Ash-stalker jerky, tough as cured leather, scraped against Silas Vane’s teeth. It carried a faint, bitter tang, the taste of survival earned through Kaelen’s brutal instruction. Fuel, not pleasure. Each bite was a grim victory against the gnawing emptiness of his gut. There was plenty of it now, enough to keep the hunger at bay, to power the slow, weary march across the Ashen Lands. Yet, a deeper thirst persisted. Morning dew, caught on scavenged metal or broad, withered leaves, offered a fleeting reprieve. For the rest of the cycle, his throat felt perpetually lined with dust, his tongue thick and unresponsive. He had learned to conserve, to ration every breath, every drop of his body’s meager moisture. Movements became deliberate, stripped of all wasted effort. Even his voice, once a quiet murmur, was now a seldom-used instrument, lest a whisper steal precious vapor from his lungs. From a distance, he might appear a phantom, barely disturbing the shifting cinder beneath his boots. Motion was minimized, an art of economy that Kaelen, stalking ahead, had scoffed at. “The weakling has learned to slither,” Kaelen had grunted, blade *Oblivion* slung over his shoulder. “A pathetic skill, but useful.” Kaelen, whose power seemed to bend the very despair of the world, tramped through the ash as if it were solid earth. Silas knew his own burgeoning mastery of cinder-sculpting was a nascent spark against Kaelen’s inferno. He watched the older man’s broad back, a bitter smile touching his lips. Did Kaelen suspect Silas’s true thoughts? Silas lifted his gaze to the swirling ash-sky, an endless grey vault. A faint *change* brushed his senses. It was not moisture, not in the way the old world defined it. This was a subtle inertia, a pocket of stillness in the ceaseless dance of airborne grit. A slight pull, a lessening of the corrosive static that filled the air. Something *stable*. Days spent trailing Kaelen, enduring his harsh tutelage, had honed Silas’s awareness. He didn’t miss the subtle stillness, the strange inertness that whispered of a temporary refuge. Kaelen, as if by instinct, veered towards it, his stride unbroken. *No accident.* Kaelen knew. The thought solidified in Silas’s mind. Kaelen, a force of nature draped in tattered cloaks, saw more than any ordinary man. His power defied understanding, hinted at depths Silas couldn’t even fathom. The thought of Kaelen’s true limits, if any existed, was unsettling. A colossal dune of fine, grey ash appeared on the horizon, a monument to the wind’s ceaseless sculpting. It was newly formed, its surface pristine and undisturbed. As a shaper of ash, Silas could read the subtle currents and deposits, the shifting memory of the wasteland. He struggled up the yielding incline, each step sinking deep. At the summit, a breathtaking sight lay before him. A vast basin, surprisingly calm, held a pool of viscous, dark liquid. Not water, but something close. A Stagnant Ash-Mere, a gathering of corrupted life-blood that occasionally welled up in the deeper pockets of the Ashen Lands. Its surface, thick and unmoving, reflected the bruised grey sky like a polished obsidian mirror. Here, for a brief time, the suffocating ash truly settled. *A source.* The primal urge was overwhelming. Thirst, held at bay for so long, clawed at his throat. He forgot caution, forgot Kaelen’s relentless warnings. He moved, faster than he had in weeks, scrambling down the dune’s face towards the dark pool. Kaelen, a dark silhouette against the muted sky, clicked his tongue, a sound of dismissive contempt. Silas paid him no mind. Reaching the edge, he plunged his head into the cool, gelid ash-water. It was thick, metallic on his tongue, but glorious in its wetness. He drank, mindless, letting the dark fluid wash over his parched mouth and throat. A wave of pure, simple relief washed over him. Then, a faint shimmer caught his eye. Deep within the viscous dark, a pulsing glow. Not bright, but a soft, internal luminescence, like a trapped ember. It was spherical, mesmerizing. His eyes, fixed on the light, lost focus. A strange lethargy, a hypnotic pull, settled over him. The glow drew closer, rising from the murky depths. Nearer, nearer to his face. A sharp, guttural snap broke the trance. “Fool!” Kaelen’s hand clamped onto Silas’s back, a vice of iron, yanking him backward. Silas tumbled, sputtering, away from the mere. Just as he cleared the edge, an enormous mass erupted from the pool. A creature of nightmare, vast and grotesque, its body scarred with barnacle-like ash growths. Its mouth, a cavernous maw lined with jagged teeth, occupied more than half its head. A single, thick antenna protruded from its forehead, ending in a fleshy bulb that pulsed with the same soft, internal light Silas had been mesmerized by. It was a Cinder-Leviathan. Its bulbous lure, a predatory lie, drew in the unwary, engulfing them whole. “A Cinder-Leviathan,” Kaelen stated, his voice devoid of surprise. “It lures its prey with that light, then devours them. Like you, idiot.” Silas, gasping, stared as the behemoth slowly sank back into the still ash-water, its dark mass rippling the surface. Had Kaelen not intervened, he would have been swallowed whole. The sheer audacity of such a monster existing in this ephemeral haven was staggering. Kaelen drew *Oblivion*. Its polished edge, dark as a moonless night, seemed to drink the meager light. “You grow reckless once you gain a shred of competence. Learn, boy! Don’t act like an empty-headed bastard.” He didn’t wait for Silas’s response. Kaelen surged forward, feet barely touching the mere’s surface. He swung *Oblivion* in a devastating arc, severing the water. A geyser of dark, viscous fluid erupted where the creature had been. The Cinder-Leviathan, startled, thrashed, attempting to dive deeper. Kaelen didn’t allow it. Like a