# Chapter 133: A Guide in the Wastes
The silence in the wake of the slaughter was a physical weight. Kael finally lowered his blade, his gaze fixed on the silent giant. "We need to move," he said, his voice strained. "Before more of them come, or before whatever that was attracts something worse." He was right. The raw power ruku bez had unleashed felt like a beacon in the dead lands, a signal to any predator capable of sensing it. As Nyra helped a barely conscious Soren to his feet, a new sound cut through the wind—a low, mechanical whine, followed by a cheerful, entirely out-of-place whistle. A figure emerged from a ridge of ash, clad in patched-together enviro-gear and riding a rattling, single-person skiff. The figure slowed, his goggles sweeping over the scene—the desiccated bodies, the exhausted survivors, and the immense, ash-coated form of ruku bez. A wide, predatory grin spread across the man's face. "Well now," he called out, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone. "Looks like I missed the party. But the salvage… the salvage on you lot is going to be magnificent."
Kael moved with startling speed, placing himself between the newcomer and the group, his sword held in a guard position that was pure, weary threat. The man on the skiff held up his hands, palms out, his grin never faltering. "Easy there, big fella. No need for unpleasantness. I'm a businessman, not a butcher. Kestrel Vane, at your service." He swung a leg over his skiff and landed lightly on the ash, his boots making a soft crunch. He was lean and wiry, with a face that looked like it had been carved from old leather and frequently exposed to a wide, disarming smile. His eyes, magnified by the thick goggles, darted around, cataloging everything with an unnerving intensity.
Nyra shifted Soren's weight, her mind racing. The man was a vulture, but he was also their only potential source of information or aid. "What do you want, Vane?"
"Want? What does anyone want out here?" Kestrel gestured expansively at the grey expanse. "A bit of luck, a full belly, and to not end up as a pile of dust like your friends here." He took a step closer, his gaze lingering on the high-quality, albeit damaged, armor Nyra and Kael wore—the gear of the Sable League commandos. "But I'm a reasonable man. I see a group in a bind. I see a man," he nodded at Soren, "who's one bad cough away from becoming a permanent landmark. And I see…" He trailed off, his eyes finally settling on ruku bez, who stood impassive, a monolith of ash and muscle. The professional smile on Kestrel's face tightened for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine calculation in his eyes. He recognized the giant. Not the man, but the *potential*.
"You see what?" Kael growled, taking a half-step forward.
"I see an interesting travel arrangement," Kestrel recovered smoothly, his grin returning. "Look, let's not play games. I was tracking those Remnant zealots. They have a nasty habit of carrying pre-Bloom artifacts, and I trade in such things. I figured to pick their bones after they'd worn themselves out on some other poor soul. I didn't expect to find…" He gestured again at the scene. "All this. So, here's my proposition. You're in a bad way. You're lost, you're low on supplies, and your friend there looks like he's about to pay the Cinder Cost in full. I can get you somewhere safe. A place called Haven. It's not on any map, but it's a sanctuary for people who… don't fit in with the Synod's tidy little world."
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "And the price?"
Kestrel's smile became razor-sharp. "The gear. The League gear. All of it. It's worth a fortune to the right buyers. And," he added, his gaze flicking to ruku bez again, "the big one comes with me. No strings attached beyond that. He's an insurance policy. A guarantee that you'll play fair."
"No," Kael said instantly. "He's not a bargaining chip."
"I didn't ask you, muscle," Kestrel snapped, his affable mask dropping for a moment to reveal something cold and hard underneath. "I asked the person making the decisions. That would be you," he said to Nyra. "You have the look. The Sable League training, the expensive gear, the desperate air of someone whose mission has gone to hell. You know a good deal when you hear one. You trade me some assets you can't use to save an asset you can't afford to lose." He pointed a thumb at Soren, who was slumped against Nyra, his breathing shallow and ragged. "Tick-tock."
The wind picked up, carrying a deeper chill. Soren shivered, a violent, uncontrollable tremor that ran through his entire body. Nyra felt it through her arm. He was running out of time. She looked at Kael, whose face was a mask of furious indecision, and then at ruku bez. The giant met her gaze, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes beyond stoicism. It was a question. He was waiting for her decision.
"Fine," Nyra said, the word tasting like ash. "The gear is yours. And ruku bez travels with us. He is not part of the price. He is part of the deal. He stays with us, or there is no deal."
Kestrel considered this, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. "The big one is… a significant variable. But you're right. You're in no position to bargain." He shrugged. "Done. The gear for the guide. The big one is your responsibility. Now, strip down. We need to move. The wind is changing."
