A sudden, violent distortion seized Rhosyn. The air, thick with the lingering scent of ozone and the wyrm’s burnt scales, buckled. A crushing weight descended, pressing every bone, every sinew, as if the very mountains of the Sunken Maw were collapsing upon them. This was not the first time, but the sensation remained a stark violation, a tearing of reality itself. Then, release. The oppressive force vanished. A different air, thin and dry, scraped at Rhosyn’s lungs. A soft, perpetual pallor draped the sky, a sun bled pale and distant, casting no true shadow across the endless expanse. They stood on a horizonless plain. No jagged peaks, no echoing caverns. Only ash. Fine, grey, shifting ash stretched to meet the muted sky in every direction. It lay like a vast, silent sea, its surface shimmering faintly with a radiating heat, a breath from the forgotten cataclysm that had birthed this Scarred Dominion. Kaelen, a silhouette against the desolation, moved with an unburdened stride. His presence was a stark anomaly in the desolate beauty, a living shard of a brutal past. Rhosyn’s gaze swept the oppressive flatness, searching for any mark, any ruin, but found only the monotonous, scorching grey. Without warning, a vice-like grip clamped around Rhosyn’s forearm. Kaelen’s fingers, cold and unyielding despite the ambient heat, dug into the flesh, twisting with casual strength. Pain shot through the limb, a sharp, unwelcome reminder of vulnerability. “The dust whispers your name,” Kaelen’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the quiet hum of the ash, “yet you move as if deaf to its call.” His eyes, ancient and piercing, bore into Rhosyn’s, seeking something beneath the stoic facade. “No mark of the Ascended. No seal of the pact. Yet you command the bones of the world.” Rhosyn grunted, a short, sharp expulsion of breath as the pressure intensified. The agony radiated from their wrist, a relentless throb that threatened to shatter bone. They dropped to one knee, the fine ash rising in a soft cloud around them, unable to bear the excruciating grip. The world narrowed to the searing pain, a silent scream trapped behind clenched teeth. They understood then the quiet desperation of true powerlessness, the kind that steals even the urge to cry out. Kaelen released them. The sudden absence of pressure left an aching phantom limb. He brushed a speck of ash from his arm, a gesture of profound indifference. “Many stir from their slumber,” Kaelen mused, his gaze drifting over the Ash Sea. “A special case, then. No stranger than any other anomaly.” A ragged gasp tore from Rhosyn’s throat, a quiet sound lost in the vastness. The pain lingered, a dull throb, a persistent sting. “You almost broke my arm, ancient one!” Rhosyn’s voice, though low, held an unfamiliar edge of raw frustration. “As weak as you are witless,” Kaelen retorted, his lips curving into something that might have been a smile, but held no warmth. A surge of hot, bitter anger tightened Rhosyn’s chest. A silent command, a will-driven ripple, and a gust of compacted ash, sharp as shrapnel, lashed out. It struck Kaelen’s chest with a whisper of impact. He merely chuckled, a dry, grating sound. A flick of his wrist dispersed the adhering ash. “The cinder answers you. Heh. No doubt there.” “What of it?” Rhosyn pushed to their feet, their voice strained. “You come with me, fool. From this moment.” “My name is Rhosyn.” “The witless carry no name, only a burden,” Kaelen said, his eyes now fixed on the distant horizon. “Speak that word again…” Rhosyn’s jaw tensed, a desperate challenge rising, though they knew its futility. A raw instinct, an echo of the world’s defiant resilience, pulsed within them. Rhosyn clamped their mouth shut. Kaelen’s strength, his casual mastery over the Obsidian Wyrm, dwarfed anything Rhosyn had ever witnessed. This warrior was a force of nature, untamed and absolute. To defy him openly was to invite ruin. Rhosyn understood the chasm of power that lay between them. They were a single, struggling ember against a roaring inferno. Kaelen saw them as insignificant, a thing to be used, easily crushed. Kaelen glanced at something unseen, a subtle shift in his ancient gaze. “A flicker, barely. It will be some time before it’s