# Chapter 21: Echoes in the Ash
The world beyond the wall was a study in desolation. Skeletal ruins of forgotten structures clawed at the colourless sky, and the fine grey ash that fell like snow muffled all sound, creating a profound and suffocating silence. Soren followed Kestrel, the scavenger's glowing stone the only beacon in the oppressive gloom. Every step felt like a struggle, the ash sucking the energy from his legs. The filtered air tasted of cold metal and ancient decay. Kestrel moved with an unnerving confidence, his boots barely disturbing the dust. "The wastes are a mirror," Kestrel's voice crackled through the respirator. "They show you what you've lost, what you fear. Don't look too long." As if on cue, the shifting ash coalesced for a moment, forming the shape of a man falling, a scream swallowed by the silence—his father. Soren flinched, shaking his head to clear the image. They were getting closer. He could feel a strange, faint thrum in the air, a resonance that made his own Cinder-Tattoos itch with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
They walked for what felt like hours, though time had a way of stretching and compressing in the featureless grey. The only landmarks were the husks of buildings, their windows like vacant eyes, and the occasional monolith of twisted metal that might once have been a statue or a support beam. The silence was the worst part. It wasn't empty; it was heavy, pressing in on his eardrums, making him hyper-aware of the rasp of his own breathing and the frantic thumping of his heart. He tried to focus on Kestrel's back, on the steady rhythm of his steps, but the wastes were insidious. Whispers seemed to ride the eddies of ash, fragments of conversations he'd never had, echoes of a life that wasn't his. He saw a flash of a woman's smiling face, her hair the colour of wheat, and a pang of loss so sharp it stole his breath. He didn't know who she was. The wastes didn't care.
"Stay sharp," Kestrel's voice cut through the haze. "The thrumming means we're near a Fissure. That's where the good stuff grows, and where the bad things hunt."
Soren nodded, his throat too dry to speak. He flexed his fingers, trying to summon a spark of his Gift, the familiar kinetic heat that was his birthright and his curse. It was there, but it felt distant, muffled, like a fire viewed through thick frosted glass. The usual thrum of power just beneath his skin was replaced by a sluggish lethargy. The very air of this place seemed to suppress it, to weigh it down. A knot of cold dread tightened in his gut. He was coming here to find a cure, a way to make his Gift stronger, but the journey itself was making him weaker.
Kestrel led him toward a canyon carved into the grey earth, a wound in the landscape that hadn't existed during the Bloom. The sides of the canyon were sheer, composed of a strange, glassy rock that seemed to absorb the light. The thrumming was stronger here, a low-frequency hum that vibrated up through the soles of his boots. It resonated in his bones, a dissonant chord that set his teeth on edge.
"The Fissure of Echoes," Kestrel said, his voice barely a whisper. "Named for the sounds it makes. And for the things it keeps." He pointed with the glowing stone toward a narrow opening near the base of the canyon wall, a dark crevice partially obscured by a curtain of grey vines. "In there. But it won't be unguarded."
Soren peered into the gloom. The air shimmering around the crevice was different, thicker, and it carried a scent that was both sickly sweet and acrid, like burnt sugar and rot. He could see something moving within, a slow, sinuous motion. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the knife Kestrel had given him. It was a poor substitute for the power he could usually command.
"Bloom-touched," Kestrel stated, his tone flat. "Remnants of the cataclysm. Not alive, not dead. Just… hungry. They're drawn to the Fissures, to the raw magic that still leaks out. This one's been feeding on the Ash-Bloom for a long time. It'll be strong."
Soren's mind raced. A fight. Of course, it was a fight. Nothing was ever given freely in this world. He had to get that flower. It was his only chance. His family's only chance. He drew the knife, its weight feeling insignificant in his hand. "What is it?"
"Used to be a wolf, maybe. Or a dog. Something that ran in packs. Now it's just… spite and shadow." Kestrel leaned against the canyon wall, crossing his arms. The glowing stone cast his face in an eerie, shifting light. "My part of the bargain was to bring you here. This part is yours. If you can't take it, you don't deserve the cure."
The words were a slap in the face, but Soren knew they were true. This was a test. He took a deep, steadying breath, the taste of metal filling his mouth. He focused inward, trying to stoke the ember of his Gift. He pictured the kinetic force, the explosive punch he could deliver. He pushed, willing it to the surface. A faint warmth spread through his arm, but it was weak, pathetic. It was like trying to start a fire with damp wood. The Cinder Cost would be immense for even a small effect.
He had no choice.
He moved toward the crevice, his steps crunching on the glassy ground. The air grew thicker, the sweet-and-sour smell overwhelming. He could see the creature now. It was coiled in the shadows, a mass of black, chitinous plates and twitching, spindly limbs. It had the general shape of a canine, but its body was elongated and unnervingly flexible, like a centipede. Its head was a nightmare of mismatched features: a wolf's skull, but with too many empty eye sockets and a jaw that unhinged sideways, revealing rows of needle-like teeth that dripped a black, viscous fluid. Patches of phosphorescent fungus pulsed with a soft, sickly green light across its back, illuminating the nest of grey, thorny vines where the Ash-Bloom flowers grew. They were beautiful, delicate things, their petals like spun moonstone, a stark contrast to the horror that guarded them.