spear, he plunged into the mere. A moment later, a sickening crunch. The leviathan, realizing escape was futile, turned its massive head, attempting to engulf Kaelen. It was a fatal mistake. *Oblivion* ripped through its grotesque body. The colossal monster ceased all movement, floating lifelessly on the surface, its pale underside turning upwards. Kaelen emerged, dragging the Cinder-Leviathan by its thick, sinewy tail. He heaved the immense carcass onto the ash-shore at Silas’s feet. Silas stumbled back, startled. Even in death, the creature radiated an oppressive aura, a primal threat. He found it hard to believe such a beast could inhabit this temporary mere. Kaelen drove *Oblivion* into the monster’s flesh, anchoring it. “Remember this beast. Inhabitant of these rare, fleeting ash-meres. It preys on fools like you. Never plunge your head into one carelessly. Are you deaf, boy?” Guilt prickled Silas. “No.” “Then skin it. The Cinder-Leviathan’s hide is supple, tough. Perfect for a cloak. Cut it up. Now.” “For you?” Silas asked, bewildered. “For you, you brainless imbecile! Are your wits hardening like slag? Get to it!” Finally understanding, Silas moved. He turned the leviathan. Its back was a mottled landscape of rough, brownish protrusions, its belly smooth and black. He drew his own scavenged knife. It glinted against the tough hide, barely making a mark. With a grunt, Silas channeled his will. Ash, normally his medium for defense, for shaping constructs, now hardened the blade’s edge. He pushed mana, the raw power of his spirit, into the steel. The knife shimmered faintly, then sliced through the thick hide with newfound ease. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with the ever-present ash. The task was arduous, but he worked with a focused intensity. The hide peeled away in vast sheets. Next, the crafting. No needles here, save for what he could fashion. He took a long, thin bone from the creature’s jaw, sharpening it against a stone. For thread, he painstakingly stripped fine, resilient fibers from the leviathan’s internal membrane. Silas, though usually wielding power on a grander scale, possessed a quiet dexterity. He worked for half the cycle, stitching, cutting, shaping. By the time the dull, coppery light of the ash-dawn began to bleed into the grey, a crude but functional cloak lay beside him. While Silas labored, Kaelen systematically dismantled the leviathan’s carcass. Every part, it seemed, had a purpose. The meat, Kaelen claimed, held little toxin and surprising flavor. The most prized part, a palm-sized gland pulsating with a faint dark glow, Kaelen tossed to Silas. Silas caught it. “Eat it raw?” he asked, a grimace on his face. “The weaklings need it most,” Kaelen grunted. “Strengthens bone and sinew. Consume it all. Or I’ll force it down you.” “I’ll eat it.” Silas knew Kaelen’s words were always a promise. With a deep sigh, a shudder of disgust, he bit into the gland. It was soft, strangely warm, melting instantly on his tongue. He swallowed, forcing down the viscous, slightly metallic fluid. His stomach remained empty, though he’d consumed the entire, fist-sized organ. “Fascinating,” he murmured, the word dying in his throat as a sudden, intense heat erupted within his core. It was agony, searing and unbearable, twisting his insides. He collapsed, writhing on the ash, gasping, screaming. Kaelen ignored him, skillfully carving prime cuts from the leviathan. Flames, a controlled inferno from his hands, seared the meat, cooking it to perfection in an instant. He chewed, eyes scanning the Stagnant Ash-Mere. “This, too, will vanish,” Kaelen muttered between bites. “These places are illusions. They appear, then shift, relocating without warning. Humans cannot predict them.” The Cinder-Leviathan, ruler of this mere, was dead. But others would come. Kaelen knew they laid eggs, dormant until the current ruler fell. A new cycle, a new predator. Yet, it would take centuries for an offspring to reach such monstrous size. Silas continued to scream, rolling in the ash-dust until consciousness finally left him. --- He awoke to the pale, indistinct light of a new ash-dawn. A surge of raw vitality coursed through him, a feeling he’d never known. His body, once lean and wiry, felt… harder. Not bloated, but dense. Every muscle, previously defined by hardship, now felt like taut, flexible steel. His frame seemed to have knit together, a powerful, resilient form. Silas stared, speechless, at his transformed limbs. Beside him, Kaelen sat, calmly eating leviathan meat. “What happened?” he croaked, his voice deeper. “The medicine took,” Kaelen said, without looking up. “The Cinder-Leviathan’s gland? A medicine?” “Rare. Precious. Nothing better for tempering the weak. Now eat. Then we move.” Kaelen tossed a cooked piece of meat to Silas. First, Silas donned the cloak he had made. The moment the leviathan hide settled on his shoulders, a strange coolness enveloped him. The hide, he realized, perfectly insulated him from the ambient, grinding abrasion of the ash-filled air. It felt like a protective shell, a second skin. He gasped, a quiet sound of surprise. “We remain here,” Kaelen announced, tearing into another chunk of meat. “Until it’s gone.” “Eat it all?” “Such nutrition is rare. Every morsel.” Now, Silas would believe Kaelen if he claimed the ash itself was edible. He ate, methodically, relentlessly, beside his grim mentor. Four cycles passed. The enormous Cinder-Leviathan was reduced to clean bones. Every ounce of flesh, every useful organ, consumed. On the fifth morning, the Stagnant Ash-Mere was gone. As if it had never been. The basin was filled with fresh, undisturbed ash, a vast, grey expanse. Without a trace of regret, the two turned their backs on the empty space and resumed their endless march into the Ashen Lands.

A Mere of Cinders