useful.” His voice was low, almost to himself. “Yes. Harshness will either forge or break. If it lives, it will strengthen.” His muttering, directed at the vacant air, sent a chill through Rhosyn, colder than any ashfall. Kaelen was not entirely sane, perhaps. A madness born of an elder age. An endless vista of grey. No shelter, no cover. Escape was a foolish dream in this desolate realm. Until they could command enough strength, they were Kaelen’s captive, bound by circumstance. Rhosyn sighed, a whisper of resignation. They followed. A quiet fury simmered beneath the surface. To be powerless. To be forced. It felt like a crime against their own solitary spirit. Kaelen moved as if the Ash Sea were firm earth. The radiating heat, the constant sift of fine dust, seemed not to touch him. He strode without pause, without a hint of fatigue. Rhosyn, a few paces behind, felt the insidious drain of the Ash Sea. Each step sank, pulling at their shins, sucking stamina with relentless hunger. The perpetual heat baked their skin, drawing moisture, leaving their mouth parched and throat raw. Sweat, fine and cold, beaded on their forehead, mingling with the ever-present ash. Their breathing grew shallow, their strides faltered. “A fool like no other,” Kaelen’s voice drifted back, sharp and clear. “Barely a wisp of your gift, and yet you toil. You command the ash, do you not? Why struggle against its current?” “It is not as simple as it sounds,” Rhosyn retorted, a tremor of exhaustion in their voice. “My power… it is still an echo.” “What meaning does that hold?” Kaelen stopped, turning slowly. A look of disdain, cold and ancient, settled upon his features. It stoked the embers of Rhosyn’s frustration, igniting a fresh spark of anger. “I am not like you,” Rhosyn said, the words forced through a dry throat. “My mastery is not absolute.” “Thus, you are a fool. What does birthright matter? Who is granted absolute dominion from the first breath? Some, perhaps. But does the absence of such grace mean you yield? Many would call your latent power a blessing. Cease your whimpering. Think on how to wield what you possess. A sound body means nothing with a mind cluttered by folly.” “Must you call me a fool?” “Shatter the stubbornness that binds you, and the name may fall away. Until then, you remain the fool among fools.” Rhosyn’s lips pressed into a tight, grim line. No argument, no plea, would reach him. Kaelen turned away, resuming his path. “It is your gift. You must know its heart. Discover its growth, its fullest expression.” “And if I fail?” “Then the sun claims you, or I do. One of the two.” He continued walking, leaving a single, unbroken line of shallow depressions in the ash behind him. Rhosyn stared at his retreating form, a cold fury coiling in their gut. *Fool? Shatter my stubbornness?* Something deep within them, a quiet, defiant core, began to burn. Anger at Kaelen, for his cruelty, his relentless push. Anger at themselves, for their weakness, their slow grasp. Rhosyn gritted their teeth. *Yes. I will. You will not speak that word to me again.* With renewed determination, Rhosyn followed, their mind a frantic storm of thoughts. *Only the ash. My dominion is the ash. I must command it.* Their awakening had been raw, instinctual, a desperate scramble for survival. They had manipulated ash, flung debris, conjured barriers in moments of peril. But true understanding, true mastery, remained elusive. Now, they had to delve deeper, to comprehend the boundaries, the nuances, of their own power. A pulse of will. The fine ash around Rhosyn, in a radius of perhaps five meters, stirred. Grains rose, trembled, then drifted towards them, slow and uncertain. The closer fragments moved with sluggish obedience; those at the edge barely responded. A new challenge, this slow, imprecise command. But a more immediate problem demanded their attention. The sinking ash, reaching above their ankles, was a relentless drain. Each lift of a foot was an arduous struggle. Without a solution, the Ash Sea would consume their strength, leave them stranded. *Compress the ash beneath my steps?