The Ashen Veil wasn't a place; it was a curse wrapped in fog. A wasteland shroud between Ironhollow's sturdy hills and the jagged teeth of the Whispering Spires, where the Cataclysm's fallout lingered like a bad hangover—gray dust that choked the lungs, winds that carved faces into the rocks, and air thick with the metallic tang of unfinished iron. Kael Thorn had heard the elders spin tales of it over Garrick's watered ale: a graveyard for the half-forged, where lost legions wandered as dust-wraiths, moaning for the hammers that birthed them. Now, knee-deep in it, he believed every word.
His boots crunched over brittle bones—animal, maybe human, it was hard to tell under the ashen crust—and the hammer hung heavy at his belt, its runes pulsing like a second heart against his thigh. The brands on his arms itched, fresh tattoos of fire that glowed faintly under his ragged tunic, mapping paths he didn't understand yet. Novice Temper, the anvil had named him in that first searing bind—entry-level power, raw and volatile, good for shattering a voidling or two but prone to backlash. One wrong swing, and the Void-leak would creep deeper, turning strength to rot. Power's ladder loomed in his mind now, etched by the hammer's whispers: Novice at the base, scraping essence from scraps; Journeyman above, binding runes into relics that could topple squads; Master beyond, forging soul-armor to defy rifts; and the rare Void-Lords at the peak, half-god tyrants who chained lesser Tapers to their will. Kael was barely a spark— but sparks started fires.
Lirael Voss ghosted ahead, her elven grace turning the slog into a prowl. Hood thrown back now, her silver hair caught the Veil's sickly light like spider-silk, and those storm-gray eyes flicked back to him every few strides—checking, measuring. Up close, she was all wiry sinew and faded ink—thief-tattoos curling up her neck like vines claiming a ruin, the Shadow Guild's mark of a Journeyman Binder who'd danced too close to the Void. No jewelry, no softness; just the hard lines of someone who'd outrun more than shadows. "Keep pace, spark-boy," she tossed over her shoulder, voice a low purr edged with exhaustion. "Void-scent clings to you like cheap perfume. If the riders catch it, we're stew before dawn. And trust me, a fresh Novice like you? They'd peel those brands for the Emperor's alchemists—turn 'em into elixirs for his pet Void-Lords."
Kael spat dust, wiping sweat from his brow. The forge's heat still simmered in his veins, but the crash was coming—a bone-deep weariness that made his swings in the fight feel like a fever dream. The hammer's gift had been generous: that Shatterstrike rune, a basic Novice weave that fractured foes like cheap iron. But Lirael's casual drop of the tiers gnawed at him. "Novice, Journeyman... you talk like you've climbed it. What are you, then? Some Spire spy playing thief?"
She laughed, a sound like breaking glass—sharp, fleeting—as she vaulted a bone-ridge without breaking stride. "Journeyman Binder, three years tempered. Shadow Guild trained me in veil-runes—illusions that bend light, daggers that whisper through wards. Good for heists in the Emperor's citadels or dodging his rune-hounds. But the Guild's scattered now; Emperor's been purging independents, forcing Tapers into his legions or the Void-pits. Me? I run solo, trading rift-crystals to whoever pays—Stormclan nomads with their thunder-drake riders, or the Bone Wastes priestesses who brew from fallen souls."
Kael's grip tightened on the hammer, the wood warm under his palm, runes flaring to life. Stormclans—he'd heard Garrick's tales of them, wild folk who bound wind and beast with aerial runes, their chieftains at Master level, riding drakes that could scatter legions. And the priestesses... Mira, the elder-mage back in Ironhollow, had mumbled of them in her herb-trances, Void-tainted healers who forged life from death, their High Matrons rumored to rival Void-Lords in soul-weaving. "Garrick spoke of them. My master—dwarf, Bone Wars vet, faded Novice brands from his youth. Said the clans and priestesses are the only ones holding the line against the Emperor. And you? What's a Guild thief doing slumming it with village scrap?"
Lirael's steps faltered just a breath, her gray eyes shadowing as she scanned the haze. "Scrap? Cute. Garrick Ironvein—yeah, I know of him. Smuggled a relic-sword to the Guild once, back when Ironhollow wasn't ash. As for me... let's say the Emperor has a grudge. My sire was a Master Binder, tangled with the Void Emperor's court—tried forging a pact-rune to end the rifts. Ended up as pit-fodder instead. I've been paying the debt ever since, one shadow at a time. Now, enough chatter. Riders ahead—scent the slag?"
A rumble cut the thought—low, earth-shaking, like thunder trapped underground. Kael froze, heart slamming. Through the haze, shapes coalesced: three hulks on the horizon, astride beasts that defied sane breeding. War-mounts, pieced from the Veil's worst—lupine bodies stretched over draconic frames, hides crusted with iron spurs and glowing veins of slag. The riders were smears of fur and leather, faces obscured by bone-masks etched with crude runes—Empire fringe-scum, low Journeymen who'd bound beast-runes for coin, their mounts at Scout-rank but vicious in packs.
