Kael didn't sleep that night.
The wind over the Ash Plains howled like it had something to say — a warning, maybe. Maybe a challenge.
He sat near a dead tree, its limbs bleached from centuries of storms and soulburn. His jacket was torn. Ribs bruised. The void burn on his arm had faded, but not fully. The mark pulsed faintly beneath the skin — like his soul had opened its eye and didn't want to close it again.
He stared at it, flexed his fingers.
That flash of power back in the village… it felt like dying and living at the same time.
Pure.
Untamed.
A taste of something deeper.
But now it was gone. And the silence returned.
He tore off a strip of his shirt and bound the arm tight. He couldn't let it leak again. Not out here. Not without control.
Even the beasts would notice.
He stood, stiff. His limbs were sore, but he was used to pain. That wasn't what bothered him.
It was the pull.
Something in the distance. Something whispering through the Void Vein. A sensation crawling up his spine, down into the marrow. Not a voice… not words… but direction.
West.
Always west.
He didn't understand it, but that was fine. Understanding never helped him survive. Movement did.
So he moved.
⸻
The sun didn't rise over the Ash Plains — not like normal places. It hovered, a dim red disc half-hidden behind clouds of ever-burning dust. The ground was cracked like dried blood. Scattered bones of old wars littered the landscape. Half-buried weapons jutted from the earth like dead hands reaching for one last fight.
This was Collapse country. A no-man's land where only monsters walked. Where old Soulvein beasts and rogue Veinlords had died — or vanished.
And now… one boy did, too.
Kael walked with his head low, steps measured. His stomach ached — he hadn't eaten since the morning before. His canteen was empty. But worse than hunger was the silence. No birds. No insects. Just wind and ash and the distant creak of old metal.
Something was watching. He could feel it.
⸻
By noon, Kael spotted something moving on the horizon.
Figures. Five of them.
Too smooth to be beasts. Too slow to be Vultures. He ducked low behind a ridge, heart steady.
He waited.
The figures drew closer. Closer.
Then he saw it.
Tattered gray cloaks. Breathers over their faces. Scarred armor. Dust-etched blades and crude Soulvein gear.
Ash Walkers.
Scavengers. Grave pickers. Known for looting ruins and robbing both the dead and the living. Not true bandits — worse. They didn't kill because they had to. They killed because it was tradition.
Kael's gut went cold. He backed away slow, keeping low.
Then his foot snapped a rock.
Click.
The nearest Walker turned.
Shit.
⸻
"Oi!" the tallest shouted, his voice muffled behind a blacked-out mask. "We got movement!"
The others fanned out instantly, trained like predators.
Kael ran.
The plains weren't forgiving. Every step was loose gravel and pitfall cracks. He zig-zagged, staying off high ground, heart pounding.
One of them hurled a chain-blade — it barely missed his leg, sparking against stone.
Another fired a Soulshot — a compressed burst of kinetic force. It slammed into the ground near his feet and launched him off balance.
Kael rolled, came up swinging with a broken bone he'd picked up earlier — makeshift weapon. But the first Walker was already on him.
Blades clashed.
Except Kael had no blade.
The Walker struck low — Kael blocked with his forearm. Pain exploded down his arm. The Void Vein pulsed again.
Not now. Not now.
He ducked a second slash and drove the broken bone into the man's gut. Not deep — but enough. The Walker staggered.
Kael grabbed his shoulder and shoved hard — using the man's weight to hurl himself over him and break into another sprint.
Another Soulshot came from the left — it hit Kael square in the side.
He slammed into a rock wall and dropped.
Blood in his mouth again.
He looked up.
Three Walkers stood over him now. One of them raised a Soul-chain, spinning it slow.
"You've got good legs, runt," the lead one said. "Shame they'll go to waste."
Kael spat at his feet. "Your breath stinks through the mask."
Wrong words. He knew it.
The chain snapped down toward his skull.
Kael raised his injured arm.
⸻
The Void surged.
Not a choice.
A reflex.
Like something inside him wanted to live just as badly.
The broken mark on his arm flared. Black veins spiderwebbed across his skin, and a pulse of raw pressure erupted outward.
BOOM.
The chain shattered mid-air.
Two of the Walkers were blasted backward — thrown like ragdolls.
The third, the leader, stayed standing — but barely. His mask cracked. He staggered, bleeding from his nose.
"What the hell—" he muttered, eyes wide behind the broken visor.
Kael stood slowly. His body shook. His vision blurred.
But he stood.
The mark on his arm glowed like dying embers, flickering.
The Walker raised a dagger and charged.
Kael didn't move.
Not out of fear.
But because something moved through him.
He stepped forward and ducked the blade. The world slowed.
His fist struck the man's ribs — just once.
Void laced the hit.
It didn't break bone.
It disconnected it. The man crumpled as if his body forgot how to stay together.
Kael's eyes went wide.
The glow faded.
His body gave out.
⸻
He hit the ground again — third time that day.
But this time, the bodies around him weren't standing.
He laughed.
A low, exhausted laugh.
Then he passed out cold.
⸻
When he woke, it was night again.
A fire crackled nearby.
He jolted up — hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"Easy," a voice said from the darkness.
Kael squinted.
A girl sat beside the fire, her back to him. Long white hair braided down her back. She wore light armor and a tattered cloak. Her boots were caked with ash, and her belt carried several strange tools Kael didn't recognize.
"You're lucky," she said without turning. "They were gonna gut you. Saw the scene after the blast. Thought maybe a Veinlord passed through."
Kael groaned. "Do I look like a Veinlord?"
She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were strange — one bright silver, the other pale blue.
"No. But your punch broke a man's soul-thread. So that makes you something."
Kael sat up, stiff. "Who are you?"
The girl threw a small fruit his way. "Eat first. Talk later."
He caught it. Smelled it. Sour, but edible.
He took a bite. Juice ran down his chin.
"I'm Kael," he said finally. "From Stonewake."
"Never heard of it," she said. "Not surprised. Places that small tend to die quietly."
He didn't answer. She wasn't wrong.
She stood slowly, dusting ash from her cloak. Her armor shimmered faintly — lightweave, Kael realized. Expensive stuff. Modified to survive Vein surges.
"You heading west?" she asked.
Kael nodded. "Don't have a reason not to."
"Good. That's where I'm going."
"Why?"
She looked down at him, serious now.
"Because west of here lies the first Vault. One of the last Soulweaver archives still standing. They say it holds fragments of the original Vein Maps. Maybe even a Seed."
Kael's heartbeat picked up. "A Seed?"
The girl smiled faintly. "You really don't know much, huh?"
Kael scowled. "They didn't let me learn much."
"Well… if you survive long enough, I'll show you. You've got power, but no shape. No control."
She paused, then extended a hand.
"My name's Lira. I used to be a Soulweaver."
Kael blinked. "Used to be?"
She didn't answer. Just said, "Get some sleep. We move at first light."
He stared at her hand for a moment.
Then took it.
Her grip was strong.
Another chapter of his life had just opened.
And somewhere deep inside his chest, the Void pulsed again — slower this time. Steady. Waiting.