Chapter 8 - Ashes in the Wasteland

The wastelands stretched like a scar, cracked earth and twisted metal under a sky too big after ten years in a cell. My boots crunched dust, each step heavy, my shoulder throbbing where a pulse-bolt had grazed me back in Iron Hollow. Blood dried stiff on my shirt, but I ignored it—pain was just a noise, like the wind howling past rusted pipes. Daria moved ahead, her silver hair a ghost in the dark, her cloak blending with shadows. She was fast, sure, like she'd run from Nova Rhea's dogs before. I followed, not because I trusted her—trust died with Clara—but because she was a means to an end. My vow burned, cold and sharp: burn them all, for her.I didn't feel the stars above, though they stung my eyes, bright after a decade of bulbs and stone. Clara used to point at them, back in Thornwick, her voice soft with stories of paths home. Home was gone, ashes in a plaza, and I was what Iron Hollow made me—ice where hope used to be, fire where mercy lived. Ten years of beatings, shocks, and dark had carved me hollow, left only rage and plans. I'd mapped Nova Rhea in my cell—its Spire, its slums, its chipped crowds—and I'd tear it down, brick by bloody brick. Daria didn't matter. Nothing did, except the blood I'd spill."Drones'll hit soon," she said, not looking back, her voice low but clear. "Keep up, or they'll pin us.""Pin us?" My laugh was dry, a blade's edge. "Let them try." My hand flexed, heat stirring in my palm, faint but ready. Year five, I'd sparked flames in secret; year ten, I'd melted steel. Iron Hollow's dampeners were gone, and my magic was free, itching to burn. I didn't care about drones, or her warnings. I wanted them to come—guards, machines, anything I could break.She glanced over her shoulder, blue eyes narrowing. "You're not invincible, Asher. Slow down, we live longer.""Live?" I stopped, dust settling around my boots, and stared her down. My voice was flat, cold as the cell I'd left. "Living's not the point. They took her—Clara. You think I care about longer?" My chest tightened, her name a spike, but I didn't flinch. Iron Hollow had taught me to bury pain, to use it. I saw her death every night—lance's glow, blood's spread—and it wasn't grief anymore. It was fuel.Daria's face softened, like she wanted to reach out, but she didn't. Smart. "I know what they took," she said, stepping closer, her boots silent. "But burning everything won't bring her back. There's others—witches, fighters. We can—""Others?" I cut her off, my voice a growl, stepping into her space. She didn't back down, but her eyes flickered. "I don't need others. I need them dead—enforcers, elites, the crowds who cheered. You don't get it." My hand twitched, sparks hissing to the ground, and I saw her tense, her knife hand ready. Good. Let her fear me. I wasn't the kid who'd begged Clara to live. I was what the Coalition made, and I'd make them regret it.A hum broke the air—low, then sharp, like a wasp waking. Drones, three, their red eyes cutting the dark, skimming low over the wastelands. My lips curled, not a smile, just hunger. "Finally," I muttered, turning from Daria. My magic flared, heat coiling in my chest, and I raised both hands, palms up. Fire roared, bright as hate, a wave that lit the night orange and gold.The drones veered, but too late. My flames hit, metal screaming as they burst, raining sparks like dying stars. One crashed, spinning into the dirt, its eye black, and I laughed, cold and short, because this was right—breaking their toys, their leash. Iron Hollow had caged me, shocked me, starved me, but I'd learned to wait, to plan, to strike. This was just the start."Asher, move!" Daria's shout snapped me back. She was running, pointing west, where the moors' shadow loomed. More lights blinked on the horizon—hover-vans, maybe, or worse. My shoulder burned, my breath ragged, but I didn't care. I wanted more—more fire, more screams, more proof they couldn't hold me.I threw another blast, flames arcing wide, scorching a pile of scrap to ash. The heat licked my face, familiar, like Clara's lessons by the fire, but twisted now, mine alone. I'd planned this in year seven, whispering to her ghost: I'd burn their city, their lies, their NeuraTech chains. Daria grabbed my arm, pulling hard, and I snarled, yanking free."Stop it!" she hissed, her eyes blazing now, not soft. "You'll bring the whole Coalition down on us!""Good," I said, my voice ice, stepping closer until she had to look up. "Let them come. I've waited ten years—ten years of chains, shocks, darkness. You think I'll run now?" My hand glowed, not sparking but steady, fire waiting. Iron Hollow had stripped me—Clara's warmth, her hope, gone—and left a blade. I didn't talk much now, didn't feel much, but I acted, and they'd bleed for it.She didn't flinch, just held my stare, her breath fast. "You're not the only one who lost," she said, quieter, like it cost her. "I knew witches, too. They're gone, but I'm still here, fighting for what's left. You want revenge? Fine. But do it smart, or you're just another body."Her words hit, not deep but enough to pause me. Clara's voice flickered—Live—and I hated it, hated Daria for sounding like her, even a little. I didn't want smart. I wanted ruin. But the hum grew louder—vans, close now, their lights cutting the dust. My magic was strong, but my body wasn't—ten years of paste and pain left me lean, not endless. I'd kill a dozen, maybe, before they buried me."West," I said, flat, turning from her. Not agreement, just survival—for the vow, for Clara. I ran, dust stinging my eyes, my shoulder screaming with every step. Daria kept pace, silent now, her knife out like she expected trouble. The wastelands blurred—rusted hulks, broken roads, bones half-buried in dirt. Nova Rhea's glow faded behind us, but its shadow didn't. I felt it, heavy as Iron Hollow's walls.We hit a ravine, its walls jagged, and slid down, rocks biting my hands. At the bottom, a stream ran, thin and cold, reflecting stars I didn't want to see. I crouched, splashing water on my face, blood washing pink. My reflection stared back—long hair, scarred jaw, eyes like stone. Iron Hollow's work, not Clara's kid anymore. I didn't miss him. He'd been weak, begging, useless. This me would've fought harder, burned brighter, maybe saved her.Daria knelt nearby, filling a flask, her movements quick but calm. Too calm, like she hadn't just seen me torch drones. "Who sent you?" I said, my voice low, no warmth. I didn't look at her, just watched the water, waiting for lies. Nobody broke into Iron Hollow for free."People who need you," she said, capping the flask. "Witches, rebels, folks who don't bow to the Coalition. Clara's name means something to them."I froze, her name a hook in my gut. "Don't," I said, standing, my shadow falling over her. "You don't know her. Nobody does." My hand twitched, heat rising, but I held it, barely. Iron Hollow had taught me control, not kindness. I didn't care about rebels, or witches. I cared about the Spire's elites, the enforcers' screams, the city choking on its own ash.She stood, slower, meeting my eyes. "I know enough," she said, not backing down. "And I know you're more than this—more than fire and death.""Wrong," I said, turning away, my voice dead. I climbed the ravine, dirt crumbling under my boots, and kept moving west, toward the moors where Clara's stories lived. Daria followed, quiet, but I felt her eyes, like she saw something I didn't. Let her try. Iron Hollow had burned out everything soft, left only the vow: for Clara, I'd end them all.