They did not stop running until the sickly purple glow of Qar-Teth was a hateful memory on the horizon. They made their first camp in a deep, rocky wadi, huddling together less for warmth and more for the shared, fragile comfort of survival. They were nine. They had left Aethelburg as a company of nine, and they remained nine, but the math felt wrong. The ghost of Joric and the other fallen guards was a palpable absence, a weight that settled over the survivors.
From his position by the low, smokeless fire, Praxus watched his companions. They were a portrait of exhaustion and shock. Eva sat sharpening her sword with a methodical, furious intensity, her grief a tightly coiled spring of violence. Finnian stared into the darkness, his face a blank mask, his mind clearly still trapped in the churning, black water of the Nexus. Hanna moved quietly among them, tending to the wounded. Captain Malik had a deep gash on his arm, and one of Eva's guards was nursing a broken hand, but their true wounds were not visible.
Praxus felt the failure as a physical sickness in his gut. His knowledge, his discovery of the Lament, his warnings, all of it had led to this. They had not been heroes stopping a catastrophe; they had been pawns in the breaking of a god's prison. The sacrifices of Joric and the other guards now seemed utterly in vain.
The journey north was a descent into a new world, a world Ghra'thul was actively unmaking and remaking in his own image. The oppressive, unnatural cold they had felt near Qar-Teth now seemed to be a permanent feature of the land. The sun still shone, a white, hazy disc in the sky, but its light was thin and sterile, offering no warmth.
The desert itself was changing. The hardy, skeletal acacia trees they had passed on their way south now seemed twisted, their thorns longer and sharper, their bark the color of old bruises. The fauna had grown hostile. Scorpions, larger and more aggressive than any Praxus had ever read about, hunted in brazen packs. Vultures circled endlessly overhead, and sometimes, in the corner of his eye, he could swear their eyes glowed with a faint, malevolent purple light.
Their first encounter with the new inhabitants of this world came three days into their retreat. They found a small, nomadic caravan, or what was left of it. Tents were torn, supplies were scattered, and the bodies of the nomads were twisted into unnatural shapes. Feasting on the remains were a pack of what might have once been desert jackals. Now, they were larger, their skin a mottled, ash-grey, their limbs too long, their jaws unhinged. As the company approached, the creatures' heads snapped up, and their eyes blazed with the same purple fire as the Nexus.
These were the first of the Ashen.
The fight was short and terrifyingly brutal. The Ashen were preternaturally fast and strong, and they felt no pain. Eva and her guards dispatched them with grim efficiency, but not before one of the creatures tore a deep, jagged wound in Captain Malik's leg.
As they pressed on, the true horror of their situation began to settle in. The journey was no longer just a retreat; it was a constant, running battle for survival in a world that was actively trying to kill and corrupt them.
Captain Malik's condition worsened with each passing day. The wound from the Ashen's bite was not a normal wound. It did not heal. It festered, a web of black veins spreading from it, and a relentless fever took hold, plunging the old sailor into a delirium.
Hanna worked tirelessly, her face a mask of grim concentration. She used every herb, every technique she knew. She cleaned the wound, applied poultices, and forced fever-reducing teas down his throat, but nothing worked. The poison was unnatural, a corruption of life itself, and it was beyond her skill to mend.
On the tenth night of their journey, as they camped in the cold lee of a rock formation, it was clear the old captain was dying. His breath was shallow, his skin burned with fever, and he muttered deliriously about a starless sea.
Praxus watched Hanna as she knelt beside Malik, her satchel of remedies open but useless, her expression one of utter defeat. All of them, the hardened commander, the skilled navigator, the loyal soldiers, were completely, utterly helpless. Their mission had failed catastrophically. Their friends were dead. And now, they were going to watch another one of their own be consumed by the encroaching darkness, with no hope of stopping it.
Praxus looked away from the heartbreaking scene, his gaze turning to the dark, empty horizon. He felt the full, crushing weight of their failure settle upon him. Their defiance, their knowledge, their courage, it had all amounted to nothing. The silence from the heavens was no longer an absence; it was a victory cry. And in the face of it, they were nothing.
---
The Chronicle of the Fallen
Time Period Covered: Approximately Days 192 through 202 of the Age of Fear
Victims of The Reaping: 3
Victims of the Covenant: 310 (With Ouen's perceived success at Qar-Teth, his legend explodes across Zahram, and the number of willing sacrifices skyrockets.)
Deaths from Ashen Attacks: 122 (The first wave of monster attacks on isolated caravans and small settlements in Zahram begins.)
Total Lives Lost: 435
Of Note Among the Fallen:
— The entire nomadic tribe of the Silver Moon, last seen camped near the mountains bordering Qar-Teth, presumed wiped out by Ashen.
— A master blacksmith in Karak, who made a bargain for the knowledge of forging an unbreakable sword, dying as he completed his masterpiece.