"Three," Lirael murmured, drawing her blades, the daggers humming with veil-weave—Journeyman subtlety, bending light to blur her edges. "We flank left, use the bone-field for cover. You swing that hammer like you mean it, Novice, or we're trophies. These curs are Emperor's Veil-watch—sniff out unbound Tapers like you for conscription... or dissection."
Kael gripped the haft, the wood warm under his palm, runes flaring to life. The power stirred, a coiling serpent in his gut, but it whispered too: Strike true, or shatter. Essence low—conserve or leak. No time for doubt. They broke from cover, sprinting low through the skeletal litter—ribs like arches, skulls grinning vacant.
The lead rider spotted them first, yanking reins that bit into the beast's neck with barbed wire. It charged, ground quaking, the mount's maw foaming slag that sizzled on the dust. Kael veered right, hammer raised, as Lirael melted left—a shadow-dance he couldn't match, her veil-rune cloaking her in haze.
The beast lunged, claws raking furrows deep as graves. Kael swung wild, instinct more than skill, the hammer connecting with a crack that echoed like judgment. Shatterstrike bloomed mid-air, fracturing the air into jagged shards that punched through the mount's flank. Black ichor sprayed, the beast shrieking as its leg buckled. Essence gained: +2. Threshold progress: 3/50 to Journeyman.
But the rider was off in a roll, bone-axe gleaming, his own brands flickering Journeyman red—earth-bind runes that rooted the ground like chains. He rose hulking, twice Kael's breadth, eyes wild behind the mask. "Fresh mark!" he bellowed, voice gravel and glee. "The anvil's whelp! Boss'll pay double for your brands, boy—Emperor needs more Novices for the pits!"
Kael parried the first chop, the impact jarring his bones, hammer singing with absorbed force. He countered low, aiming for the knee—clang—and felt the rune shift, feeding him a sliver of the rider's rage, turning it to fuel. But gods, the man fought dirty: a knee to Kael's gut, then a pommel-smash that split his lip. Blood welled, hot and coppery, the Void-leak stirring like ice in his veins.
From the flank, Lirael's daggers flashed—two buried in the rider's back, twisting with surgical spite, her veil-weave slipping the counter-blow. He roared, swinging blind, but she was gone, a whisper of death. Kael finished it: hammer to the temple, rune igniting to crush bone like eggshell. The man crumpled, mask cracking to reveal a face twisted by old scars—Veil-cursed, veins black as ink. Kill confirmed: +5 Essence. Warning: Overdraw risks leak surge.
The other two riders wheeled, beasts bellowing, but the tide had turned. Lirael's thrown knife felled one mount mid-leap, sending its rider tumbling into the dust—her Journeyman precision turning a lucky throw into a kill-shot. Kael charged the last, hammer a blur, runes chaining together in a frantic weave: one to bind the beast's legs in iron vines, another to sharpen his swing into a scythe of force. The final blow landed true, cleaving mask and skull in a spray of gore.
Panting, they stood amid the ruin—beasts twitching their last, riders cooling in the ash. Lirael wiped her blades on a fur cloak, eyeing Kael with something like approval. "Not bad for a Novice fresh off the anvil. That Shatterstrike? Solid starter—keep chaining 'em, and you'll hit Journeyman before the Spires eat you. But the leak... saw it in your swing. Shadows under the brands already. Feed it essence quick, or it'll whisper worse than the anvil."
He slumped against a bone-pillar, tasting blood, the brands on his arms throbbing like fresh welds. The power ebbed, leaving him hollow, but in the quiet, the hammer hummed—a soft vibration, almost... grateful? "What now? Spires ain't friendly to outlaws. And these tiers... Garrick barely scraped Novice. How do you climb without breaking?"
She looted quick: a waterskin, a pouch of rough-cut gems that pulsed faintly—rune-shards, black-market fuel for Tapers on the run. "We hole up in the Whisper Caves till the heat dies. Got a contact there—Thrain Deepvein, Garrick's old Bone Wars brother, a grizzled Journeyman berserker with earth-runes that could bury a Rift-Warden. He's got a grudge against the Emperor deeper than the pits—lost his clan to a purge. From there? The Spires for a black-market Temper Trial, or south to the Stormclans if you're clan-curious. Their chieftain, Ragna Stormfist—a Master who binds drakes like pets—owes the Guild a favor. But watch for the priestesses; they're wild cards, soul-forgers who pull from the Void's edge. One wrong pact, and you're their thrall."
Kael met her gaze, the Veil's wind stirring ghosts between them. Thrain... Ragna... priestesses like the ones Mira dreamed of. The anvil whispered approval, visions flickering: a dwarf's axe crashing earth-waves, a drake-rider cleaving skies, a veiled woman with healing runes that burned like forbidden fire. Allies, the hammer promised—or rivals, if the climb twisted them.
As they trudged on, the rumble of distant horns echoed—more riders, or worse. The Veil didn't forgive debts. But for the first time, Kael felt the ladder's pull: Novice no more, but far from Master. The forge called, and the cast of his legend sharpened in the haze.