Morning, on the Ashen Plains was deceptive. A faint pale glow crept across a horizon clogged with dust revealing a land of fractured soil and the bare bones of industrial woodlands. The atmosphere was a poisonous mixture.
Cassiathon drew his scarf up to cover his nose, his gaze sweeping across the stretch from a craggy ledge. Next to him the Angel of Death remained motionless like the mountain they had departed a shaft of darkness, against the dreary landscape.
"The enclave lies three miles to the north-east sheltered by the filtration plant " the Angel whispered, his tone faint but distinct, against the wailing wind. "The rift is located half a mile from its boundary. It seeps nightmare gradually contaminating their water and dreams. Your mission is to seal it. Not to kill the creatures that might come forth. To seal the origin."
"And what if creatures appear?" Cassiathon inquired, fastening the straps on his vambraces.
"Afterward you will hone accuracy. One concentrated strand of your power can cut a being's link to the Abyss as cleanly as I cut a soul's bond to existence. Squandering energy, on destruction is a luxury you cannot afford when the innocent lie downwind."
The lesson was clear. This wasn't about power. It was about surgery.
They traversed the plains, their steps soundless. The Angel of Death appeared like walking and more like his position being shifted abruptly from one spot to another. Cassiathon was forced to act utilizing the landscape as concealment his senses heightened and tense.
He noticed the tear before perceiving it. A warp in the atmosphere resembling a heat but infused with a nauseating violet hue reminiscent of Project Phoenix's downfall. The area surrounding it was ravaged, blanketed in throbbing clusters that oozed a thick liquid.. There were creatures—tiny, scurrying beings, with excessive legs and shimmering shells consuming the decay.
"Abyssal mites " his father's voice echoed in his ear despite the Angel being ten feet distant. "In solitude they pose no threat. In hordes they become a scourge. They are not the prey."
Cassiathon gave a nod his throat parched. The draw was present more intense than it had been with Valentina. The purple energy murmured to the force within him an alluring call of wild boundless possibility. It was, like returning to a burning house.
He concentrated on his father's lessons. The gravity. The imperative. He reached out not to release, but to sense. A lone delicate strand of grey energy stretched from his fingertip reaching toward the rift.
The impact was immediate. The mites screeched, producing a noise, to grinding glass and surged in his direction. The rift itself. A bigger figure started to form within the mist—a crouched, spiky creature with luminescent eyes.
"Concentrate " the Angel ordered, his voice allowing no space, for alarm.
Cassiathon clenched his jaw. He perceived the rift not as an injury. As a tangle of corrupted energy. His filament, the core of managed conclusion met the knot's border. He refrained from pulling. He disentangled.
A single, precise note of negation.
At that spot the violet glow flickered and vanished. The emerging creature vanished with a scream. The mites nearest, to his power. Passed away.
However it was merely a sting, on a wide-open gape. The fissure responded fiercely to the breach. A surge of contaminating power whipped out bypassing Cassiathon and slithering along the earth toward the dim shimmer of the enclave's barriers.
No.