# Chapter 165: The Long Walk
The first rays of a weak, grey sun crept over the horizon, doing little to warm the frigid air. Nyra checked Soren's pulse again; it was still faint, but it was there. A small mercy. She shared the last of the water with ruku bez, the gesture a silent pact. They had to move. As they hoisted Soren between them, preparing to take their first steps into the vast unknown, a flicker of movement on a distant ridge caught her eye. It was gone in an instant, a trick of the light, perhaps. But a cold certainty settled in her gut. They were being watched. The hunt had begun, and the wastes were not big enough to hide them forever.
The reality of their situation settled in with the crushing weight of the ash-laden air. Soren was a dead weight between them, his tall frame limp and unresponsive. His breaths were shallow, each one a fragile victory against the silence. Nyra's shoulder screamed in protest with every lurching step, the pain a sharp, grounding counterpoint to the fear that gnawed at her. ruku bez, despite his own injuries—a deep gash on his thigh that he'd bound with a strip of his own tunic—carried the majority of Soren's weight. His face was a stony mask of effort, his bare feet sinking soundlessly into the fine grey dust. The world around them was a monochrome nightmare of endless plains and jagged, skeletal rock formations that clawed at the sky. The silence was absolute, broken only by the crunch of their boots, the ragged sound of their own breathing, and the mournful, wind-whistled sigh of the wastes.
Hours bled into one another. The sun, a pale disc behind the perpetual haze, offered no warmth, only a stark, unforgiving light that revealed the desolation in stark detail. There were no plants, no signs of life, only the undulating dunes of ash and the petrified bones of some long-dead leviathan half-buried in the grey. Hunger was a hollow ache in Nyra's stomach, a familiar companion from her training, but this was different. This was a gnawing, primal emptiness that promised no end. The last of the water was gone, their canteens dry and useless. Every swallow was now a gamble, a desperate hope that they would find another source before their bodies failed them.
Soren moaned, a low, pained sound that was more vibration than voice. His head lolled against Nyra's shoulder, and she felt the feverish heat of his skin. The Cinder-Tattoos that snaked up his neck and across his cheekbones were no longer the vibrant, dangerous red of active power. They were a dull, angry black, like ink pooling under his skin, a visible ledger of the life he had spent to save them. The sight sent a fresh jolt of fear through her. She had read about Cinder-Backlash in forbidden texts, accounts of Gifted who had pushed too far and been consumed by their own power, their bodies turning to cinder and ash from the inside out. She wouldn't let that be his end. She couldn't.
ruku bez stopped suddenly, his head cocked to one side, his body tensing. He held up a massive hand, a gesture of absolute silence. Nyra froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She strained her ears, trying to penetrate the oppressive quiet. At first, there was nothing. Then she heard it. A low, chittering sound, like a thousand tiny claws skittering over stone. It was coming from a deep ravine to their left, a shadowy cleft in the earth that hadn't been there a moment ago, or perhaps had been hidden by the rolling dunes. The sound grew louder, a rising tide of hungry noise that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.
ruku bez gently lowered Soren to the ground, propping him against a low rock. He then moved to stand before them, his massive frame a living shield. He pulled a crude, heavy club from a loop on his belt—a scavenged axle-hub, dense and brutal. His eyes, usually so placid, were now sharp and focused, a predator's gaze fixed on the ravine's edge. The chittering crescendoed, and then they appeared.
They were things of nightmare, skittering out of the shadows on too many legs. Ash-Hounds, the scavengers of the wastes. They were the size of large dogs, but their bodies were a grotesque amalgam of chitin and fur, mottled grey and black to blend with their surroundings. Their heads were insectoid, with multifaceted, glittering black eyes and dripping mandibles that clicked and snapped. Dozens of them poured from the ravine, a tide of chittering, hungry flesh, their movements unnervingly fast and erratic. They were drawn by the scent of the living, by the warmth of their bodies.
Nyra drew her boot knife, the small blade feeling pathetically inadequate in her hand. Her mind raced, calculating impossible odds. They couldn't fight this many. They couldn't outrun them. They were trapped. ruku bez let out a low growl, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the soles of her feet. He was not afraid. He was angry.
The first Ash-Hound lunged, a blur of grey fur and glistening black chitin. ruku bez met it with a brutal swing of his club, the heavy metal connecting with a sickening crunch. The creature flew sideways, its legs curling in on itself, but two more immediately took its place. He swung again and again, a whirlwind of controlled violence, his movements economical and devastating. He was a bulwark, an unmovable object against an unstoppable force, but Nyra could see the strain in his stance, the way his breath came in ragged gasps. For every one he killed, three more seemed to take its place.
