Ashwalker:Blood in the Wind

The road east was jagged.

Not a path, but the wound left by something long ago — a scar through red clay and pale stone. The girl noticed the way the hills bent away from it, as though even the land feared to lean too close.

The Ashwalker walked beside her in silence.

They hadn't spoken much since the bone harrow.

Not because of fear.

Because the silence felt safer than guessing.

Around midday, they reached a fallen tower.

It rose crooked from the hill, leaning like a snapped spine, its top torn clean off by age or violence. Symbols were etched into the stones — rows of vertical lines punctuated by circles, like music for someone without ears.

The girl slowed. "Is this… another shrine?"

"No," he said. "A remnant."

"Of what?"

"A city that refused the gods."

She blinked. "There were cities like that?"

"There were whole kingdoms." His voice was calm, but edged. "They didn't pray. They didn't kneel. They built their walls high and their blades sharp. Thought that was enough."

"Wasn't it?"

He didn't answer.

Inside the tower's base, moss covered the walls, and bones littered the floor.

Not human.

Long. Thin. Like deer — but with too many joints.

The girl crouched. "You think this is from the harrow too?"

"No," he said. "These bones are older."

She glanced at one, noticing a split clean down the center of the skull.

"Ritual?"

"Execution."

"By who?"

The Ashwalker looked past her, out through the shattered stone.

Then said, "The Ashwatchers."

She stood. "That's who you're named after, isn't it?"

He didn't reply.

So she pressed. "You were one of them."

He gave a slow nod.

"Once."

She folded her arms. "And now?"

"Now they hunt me."

Far away, high on the ridge behind them, three riders sat on pale horses.

Their faces were veiled. Robes grey as dust. Each bore a sigil on their chest: a burning eye set inside a broken ring.

They didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just watched.

The girl leaned against the wall of the broken tower, arms crossed.

"You gonna tell me why they want you dead?"

He sat across from her, polishing the edge of his blade. His cloak draped over a pile of rubble, drying from morning dew.

"You already know the reason," he said.

She shook her head. "No. I know they hunt you. I don't know why."

He was silent.

Then he said: "Because I broke the chain."

She blinked. "What chain?"

"The one that binds all Ashwatchers to their Creed. Their Order. Their God."

She furrowed her brow. "You were a priest?"

"No," he replied. "Something older. Something worse."

He looked at her, eyes hollow.

"The Ashwatchers were never protectors. Not really. They were judges. Each one given a mark, a blade, and the right to end those judged as unworthy."

"By who?" she asked.

"By the Creed."

"And what makes someone 'unworthy'?"

He hesitated.

Then said, "Refusing to kneel. Worshipping wrong. Speaking truths too loudly. Or sometimes… nothing at all. Just being in the wrong place."

She scowled. "So they're just murderers in robes."

He didn't correct her.

She stood and paced, kicking a stone.

"So what happened? You finally got tired of swinging the blade for them?"

"No," he said.

"I turned it on one of them."

Her head snapped around.

"You killed an Ashwatcher?"

He nodded.

Her voice dropped. "Why?"

He looked toward the sun, nearly at zenith now.

And whispered: "Because he ordered the burning of a village that had already been emptied. Because he wanted someone to see the flames."

She sat beside him. Not close. Not far.

"What happened to the village?"

He shook his head.

"It wasn't a village. Not really. Just a ring of shacks where old women and quiet men grew salt. They refused the tithe. Said the gods hadn't answered them in years. Said the Ashwatchers could take their blessings elsewhere."

She muttered, "I bet that didn't go over well."

"No," he said. "It didn't."

At that moment, thunder cracked — but the sky was clear.

The girl stood. "What the hell was that?"

He rose instantly.

"No fire," he said. "No blades. We move."

High above, on the ridge, the three Ashwatchers turned away.

They didn't pursue.

Not yet.

But they marked his direction.

And the one at the center placed a bone-white coin on the ground.

It split in two.

And began to burn.

They moved quickly down the slope, avoiding the old trade road, keeping low where the red clay cut deep.

The girl kept glancing over her shoulder. "You think they'll follow?"

"They're already following," he said.

"But they didn't attack."

"They don't need to."

She scowled. "What does that mean?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stopped suddenly — crouched — and ran his fingers across the dirt.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He lifted his hand.

Ash.

Not wood ash. Bone.

Still warm.

"They've started the rite," he said.

She stepped back. "What rite?"

He stood slowly, eyes on the horizon.

"The Nullbrand. They don't chase with blades."

"What do they chase with?"

He looked at her.

"Memory."

That night, the fire stayed small.

Neither of them slept.

At some point, the girl pulled her knees to her chest, gaze distant.

"Do you ever regret it?" she asked softly.

He looked at her.

"Regret what?"

"Breaking the chain."

He thought for a long time.

Then: "Every day."

She nodded.

Then: "Would you do it again?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Far behind them, back at the broken tower, the ash circle still smoldered.

And something stirred within it.

Not with form.

Not with breath.

But with presence.

The memory of flame.

The memory of guilt.

The Nullbrand was coming.

And it wouldn't walk on feet.

It would crawl through the thoughts of the guilty — through dreams, through shadows, through blood left behind in battle.

And it had already found a scent.