biting cold of the Expanse seeping into his bones. Drakk, meanwhile, slept deeply, a picture of untroubled repose, curled beside his Mist-Blade. Rhys felt an irrational urge to kick him. Dawn, a pale grey smear, finally touched the horizon. Drakk stirred, then rose, his movements fluid and economical. His first act was to peel off his tunic, wring it out, and drink the meager droplets of dew that had condensed on the fabric. Rhys watched, a flash of recognition. He’d spread his own clothes last night, but the thought had come too late, the surface too small. He squeezed a few paltry drops, barely enough to wet his tongue. *If only I had known,* Rhys thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. Resentment, sharp and unwelcome, pricked him. But it was quickly replaced by a profound realization: every action Drakk took, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, was a calculated move for survival. Drakk lived, breathed, and thought only of endurance in this brutal world. *I must learn this. Everything.* The resolution settled deep within Rhys, cold and unwavering. He would mimic Drakk, absorb every lesson, every cruel instruction, until he too could stand as unyielding as the Salt-Scarred Expanse itself. Rhys wrung every last drop of moisture from his tunic, finally easing the parched tightness in his throat. Drakk, already several paces ahead, simply said, “Move.” Rhys nodded, knowing better than to ask their destination. Drakk wouldn’t explain. He understood Drakk now: brutally pragmatic, utterly self-reliant, and profoundly unkind. Drakk expected him to survive, but only by his own wits, by his own strength. His Mist-well had replenished during the restless night. Rhys focused, a subtle surge of the Evermist responding to his will. He extended the nascent technique he’d painstakingly developed yesterday, a low-lying ‘Dust-Skim’ that allowed him to glide over the most treacherous of the salt flats. His primary concern, however, remained Mist-management. The near-death experience of yesterday, his Mist-well running dry, was a stark reminder of his fragility. *There has to be a way to replenish the Mist as quickly as I use it,* he pondered. Drakk might know, but asking would be futile. Rhys would have to discover it himself. He moved, the subtle hum of the Evermist cushioning his steps, allowing him to skim over the burning grit. With each passing hour, with each burning mile beneath the relentless sun, his Dust-Skim grew smoother, more intuitive. Endurance, he found, bred a quiet patience, and with it, mastery. As the sun dipped again, painting the sky in fiery oranges, Drakk finally stopped. Rhys sank to the ground, exhausted, but with a grim satisfaction. His Mist-well was not depleted this time, a small victory. Still, the sheer physical toll, the mental strain of constant vigilance, left him feeling hollowed out. Drakk tossed him another piece of jerky. Rhys caught it, no longer fumbling. He tore it into small strips, remembering Drakk’s lesson, and chewed with excruciating slowness, forcing saliva into his mouth before swallowing. He extended the simple act of eating, drawing it out, savoring each meager bite. Midway through his piece, Rhys glanced at Drakk. The larger man had barely consumed a third of his jerky. Rhys, despite his deliberate slowness, was still far ahead. A strange, petty sense of defeat washed over him. He bit his lip. He would be even slower. Almost thirty minutes passed before he swallowed the last morsel. Still, his stomach grumbled, a hollow ache. Rhys, still growing, still needing more sustenance, felt the hunger gnawing at him. But he couldn’t ask Drakk for more. His pride, a fragile thing in this desolate world, wouldn’t allow it. He would sleep hungry. But first, there were tasks. He stripped his tunic again, spreading it carefully on the ground, a larger surface this time, hoping for more dew. Then, his eyes surveyed the ground. The cold would be fierce tonight. Drakk, with his unknown abilities, might not feel it. But Rhys did. His solution: a bunker. He still had enough Mist within him for this. Focusing, he extended his senses into the ground. The salt-crusted grit began to shift, a low rumble accompanying its movement. A shallow pit, barely large enough for one, formed before him. He slipped in, then gently nudged the Evermist again. The loose grit above him, instead of collapsing, solidified, forming a surprisingly sturdy roof. He had subtly manipulated its cohesion, binding the grains with a temporary, delicate Mist-weave. The Mist expended was minimal once the structure was complete. Rhys exhaled, a long, weary breath. Last night’s shivering, sleepless torment was behind him. He thought of Drakk, sleeping outside. *He’ll come in if he can’t bear it,* Rhys mused, a flicker of dark amusement. *Or he’ll just endure.* With that, Rhys drifted into the closest thing to comfortable sleep he’d known since the journey began. Outside, the temperature plummeted, but within his gritty burrow, it was strangely warm. An odd sensation jolted Rhys awake. A faint tremor, vibrating through the compacted sand walls of his bunker. He pressed a hand to the ground. The vibrations intensified, a rhythmic *thump… thump… thump…* growing steadily stronger. Rhys emerged, pushing aside the Mist-bound sand. Drakk was already standing, Mist-Blade clutched in his hand, eyes fixed on the impenetrable darkness before them. Rhys followed his gaze. It was the deepest hour before dawn, a thick, suffocating blackness that seemed to swallow all light. Yet Drakk, Rhys knew, could see through it, his senses honed to a supernatural edge. The vibrations grew into a dull roar, the ground thrumming beneath Rhys’s feet. His pupils dilated, straining to pierce the gloom. *Dozens… no, hundreds.* A sickening realization clawed at him. “Survive on your own, you idiot!” Drakk’s voice was a harsh cackle, a manic grin splitting his face. He seemed almost excited, like a child anticipating a spectacular fireworks display. Rhys, however, felt no joy. He knew Drakk meant it. No help would come from him. A fierce, cold resolve solidified within Rhys. *I will survive.* The roar intensified. From the profound darkness, hundreds of pairs of gleaming, yellow eyes materialized, hurtling towards them. “Salt-Ghouls,” Drakk hissed, his voice laced with savage delight. “A full pack.”

A Bed of Salt and Grit