The creature's head snapped up, its many eye sockets turning toward him. It didn't have eyes, not really, but he felt its attention lock onto him, a cold, predatory intelligence that was ancient and alien. A low hiss escaped its unhinged jaw, a sound like grinding stone and escaping steam.
Soren tightened his grip on the knife. He couldn't win a battle of attrition. He had to be fast. He had to be smart. He feinted left, then darted right, trying to get a clear path to the flowers. The creature moved with a horrifying speed, its body flowing like liquid shadow. One of its spindly, multi-jointed legs lashed out, faster than sight. Soren threw himself backward, the limb whistling through the air where his head had been. It struck the glassy rock wall, and the sound was like a hammer striking an anvil, a sharp crack that echoed in the silence.
He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. The creature was rearing up, its body coiling like a spring. It was bigger than he'd thought, easily the size of a large bear. The fungus on its back pulsed brighter, bathing the crevice in a ghastly green light. He needed an edge. He needed his Gift.
He pushed again, pouring his will, his desperation, into the core of his power. He ignored the sluggishness, the resistance of the corrupted air. He focused on a single point on his knuckles, on the memory of a thousand Ladder strikes. *Cinder-Infused Strike.* The familiar, searing pain lanced up his arm as the power surged, but it was weak, a flicker instead of a conflagration. The Cinder-Tattoo on his forearm, a network of black lines, glowed with a dim, orange light.
The creature lunged. Soren didn't dodge. He met the charge, sidestepping at the last second and driving his fist forward. The kinetic force connected with the creature's flank. There was a dull thud, not the explosive impact he was used to. The creature barely staggered, its chitinous plates absorbing most of the blow. It shrieked, a sound of fury and pain, and whipped its body around. Its tail, a bony club studded with shards of obsidian, slammed into Soren's side.
The world exploded in a white-hot flash of agony. He was lifted off his feet and thrown against the canyon wall. The air was driven from his lungs in a ragged gasp. His vision swam, the grey landscape blurring with streaks of black and green. He slid to the ground, his side screaming in protest. He felt a wet warmth spreading through his coat. The knife was gone, clattering away into the ash.
The creature stalked toward him, its unhinged jaw dripping black ichor onto the ground, where it sizzled and smoked. The hissing sound was a promise of a slow, agonizing death. Soren pushed himself up, his arm screaming in protest. Every breath was a knife. He was failing. He was going to die here, in this silent grey hell, and his family would be lost. The thought was a physical blow, worse than the creature's tail. The image of his mother's face, his brother's hopeful eyes, flashed in his mind. Then another image, unbidden, superimposed over theirs: his father, falling from the burning caravan, his face a mask of surprise and pain.
"No," Soren snarled, the sound torn from his throat. The grief, the rage, the desperation—it all coalesced into a single, incandescent point of pure will. The wastes wanted to show him his past? Fine. He would use it. He would burn it down.
He ignored the pain, the blood, the crushing despair. He reached deep, past the resistance, past the fear, into the very heart of his Cinder-Heart. He didn't try to shape the power, to focus it into a strike. He just let it *go*. He unleashed the raw, untamed core of his Gift.
The effect was instantaneous and terrifying. The air around him ignited, not with flame, but with force. A visible shockwave of distorted space erupted from his body, blasting the ash away in a perfect circle. The creature was caught full in the blast. It was lifted into the air, its body contorting, its chitinous plates cracking and splintering like cheap pottery. The phosphorescent fungus on its back flared violently, then extinguished with a final, pathetic pop. The creature slammed into the opposite wall of the canyon with a sickening crunch of bone and shell, then slumped to the ground, a broken, unmoving heap.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Soren stood swaying, his entire body trembling. The effort had cost him dearly. His Cinder-Tattoo was no longer glowing; it was a deep, angry black, the lines seeming to writhe like living things just beneath his skin. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he nearly collapsed. The toxic air, which he had barely noticed before, now felt like acid in his lungs. Every breath was a struggle.
He stumbled toward the crevice, his eyes fixed on the prize. The Ash-Bloom flowers, untouched by the devastation, glowed with a soft, ethereal light. He reached in, his fingers brushing against the delicate, cool petals. He plucked one from its thorny stem. It felt impossibly light, almost weightless. As his fingers closed around it, a strange, cool energy seeped into his hand, a soothing balm against the fire raging in his arm.
He clutched the flower, a fragile symbol of hope in this desolate place. He had won. He had done it.
But as he turned to show Kestrel, the world tilted. The grey landscape swirled, the colours bleeding into a vortex of nothingness. The pain in his side and arm vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. The image of his father returned, no longer a fleeting glimpse but a vivid, all-consuming vision. He saw the flames, heard the screams, smelled the burning wood and blood. He saw his father's eyes, wide with shock, his mouth forming a single, silent word.
*Run.*
The vision shattered, and darkness rushed in to claim him. The last thing he felt was the cool, smooth petals of the Ash-Bloom against his palm and the cold, hard ground rushing up to meet him. His Cinder-Tattoo gave one final, violent writhe, then went still, a dead black scar on his skin.