The boundary between the fertile eastern valleys of Val-Mora and the Ashen Wastes was marked by the Obsidian Gap—a jagged chasm split into the earth as though struck by the hammer of a titan.
Behind them lay green slopes and the cold, mist-shrouded spires of Mor-Thal. Ahead lay an ocean of scorched grey dunes, calcified ribs of long-dead leviathans, and towering basalt chimneys that belched plumes of bitter yellow smoke into a sulfurous sky.
Two hundred elite blood-riders of the Val-Roc Vanguard halted at the rim of the gap. Their warhorses, bred in the high mountain crags and armored in segmented iron, tossed their heads nervously, snorting against the stinging dust that coated the wind.
At the head of the column, Aurelia drew her black scarf up over the bridge of her nose, her hood pulled low against the scouring grit. Beneath the leather layers of her traveling gear, the frost in her veins hummed with defensive instinct. The air here was dead—stripped of moisture, saturated with old volcanic malice and decaying celestial radiation.
A heavy, leather-clad arm settled around her waist as Malakor brought his massive black stallion alongside her mare. He had forgone his heavy ceremonial plate for a lighter harness of blackened dragon-hide and hardened steel plates, built for endurance in the arid badlands. His dark hair was tied back with a leather thong, the angular cut of his cheekbones and the harsh cast of his jaw standing stark against the grey expanse.
"The air tastes of sulfur and dead gods," Malakor said, lowering his dark visor slightly, his deep voice muffled against the wind. "The horses will need water rations doubled once we cross the salt flats."
"I can draw moisture from the deep aquifers beneath the limestone strata," Aurelia replied, turning her azure eyes to his. "It will be brackish, but my frost can purify the salt before the mounts drink."
Malakor’s crimson-flecked eyes warmed, a look of fierce pride flashing across his dark features. He reached across the space between their saddles, his gauntleted hand wrapping firmly around the back of her neck. He pulled her gently toward him until their foreheads touched, his thumb brushing over the soft skin exposed above her scarf.
"You never cease to amaze me, Aurelia," he murmured, his breath hot against the chill of her skin. "A queen who carves an empire with frost, yet tends to her vanguard's thirst like a mother to her young."
Aurelia’s lips curved beneath her scarf. She leaned into his touch, her gloved fingers resting over his forearm, savoring the unyielding strength in his grip. "A queen who lets her vanguard die of thirst has no empire to rule. Besides... I have no intention of letting you carry me across the wastes on foot."
Malakor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that cut through the whistling wind. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her brow, his lips searing through her chilled skin before releasing her and wheeling his mount toward the chasm.
"Sound the descent!" Malakor barked to his captains.
The low thrum of a horn echoed along the canyon walls. The two hundred riders formed into double columns, their iron hooves clattering down the steep, switchback path cut into the obsidian rock face.
The descent took two grueling hours, the temperature climbing with every yard they descended into the sunken basin. By midday, they were riding across the floor of the wastes—a suffocating expanse of ash and white alkaline dust that rose in ghostly plumes behind their mounts.
As they rode deeper into the dead plains, the sky took on an unnatural violet bruise. Jagged spires of fused black glass rose like petrified claws from the ash, their sharp edges refracting the pale, sickly light of the sun.
Suddenly, Aurelia raised her hand, signaling a halt.
"Malakor," she whispered, her voice tightening.
Malakor’s hand was already on the hilt of his great sword. "I feel it."
Beneath the dust, the ground vibrated with a sickening, rhythmic pulse. The celestial shard wasn't just resting in the citadel; its power was leaking into the bedrock like venom into a wound.
Fifty yards ahead, the grey ash began to churn and swirl into miniature cyclones. From beneath the chalky earth, skeletal shapes began to pull themselves free—not the dead of men, but the calcified remains of ancient ash-drakes, their hollow eye sockets burning with the sickly, unnatural violet light of corrupt ether.
Malakor slowly drew his great sword, the runes along the black steel bursting into obsidian flame that hissed against the desert heat. He turned to Aurelia, a predatory smirk playing on his lips.
"It seems the Priests of Ouros wanted to test our mettle before we even reached their gates," he growled.
Aurelia drew her twin frost-daggers, her eyes blazing sapphire as a blizzard of pure cold erupted from her fingertips, swirling around her like an icy vortex.
"Then let us show them," she said, her voice dropping into a lethal chill, "that even in their desert of ash, winter has arrived."