Ash Runner

Torv "Ash" Kren hunched over his sled, boots sinking in black sand, wind howling through the Ashen Reach like a dying beast. Ember storms streaked the sky, red-orange claws tearing dusk apart, flinging ash that stung his face, and streaked his beard black. Twenty-nine, wiry, eyes flint-gray and sharp, he dragged the sled's rope, shoulders burning. Five leather sacks clinked inside, ember-shards, glowing dull red, magic fuel for the Free Drift camp. One more run, two days north, meant water for a month. One slip meant bones in the dunes. His coat flapped, tattered gray, patched with raider leather, over a faded tunic clinging to sweat. Machete hung at his hip, blade notched from years cutting throats and cords, tip crusted with ash. Five years back, he'd run with a crew, eastern clans, shard-hungry, 'til they torched a village, kids screaming. Torv walked, guilt gnawed, but the Reach didn't care. Now he ran solo, one job from death, always. The sled creaked, and wood groaned under the sand's weight when the storm hit harder. Ember glow flared, the sky bled red, and the wind slammed him sideways. "Shit," he growled, voice low, bitten-off, the rope snapped tautly, then slack. A crack, the sled's runner split, sacks spilled, shards rolling like bloody stars. Torv lunged, caught two, stuffed 'em back, third sack burst, embers scattering. He cursed, scooping, fingers burned, shards hot, when a shadow staggered from the haze. She was lean, cloak ash-gray, red hair singed short, stumbling, one hand clutching a fist-sized ember pulsing crimson. Scars crisscrossed her arms, old burns, green eyes locked on him, wild. "Help," she rasped, voice cracked, then dropped, knees hitting sand, ember rolling free. Torv froze, the wind screamed, Core Ember, big as his fist, worth a fortune or a warlord's blade. He'd seen 'em, raider tales, shards that broke the Reach. "Who're you?" he barked, machete half-drawn, stepping close. She coughed, ash on her lips, pushed up. "Lysa. Need… a runner." Her cloak parted, black leathers tight, stained, hand twitched, shard-dust on fingers. "Two thousand shards, get me to Free Drift." Torv's gut twisted, 2,000 meant months alive, water, steel, but her eyes said trouble. "Warlord's after me, Krax, ten thousand, dead or alive."He squinted, the storm roared, and Krax's name burned old scars. Eastern warlord, spiked armor, and hounds with ember-teeth, torched Torv's crew for less. "Ditch you here," he growled, machete glinted, but the Core Ember pulsed, heat licking his boots. "That buys time," she said, coughing, "or we're both ash." Torv's hand tightened, water gone, sled cracked, her deal was air in a dry throat. Something clicked, gut hummed, and Ash Runner Sense woke, sharp as a blade cut. Words flashed in his mind: +0 miles, system glitch, raider days, kills earned power. "Move," he snapped, grabbing her arm, and dragging her north. Sand bit, storm raged, then howls cut through, low, guttural, Krax's hounds, close. Three sled dogs burst from the dunes, teeth glowing red, lunging. Torv shoved Lysa, machete sang, slashed a throat, ash sprayed, +100 miles, system chimed, legs twitched faster. The second hound snapped, jaws grazed his coat, he hacked, blade bit bone, +200 miles, speed pulsed. Third leaped, Lysa's hand flared, ember-shard flared red, fire-dagger flew, burned its flank, the dog yelped, dropped, Torv's machete finished it, +300 miles. Breathing hard, Ash Runner Sense: Lv. 1, Dune Dash, short bursts, and blurred underfoot. Lysa clutched the Core, fire fading, eyes sharp. "Krax's scouts, more come." Torv wiped the blood, the machete dripped, and the storm hid the bodies. "Two thousand, Free Drift, or I leave you next time." She smirked, weak, "Deal, runner." Core pulsed, and whispered, "Free me," Torv's gut sank, and 2,000 shards or a curse loomed. Hounds howled, closer, sled creaked, and storm swallowed the Reach. Run or burn, Torv chose to run.