As Kael reluctantly began unbuckling his greaves and chest plate, the air grew thick and heavy. The sky, already a dismal grey, began to darken with an unnatural speed. A low moaning sound started in the distance, the cry of a coming storm. But this was no rain. The air began to fill with a swirling vortex of fine, black ash, a blinding, choking maelstrom that scoured the landscape.
"Ash-storm!" Kestrel yelled over the rising howl. "Perfect timing! Get behind the skiff! Now!"
He maneuvered the small, single-person vehicle, positioning it as a makeshift windbreak. Nyra dragged Soren down, pulling him close to the ground behind the skiff's meager bulk. Kael pressed in beside them, having dumped the last of his armor. ruku bez simply stood, letting the gale lash against him, the ash particles seeming to dissolve before they could touch his skin. Kestrel watched this, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and avarice, before he pulled a tarp from a storage compartment on the skiff and threw it over the three of them.
The world vanished. The sound of the wind was deafening, a physical roar that vibrated through their bones. The air under the tarp grew hot and suffocating, thick with the smell of ozone and burnt dust. Soren coughed, a wet, painful sound, and Nyra held him tighter, whispering reassurances she didn't feel. The storm raged for what felt like an eternity. Time lost its meaning, reduced to the overwhelming sensory assault of the storm and the desperate, shared struggle for breath.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The roaring subsided to a whisper, and the oppressive weight on the tarp lifted. Kestrel pulled it back. The world was transformed. A fresh, deep layer of black ash covered everything, soft and silent like new-fallen snow. The air was clean and cold, and the sky above was a clear, starless black. The storm had scoured the land clean, erasing all tracks, including those of the dead Remnant fanatics.
"Nature's little eraser," Kestrel said, his voice hushed with a kind of reverence. "Wipes the slate clean. No one will be able to follow you now. Not the Synod, not the Remnant. No one." He looked at Soren, who was pale and barely conscious. "But we can't stay here. The cold after a storm is a killer. Haven is two days' walk that way." He pointed. "If we move now, we can make the rock caves before nightfall."
The journey was a blur of misery for Soren. Each step was an act of pure will, his body screaming in protest. The world was a haze of pain and the steady, crunching sound of their boots on the fresh ash. Kael and Nyra took turns supporting him, their strength a lifeline in the crushing tide of his own failing body. ruku bez walked ahead, a silent scout, his immense form a dark shape against the grey landscape. Kestrel chattered incessantly, a stream of commentary on the wastes, the politics of the Concord, and the various ways to die out here. It was a nervous, relentless energy that grated on Kael's nerves but seemed to amuse Kestrel himself.
They reached the rock caves just as the last vestiges of light bled from the sky. The caves were a network of fissures and hollows in a towering rock formation that jutted out of the ash like a broken tooth. Kestrel led them to a well-concealed entrance, pulling aside a curtain of woven fibers to reveal a small, dry space. A small fire pit was already set up in the center, and Kestrel soon had a cheerful blaze crackling, its light casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Nyra eased Soren down onto a bed of dry moss, his body finally giving out completely. He was asleep before his head hit the ground, his breathing still shallow but steady. Kael sat nearby, cleaning his blade with a meticulous, almost obsessive focus, his eyes never leaving Kestrel.
Kestrel warmed his hands by the fire, his cheerful demeanor returning now that they were relatively safe. "So," he began, his voice casual. "The Synod. That's who you're running from, isn't it? Not just the Remnant. The Remnant are just a symptom. The Synod is the disease. You've got the look of people who've made them very, very angry."
Nyra didn't answer, instead tending to Soren, checking his forehead for fever.
Kestrel laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Fine. Keep your secrets. It doesn't matter to me. A secret is just another form of currency out here. But I'll tell you this for free. The Synod has Inquisitors in the wastes now. Good ones. They're not the usual Wardens you can shake with a bit of clever running. They're hunting for something. Or someone." He glanced pointedly at ruku bez, who was sitting at the cave entrance, a silent, unmoving guardian.
The fire crackled, the only sound in the small space. The weight of their situation settled heavily upon them. They were fugitives, wounded and lost in a hostile land, now dependent on a man who would sell them for the right price. Yet he was their only hope.
Kestrel leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The firelight gleamed in his eyes, turning them into two hard, glittering stones. "You're running from the Synod," he said, his eyes gleaming with opportunity. "Good. I know people who are running from them, too. People who pay well for trouble."