One of the creatures broke through his defense, darting past him with a speed that defied its size. It lunged, not at ruku bez, but at the still-unconscious Soren. Nyra didn't think. She acted. She threw herself in front of Soren, a desperate, human shield. The Ash-Hound's mandibles closed around her forearm, the sharp chitin punching through her worn jacket and sinking deep into her flesh. A scream tore from her throat, a raw sound of pain and defiance. She stabbed down wildly with her knife, feeling the blade scrape against the creature's hard exoskeleton before finding a soft joint. The Hound shrieked, a high-pitched, piercing sound, and released her. She kicked it away, her arm on fire, blood soaking her sleeve.
Seeing their leader fall, the pack seemed to hesitate for a moment, their chittering growing confused. ruku bez seized the opportunity. He let out a roar that was part human, part beast, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury that echoed across the wastes. He charged, not just swinging his club but using his whole body, a force of nature that plowed through the pack. The Ash-Hounds, faced with this overwhelming ferocity, broke. They scattered, their chittering turning from a sound of attack to one of retreat as they flowed back into the shadows of the ravine as quickly as they had come.
Silence descended once more, heavier and more profound than before. ruku bez stood panting over the bodies of the creatures he had killed, his chest heaving. Nyra clutched her bleeding arm, the pain a throbbing, hot pulse that threatened to overwhelm her. She looked at Soren, still slumped against the rock, miraculously untouched. They had survived. For now.
ruku bez was at her side in an instant, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he examined her wound. He grunted, a sound of disapproval, and then tore a fresh strip from the bottom of his own tunic. Working with a quiet efficiency, he wrapped the cloth tightly around her arm, creating a makeshift bandage that staunched the bleeding. He met her eyes, and in their depths, she saw not just concern, but a question. A question of whether she could go on.
She nodded, her jaw set. "We keep moving," she rasped, her voice hoarse. "We don't stop."
The cost of the fight was immense. ruku bez was exhausted, his movements slower now. Nyra's arm throbbed with a deep, bone-deep pain, and she felt dizzy from blood loss. Soren was no better, his feverish skin growing hotter to the touch. The landscape seemed to mock their struggle, offering no respite, no sign of water or shelter. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of bruised orange and deep violet. The temperature plummeted, and a new sound joined the symphony of the wastes—the howl of the wind, rising to a mournful shriek as it whipped the ash into stinging clouds.
It was the beginning of a dust storm. The wind grew stronger, tearing at their clothes and threatening to pull Soren from their grasp. The air grew thick with choking dust, reducing visibility to a few feet. They were forced to stop, huddling together in the meager lee of a rock formation, their backs to the gale. Nyra pulled Soren close, trying to shield him from the worst of it, her body a frail barrier against the storm's fury. ruku bez pressed in on his other side, his massive body absorbing the brunt of the wind. In the suffocating darkness, with the world reduced to the feeling of the wind and the sound of their own desperate breathing, Nyra felt a despair so profound it was almost a physical weight. This was it. This was how it ended. Not in a blaze of glory in the Ladder, but choking on dust in a forgotten corner of hell.
She must have drifted off, exhausted beyond endurance. She was jolted awake by a change in the wind. The storm had passed. The sky was clear now, the moon a sliver of bone in the blackness, its light casting the wastes in an ethereal, ghostly glow. The air was cold and clean. And then she saw it.
At first, she thought it was a star, a point of light that was too low, too steady. She blinked, her eyes dry and gritty. It was still there. A faint, flickering glow on the eastern horizon. It wasn't the cold, white light of a star. It was warm, yellow, the color of a fire or a lamp. It pulsed gently, a steady, rhythmic beat against the darkness.
She shook ruku bez, who had been standing watch, his body rigid with tension. He followed her gaze, his eyes widening. He looked at her, then back at the light, a low, questioning rumble in his chest.
Hope, fragile and terrifying, bloomed in her chest. It could be a settlement. A haven. A place with water, with medicine, with safety. Or it could be a trap. An outpost of the Synod, or a camp of waste-raiders who would kill them for the clothes on their backs. It could be anything.
She looked down at Soren, his face pale and still in the moonlight, his breaths shallow and fragile. They had no choice. To stay here was to die. To walk toward that light was a gamble, but it was the only one they had left.
"Help me get him up," she said, her voice a raw whisper. "We're not done yet."
Together, they lifted Soren, their movements slow and painful. As they set off, their shadows long and distorted in the moonlight, Nyra kept her eyes fixed on that single, flickering point of light. It was a beacon in the overwhelming darkness, a promise of an end to the long walk. Whether it was a promise of salvation or damnation, she did not know. But it was a promise, and right now, it was all they had.