# Chapter 132: The Ashen Remnant
The third day in the wastes broke with a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The wind carried a fine, gritty ash that tasted of ancient decay and coated the back of the throat with metallic dust. For Soren, the world had narrowed to the agonizing rhythm of his own breathing and the crushing weight in his chest. Each step was a negotiation with pain, a battle against the encroaching darkness that flickered at the edges of his vision. The Cinder Cost was no longer a distant threat; it was a physical parasite, hollowing him out from the inside. His Cinder-Tattoos, once a vibrant map of his potential, now crawled up his neck like dark, sluggish veins, the light within them guttering like a dying candle.
He stumbled, his boot catching on a half-buried shard of rusted metal, and would have fallen if not for Nyra, who was instantly at his side. Her arm, wiry and strong, looped around his waist, taking most of his weight. "Easy," she murmured, her voice a low, steady hum against the howl of the wind. "Just a little further."
Soren tried to nod, but the motion sent a wave of vertigo through him. The world tilted, the grey plains blurring into a swirling vortex. He could smell the sharp, clean scent of her leather tunic, feel the rough texture of the scavenged wool blanket she'd wrapped around his shoulders. He was a burden. The thought was a shard of ice in his gut. He, who had sworn to bear every burden alone, was now being carried. The stoicism that had been his armor now felt like a cage, preventing him from accepting the help he so desperately needed.
Kael walked a few paces ahead, his silhouette a stark, angular shape against the bleak horizon. He was their scout, their provider, the pragmatic heart of their small, desperate party. He'd been the one to find the meager supplies—a few strips of dried, salted meat from some unidentifiable creature, a canteen of brackish water that tasted of chemicals. Now, he stopped, raising a hand. The gesture was sharp, decisive.
Nyra tensed, her eyes scanning the featureless expanse. "What is it?"
"Tracks," Kael said, his voice low. He pointed with the toe of his boot at a series of faint depressions in the ash. "More than one. Recent. They're moving in a loose formation."
Soren's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone. The Synod? Isolde? The thought of the Inquisitor's cold, analytical gaze sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through him, momentarily overriding the pain. He pushed himself upright, shrugging off Nyra's support. "We need to move. Now."
"No," Kael countered, his gaze sweeping the horizon. "Look at the formation. It's not a patrol. It's a sweep. And they're not using any tech I can see. See how they avoid the hard-packed ground? They're walking on the ash, trying to hide their numbers."
From the rear, a low, guttural sound rumbled. ruku bez stood motionless, his massive frame still. His head was tilted, his nostrils flaring as he sampled the air. The mute giant had been their silent guardian, his presence a strange comfort in the desolate landscape. Now, a low growl vibrated in his chest, a sound of primal warning.
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "Fanatics," she breathed, the word a curse. "The Ashen Remnant."
The name hung in the air, heavy with dread. The Ashen Remnant were ghosts in the wastes, a cult of zealots who believed the Bloom was a holy cleansing and the Gifted were the source of the world's corruption. To them, Soren, Nyra, and ruku bez were not people; they were abominations to be purged.
As if summoned by her words, figures began to rise from the ash. They were gaunt, dressed in tattered grey robes that blended perfectly with their surroundings. Their faces were hidden behind masks of bone and woven reeds, and they carried crude weapons—spears tipped with sharpened rust, clubs studded with shards of glass. There were a dozen of them, perhaps more, emerging from the ground like ghouls, encircling the small group with a silent, predatory grace.
"Stay behind me," Kael commanded, drawing a heavy, serrated blade from his back. He moved with a fluid economy of motion, placing himself between the encroaching fanatics and the others.
Nyra was already moving, pulling Soren back, her own slender blade appearing in her hand. Her mind raced, calculating angles, escape routes, probabilities. They were exposed. Outnumbered. And Soren was in no condition to fight. This was it. The end of the line.
The leader of the Remnant stepped forward, his mask a grim, leering skull. He raised a hand, and the circle tightened. "The blight must be cleansed," he rasped, his voice like stones grinding together. "The ash will reclaim its own. Your unnatural fire will be extinguished."
Soren gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight. He could feel the embers of his Gift smoldering deep within him, a desperate, dying coal. To use it now would be suicide, a final, glorious explosion that would take a few of them with him but leave Nyra and the others defenseless. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't.
