The Shush was not made of sand. As Kiron ran his fingers through the fine, white powder, he realized it was bone—millions of years of pulverized remains, ground down into a sea that stretched into infinity. There was no wind here. No sound. Just a crushing, absolute stillness that made the blood rushing in his ears sound like a waterfall.
"Stay in my footsteps," Nyra whispered. She had wrapped her cloak around her head to filter the fine dust. "The Shush is porous. One wrong step and you'll fall into a pocket of dead air. You won't even have time to scream before your lungs fill with silt."
Taz was struggling. Every breath was a wet, rattling wheeze. The "Cloud-Cough" was worsening in the dry, stagnant air of the desert floor. Kiron looked at his friend and felt a sharp pang of guilt.
He's here because of me, Kiron thought. If I had stayed a scrapper, he'd be safe in a bunk on the Vort-Isle right now. Instead, he's breathing in the dust of ancestors.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them didn't just vibrate; it hummed. It was a high-pitched, crystalline frequency that made Kiron's teeth ache.
"Freeze," Nyra hissed, dropping to a crouch.
Kiron and Taz went still.
Rising from the white dunes a hundred yards away was a Sand-Walker. It didn't have a solid body; it was a towering construct of bone-dust held together by a flickering, violet core of Taint. It had no eyes, but as it moved, it tilted its "head" toward them, its core pulsing in rhythm with Kiron's heartbeat.
It doesn't see us, Kiron realized, his pulse quickening. It feels the heat. My heat.
"Kiron, the Dam," Nyra whispered, her hand slowly reaching for a small glass sphere at her belt—a smoke-bomb. "You have to kill your Pulse. If you glow even a little, it'll swarm us."
The Sand-Walker began to glide toward them, its base churning the white powder into a localized storm.
Kill the pulse, Kiron told himself. He closed his eyes, reaching inward. But the encounter with the entity in his dream had changed something. The "Dam" felt different now—thicker, more solid. But the power behind it was pacing like a caged beast, snarling at the presence of the Taint.
Be the bone, Kiron thought, visualizing the endless, cold desert around him. Be the silence.
He forced his breathing to slow until it was almost non-existent. He imagined the golden fire in his marrow turning into ice, freezing over until there wasn't a single spark of warmth left in his body.
The Sand-Walker stopped.
The violet core dimmed. The creature spun in a slow circle, its "limbs" of dust collapsing and reforming as it searched for the life-sign that had just vanished. It was inches away now. Kiron could smell the dry, ancient rot of the creature—a scent like a tomb that had been opened after a thousand years.
A single grain of dust landed on Kiron's nose. He felt a sneeze building—a tickle that felt like a lightning strike in the absolute silence.
No. Not now, he pleaded with his own body.
Taz, seeing the creature so close, let out a tiny, stifled sob of terror.
The Sand-Walker's core flared a violent purple. It lunged.
"Move!" Nyra screamed, throwing the glass sphere.
The desert erupted in a cloud of thick, grey smoke, but the Sand-Walker didn't care about sight. It slammed into the ground where they had been standing, its dust-arms solidifying into hammers of bone.
Kiron rolled to the side, his hand instinctively reaching for the black-wood sword—but he had thrown it. He was unarmed. He looked at his hands, then at the towering monster of dust.
If I flare, I die. If I don't, we all die.
"Kiron, the knife!" Nyra tossed her short-blade through the smoke.
Kiron caught the hilt. It was a small, steel tool, never meant for killing Gods or their constructs. But as he gripped it, he didn't try to call on the fire. He remembered the entity's bow—the way the silver world had felt.
He didn't use the Blood-Prayer. He used the Authority.
"Down," Kiron commanded.
He didn't scream it. He whispered it with a voice that carried the weight of the Throne of Graves.
The Sand-Walker froze mid-lunge. The violet core at its center didn't just dim—it flickered and died, as if the command had snuffed out its very life-force. The massive construct of bone-dust lost its cohesion and collapsed, turning back into a harmless pile of white powder that buried Kiron's boots.
Nyra stared at the pile of dust, then at Kiron. Her eyes were wide, filled with a new kind of fear.
"You didn't use your power," she whispered. "You just... told it to stop."
Kiron looked at the small knife in his hand. He didn't feel exhausted this time. He felt cold. A deep, crystalline cold that started in his chest and spread to his fingertips.
"It obeyed me," Kiron said, his voice devoid of emotion.
We await your return, the entity had said.
Kiron looked toward the horizon. The Shush was no longer just a desert to him. It was a kingdom that had been waiting for its king to wake up.
"We need to find Vahn," Kiron said, turning to Nyra. "He's not dead. I can feel him. He's somewhere in the deep."