* They had done it once, in the Sunken Maw, to solidify precarious footholds. Rhosyn focused, channeling intent. The ash under their boots compressed, hardening into a temporary, brittle crust. Walking became easier, almost like firm ground beneath their feet. But a deeper concern immediately arose. The mana drain was immense. Each step, each fleeting solidification, felt like tearing a piece from their core. At this rate, their mana reserves would be utterly depleted within moments. Rhosyn abandoned the method. The grim vision of mana exhaustion in this hostile waste was a cold dread: *Baked into dust by the sun, or torn apart by whatever stirs beneath the Ash Sea’s surface.* Terror, stark and absolute, washed over them. Rhosyn’s mind raced, searching for an alternative. *My pool of essence is shallow. Reckless expenditure here is certain death. Efficiency. That is the key.* Another idea bloomed. What if they simply channeled mana to their own legs, lightening their steps? They tried. A faint warmth spread through their muscles, a sensation of effortless grace. The strain on their stamina lessened significantly. Yet, Rhosyn discarded this too. It felt… dishonest. It did not harness the ash, their true power. They were a sovereign of cinder and bone, not a conduit of raw energy. To become truly proficient, they had to embrace the ash, not circumvent it. A third approach. What if they manipulated only the thin, direct layer of ash beneath their feet? A centimeter, perhaps, the exact size of their boot soles. This required an intense, focused precision, far more challenging than broad, sweeping commands. Too much concentration, or a momentary lapse, and the ash would scatter, refusing coherence. Time and again, Rhosyn lost control. The thin layer would crumble, their feet would sink, and they would stumble, often falling backward into the soft, hot embrace of the Ash Sea. Fine grit filled their mouth, gritty and bitter. Rhosyn spat, the taste of dry ash compounding their thirst. Exhaustion etched lines on their face, deepening the shadows beneath their eyes. In the distance, Kaelen continued his relentless march, a stoic sentinel. He had not once glanced back. Rhosyn’s survival seemed utterly inconsequential to him. The sight ignited a fresh wave of resentment. *Who is to blame for this crucible?* Anger, hot and acrid, flared. Had it not been for Kaelen, Rhosyn might have been seeking respite, tending to their wounds, far from this punishing landscape. The physical toll, the mental strain, began to fray the edges of their composure. Rational thought wavered, threatened by a rising tide of fury. They sensed the delicate balance, the precipice of sanity. A solution was imperative, or the Ash Sea would claim more than just their body. Rhosyn refocused on the ash beneath their feet. A low hum of power, a faint tremor of response. The ash, a centimeter thick, began to glide, slow and tentative, like a fragile sled across the boundless grey. It was agonizingly sluggish. Unaccustomed to such fine control, their focus repeatedly fractured. The ash beneath them scattered, their balance faltered. Again and again, Rhosyn fell, a silent testament to their struggle. But they did not yield. The weariness was a dull ache, the frustration a burning coal in their gut, yet they persisted. Each fall, each failure, honed their resolve, refined their touch. Slowly, imperceptibly, the manipulation became smoother. The ash underfoot, a thin, pliant sheet, now carried Rhosyn with a graceful glide. It was as if the very ground were moving beneath them, an extension of their will, a silent testament to countless falls and quiet meditations. Still, the mana consumption, though reduced, remained too high for sustained travel. Rhosyn concentrated harder, seeking the optimal balance, the most efficient resonance with the ash. A subtle shift. A faint easing. The drain lessened, the movement became almost effortless. Mana held. Rhosyn glided across the Ash Sea, a phantom upon the desolation. Kaelen, far ahead, did not turn. Yet, he sensed it. The subtle fluctuations in the ambient dust, the altered currents of air, even the changed cadence of Rhosyn’s quiet breathing. He gathered knowledge without needing sight. “A somewhat useful fool,” Kaelen murmured, his voice carried on the dry wind. Though by his ancient reckoning, Rhosyn still had a long, desolate path to walk.

Of Cinder and Will