The first fanatic lunged, a spear aimed at Kael's chest. Kael parried, the clash of metal a sharp, ugly sound in the dead air. He was a whirlwind of controlled violence, his movements precise and deadly, but for every one he cut down, two more seemed to take its place. They were not skilled fighters, but they were relentless, driven by a fervor that made them fearless.
Another pair broke from the circle, rushing toward Nyra and Soren. Nyra met them, her blade a silver blur, but she was fighting defensively, her focus on protecting Soren. A club swung past her guard, glancing off her shoulder. She cried out, stumbling back.
Soren saw the opening. A third fanatic was charging, his spear leveled at Nyra's exposed back. Instinct screamed at him to act, to unleash the fire, to pay the final price. He raised a hand, the Cinder-Tattoos on his arm flaring with a painful, searing light.
But before he could loose the power, a shadow fell over him.
ruku bez moved.
It was not the movement of a man. It was the movement of a mountain. The silent giant had been a statue, a feature of the landscape. Now, he was an avalanche. He didn't roar or shout. He simply stepped forward, placing his immense body between Soren and the charging fanatic. The spear struck him in the chest, its rusted tip shattering against his flesh like cheap pottery. The fanatic stared, his masked face a picture of disbelief, before ruku bez's hand, large enough to crush a man's skull, closed around his head. There was a sickening, wet crunch.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, ruku bez unleashed his Gift.
It was not fire. It was not lightning. It was something far older, far more fundamental. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble. The fine grey ash of the wastes, the very dust of the dead world, began to stir. It rose, not in a gentle cloud, but in a swirling, cohesive vortex, a miniature sandstorm centered on the giant. The ash thickened, coalescing, taking on a dark, oily sheen. It clung to the fanatics, seeping through the weave of their robes, crawling into their eyes and mouths under their bone masks.
They screamed, a chorus of choked, gargled terror. The ash was not just choking them; it was *draining* them. Soren could feel it, a sickening pull on the ambient energy of the world. The fanatics' bodies seemed to shrivel, their forms deflating like empty sacks, their life force, their very essence, being siphoned into the swirling vortex of grey dust.
One of them managed to break free, stumbling away, clawing at his mask. He ripped it off, revealing a face young and terrified, his skin already turning a leprous grey. He looked at ruku bez, not with hatred, but with a profound, soul-shattering awe. The giant stood in the eye of his own storm, his body now coated in the same dark, oily ash, his eyes glowing with a faint, terrifying luminescence. He was no longer a man; he was a god of desolation, a master of the ash.
"The… Unbound," the fanatic whispered, his voice a thin, reedy thing. The words were not an accusation, but a revelation, a prayer spoken to a horrifying new deity. Then he turned and fled, scrambling away on hands and knees, disappearing into the endless grey.
The vortex collapsed as suddenly as it had formed. The ash fell back to the ground, leaving behind the desiccated, mummified corpses of the fanatics. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sound of Soren's ragged breathing and the soft thud of Kael's blade hitting the ground.
ruku bez stood motionless for a long moment, the dark ash slowly flaking away from his skin, revealing the unmarked flesh beneath. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the glow in his eyes fading. He turned, his gaze falling on Soren, and for the first time, his expression was not blank, but filled with a deep, animal concern.
Nyra stared, her blade forgotten in her hand. She had seen many Gifts in the Ladder, displays of power and finesse, of fire and ice and force. But this… this was different. This was not a power to be used in an arena. This was a power of unmaking. A power that belonged to the Bloom itself.
Kael was the first to break the spell. He walked over to one of the desiccated bodies and nudged it with his boot. It crumbled into a pile of grey dust and bone fragments. "Gods above," he muttered, his voice thick with revulsion and a sliver of fear. He looked at ruku bez, his eyes wide. "What in the seven hells *are* you?"
ruku bez simply looked down at his own hands, as if seeing them for the first time. He flexed his fingers, a gesture of immense, quiet power.
Soren sank to his knees, the adrenaline that had sustained him finally draining away, replaced by a crushing wave of exhaustion and pain. He looked from the dust that had once been men to the silent, powerful giant who now stood as their protector. The Ashen Remnant had seen a prophecy in ruku bez's power. They had called him the Unbound. And as the last of the fanatic's footsteps faded into the wastes, Soren knew with chilling certainty that they had not just survived an ambush. They had just been given a name, and a warning, for a war they hadn't known they were fighting.