Ash thickened as Rhaen moved deeper into Cinderreach.
The land changed with every step. The ground burned hotter, the air heavier, as if the world itself were narrowing its gaze. Scars in the earth ran like veins—old, cracked, and restless—each one carrying the weight of something that had ended badly.
Rhaen felt them.
Not as pain, but as pressure.
The ember within his chest pulsed once, then settled, as though acknowledging territory it recognized. He slowed his pace, eyes scanning the horizon. The wasteland ahead rose into broken ridges and collapsed spires—remnants of structures that no one in Cinderhollow remembered building.
He exhaled.
"Not abandoned," he murmured. "Buried."
The ground beneath his boots shifted faintly, ash sliding aside as if to make room.
He stopped at a ravine cut deep into the land, its edges blackened and glassy from ancient heat. From below came a low hum—subtle, rhythmic—like a breath taken by something too large to be seen.
Rhaen knelt and pressed his palm to the ground again.
The ember answered.
Heat flowed outward in a thin wave. The hum below steadied, then softened, as if soothed. Rhaen drew his hand back, a quiet realization settling in.
The land was not lending him power.
It was listening.
And that made him dangerous.
Far behind him, the Watcher halted.
They stood upon the same ancient road Rhaen had crossed hours earlier, eyes lowered to a disturbance invisible to ordinary sight. The sigil at their side glowed a precise, glacial blue.
"Interaction," the Watcher said softly. "Direct."
The sigil pulsed twice.
Authorization confirmed.
The Watcher straightened and resumed walking—each step measured, unhurried, inevitable. Ash parted at their feet, refusing to cling. Heat bent away, unable to linger.
This land remembered authority.
Rhaen felt it before he saw it.
A cold line cut through the warmth around him, slicing cleanly across the pressure of the land. He froze, breath steady, senses sharpening.
Someone else was here.
Not hidden.
Approaching.
He turned slowly.
A figure crested the ridge opposite him—cloaked in pale gray, hood lowered, face calm and unreadable. At their side hung a sigil etched with lines too precise to be natural, its glow muted but unmistakable.
An Order's mark.
Rhaen did not move.
Neither did the Watcher.
For a moment, the wasteland held its breath.
"So," the Watcher said, voice even, carrying easily across the ravine. "You're real."
Rhaen met their gaze. "You're early."
A faint smile touched the Watcher's lips. "You're active."
The sigil flared softly.
Rhaen felt the land tense.
"State your designation," the Watcher continued.
Rhaen considered the question. Then shook his head. "I don't have one."
"Everyone has one," the Watcher replied. "If not given, then taken."
Silence stretched.
The Watcher stepped forward—and the air cooled. The pressure of the land recoiled, not in fear, but in restraint.
"This is your warning," the Watcher said. "The power you carry is forbidden. Surrender, and the Orders will determine your fate."
Rhaen glanced down at the ravine, then back up. "And if I don't?"
The Watcher's eyes sharpened. "Then I determine it."
The sigil pulsed.
The air locked.
Rhaen felt it instantly—an invisible boundary snapping into place around him. His breath hit resistance. The land's pressure surged, confused, pressing back.
Rhaen grimaced—not from pain, but effort.
The ember reacted.
Not explosively.
Precisely.
Heat flowed outward, threading through the invisible boundary like water finding cracks in stone. The air shuddered. The sigil flickered—once, twice—before stabilizing.
The Watcher's expression shifted.
"Interesting," they said quietly.
Rhaen straightened. "You don't own this land."
"No," the Watcher agreed. "But I enforce what the sky abandoned."
They raised a hand.
The sigil flared brighter, lines rearranging into a new configuration. Pressure slammed down, sharp and absolute.
Rhaen staggered, boots digging into ash.
The land roared back.
Not with sound—but with force.
The ravine below surged, heat spiraling upward in a violent column. The Watcher leapt back as the ground split between them, molten light flashing through the fracture.
Rhaen braced himself, teeth clenched.
The ember burned—controlled, focused—anchoring him against the surge.
For a heartbeat, they stood on opposite sides of the裂.
Then the Watcher lowered their hand.
The sigil dimmed.
The land settled.
The Watcher studied Rhaen anew.
"You're not drawing power," they said slowly. "You're resonating."
Rhaen did not answer.
"This changes things," the Watcher continued. "You won't be taken today."
Rhaen frowned. "Then why come at all?"
The Watcher turned away. "To confirm."
They paused, glancing back over their shoulder. "And to inform you."
"Inform me of what?"
"That the Orders are moving," the Watcher said. "And next time, I won't be alone."
They stepped back—and vanished, the air folding cleanly where they had stood.
The cold line lifted.
The land exhaled.
Rhaen stood alone once more.
His chest rose and fell steadily, the ember warm and calm. He looked at the split ravine, at the scars widening across the wasteland.
"So it begins," he murmured.
The land answered—not with approval or warning—but with resolve.
Rhaen turned and walked deeper into Cinderreach.
And this time, the ash parted willingly.
The land did not return to silence immediately.
Heat lingered in the fractured ravine, rising in slow waves that bent the air. Rhaen stood still, listening—not with his ears, but with the ember lodged deep within his chest. The pressure beneath the ground shifted uneasily, as though the land itself were reassessing him.
The Watcher had gone.
But their presence had left a scar.
Rhaen exhaled and lowered his gaze to his hands. They trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. He could feel it now, clearer than before.
The ember was not limitless.
It responded to intent.
And intent carried weight.
"That was a warning," Rhaen muttered.
Not just from the Orders.
From the land as well.
He moved away from the ravine, choosing a path that sloped downward into a basin of broken stone and ash. The heat intensified with every step, but it no longer felt hostile. If anything, it felt… attentive.
Fragments of old structures emerged from the ash—pillars cracked in half, sigils melted beyond recognition, pathways leading nowhere. This place had once mattered.
Rhaen stopped beside a half-buried monolith.
When he touched it, the ember stirred sharply.
Images flickered at the edge of his awareness—too fractured to be memories, too heavy to be dreams. Figures standing where he stood now. Fires that did not consume. Orders that turned away.
Rhaen pulled his hand back, jaw tightening.
"So you were abandoned too," he said quietly.
The stone radiated faint warmth in response.
Miles away, within halls untouched by ash or heat, a different silence settled.
The Watcher stood before a circular array of floating sigils, cloak still, expression unreadable. As they raised their hand, the sigils rearranged, forming a projection of fractured data.
"Report," a distant voice commanded.
The Watcher inclined their head. "The anomaly is stable."
A pause.
"And dangerous?"
"Yes."
Another pause—longer this time.
"Does it align with prior records?"
"No," the Watcher replied. "It does not consume. It resonates."
That word rippled through the array.
Resonance was not forbidden because it was violent.
It was forbidden because it could not be controlled.
Back in Cinderreach, night crept across the wasteland.
Rhaen found shelter among collapsed stone, a natural overhang shielding him from drifting ash. He sat with his back against the rock, eyes closed, breathing slow and deliberate.
The ember pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
He did not resist it this time.
Instead, he listened.
The heat beneath the land did not surge. It steadied, forming a low, constant presence—like a foundation laid long ago, waiting for someone stubborn enough to stand upon it.
Rhaen opened his eyes.
"If you're going to answer," he said quietly, "then I need to understand the cost."
The ember did not reply.
But the land shifted.
Just enough.
Rhaen leaned his head back against the stone, gaze lifting to the ash-filled sky. Somewhere beyond it, the Orders watched, calculated, prepared.
Let them.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would move again.
Deeper.
End of Chapter 4