Ash moved through the abyss of the wasteland, his breath steady, his footsteps soundless against the cracked earth. The ruins of Ironhold blurred behind him, swallowed by heat and distance.
He slowed, his gaze sharp as a blade, scanning the horizon. A flicker of unease slithered through him.
Watching eyes? A presence in the dunes?
Nothing. Just silence.
Then—
"[Activating skill: Phantom's Stride]"
The world fractured. The air grew dense, the hum of his machine stretching into a low murmur, distant, unreal. Each grain of sand, each ripple of wind, became something tangible, something he could feel in his bones.
He moved.
The mass handler glided forward as if the earth had lost its hold on it. The cracked terrain passed in a blur, distance folding in on itself. A moment later, he reached the cabin—a battered shell of a shelter, half-buried in dust.
