Hope sat still, his back pressed against the jagged wall of the cave they'd taken refuge in. The stone behind him radiated heat from the day's sun, though the air had grown chill. He stared blankly ahead, the remnants of his dream clinging to the edges of his thoughts like mist. That thing—that version of himself—had appeared again. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.
The dream meant everything—and yet nothing at all. It was a riddle wrapped in his own reflection, tied to the unnatural flaw etched into his soul the moment he first returned from the Ashlands. He didn't need to understand it to know that it had become a part of him. But right now, he didn't have the luxury of dwelling on nightmares.
His head throbbed.
Then—the ground shook.
Not a soft tremor. A deep, resonating vibration that thrummed through the floor and into his bones like the distant drumbeat of a god. Dust cascaded from the cracked ceiling as a low, grinding sound echoed from the horizon.
Hope sat up straighter. His body instinctively tensed. "I guess we'll have to move."
By now, none of them were surprised. This was The Ashlands—the ever-changing hellscape wrapped in twisted rules and malicious terrain. The world here wasn't static. It shifted, sometimes violently, as if reshaping itself to suit the whims of an unseen hand. The sky itself was moody, temperamental, and cruel.
They rushed outside the crumbling building just in time to see the ground begin to split.
Wide fissures carved through the earth like blades slicing through parchment. From the chasms, massive stone formations began to rise—colossal statues, monolithic mountains, and gaping caves erupting like boils. The cracked desert floor was swallowed by jagged peaks and spiraling plateaus.
And then—the sun vanished.
A flicker. A blink. The light of day was snatched away and replaced by the glow of the moon—except this was no ordinary moon.
It hung low and massive, a cratered, shattered thing whose glowing fragments floated around it like orbiting ghosts. The world bathed in silver light, eerie and mournful, and wind began to howl through the canyon walls like the wailing of spirits.
Nefer turned, her expression calm but alert. "We'll start our march once again."
Massa gave a simple nod.
Hope sighed but followed without protest. Nefer took the lead, her posture graceful and composed. The moonlight caught her white hair as it tumbled down her shoulders, each strand dancing with the wind. Her white tunic flowed like water around her, ethereal against the bleak terrain. Despite everything—the pain in his legs, the pounding in his head, the haunted edges of his dreams—Hope couldn't help but let a wry smile slip onto his face.
They walked. For hours.
The terrain was unkind, each step a negotiation with sharp rocks and unstable ground. Hope's legs ached with every motion, his muscles burning from the accumulated strain of endless travel and no real rest. Yet, he wasn't thirsty. He'd filled himself with water from the Endless Spring.
Still, exhaustion wasn't something the Spring could heal.
Eventually, they reached a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. And that's when they saw them.
Carapace Scavengers—three of them.
Twisted humanoid forms, their bodies encased in a jagged shell of dark exoskeletal armor, like insects grown too large. Their movements were erratic, twitchy, like marionettes being pulled by invisible strings. Their eyes glowed a sickly green, and their clawed hands flexed with anticipation. It seemed they were different species to this carapace scavengers, because the one's they had killed earlier, seemd quite different.... But he didn't mind.
Hope didn't hesitate. His sword flashed into existence with a shimmer of dull light. Nefer summoned hers as well, her fingers dancing along the hilt with practiced grace. Massa's lips moved silently as the air around her crackled—a sure sign she was preparing an enchantment.
"What's the plan?" Hope whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the rising wind.
Nefer glanced sideways, the corner of her mouth lifting in a small smile. "I'll draw their attention. You deliver the sneak attack. Fast. Precise. Kill if you can."
Before he could respond, she was already moving.
Hope blinked. "She's bold," he muttered.
"Too bold for her own good," Massa replied coolly, not even glancing in his direction.
Hope shook his head slowly. Then he turned his attention back to the unfolding battle.
Nefer sprinted toward the scavengers, her blade a flash of steel in the moonlight. She didn't charge recklessly—no, she weaved between them with elegance, slipping through their wide swipes and snapping jaws. Every motion was fluid, and though she wasn't delivering heavy strikes, she bled them—small cuts here, a precise stab there. Her style wasn't brute force; it was death by a thousand slashes.