The sand thrashed under the control of a wind that knew no masters. The earth was scarred with rising fangs of volcanic glass, dark and terrible to behold; rain fell and lightning blistered the sky, but the desert remained a desert. Nothing grew. Nothing arose from the orange sands.

It was as desolate as the expanse of a foreign planet.

Above everything loomed the All-Storm.

The storm was a tangled knot of spatial rifts, cutting open the fabric of reality and looking through the gaps at the skies of a dozen worlds. Some were in evening, red and ominous, weeping wounds on the horizons. Others were light and blue, or filled with calm stars. Where one portal collided with the next, a roiling chaos was born; rainbow colored flames danced as both portals distorted into warped, confusing distortions.

The heart of the storm was nothing but distortion. It was a crack in reality, and even looking into its twisting depths could crack a mortal soul apart.

Seoona, mother of Sula, was no longer mortal.

The heretic was a thing of soul-matter now. A drifting ghost that stood on the precipice of a dune, staring into the depths of the terrible storm. She could feel the energies of the air twisting violently, this way and that, like a beast stirring at the chains that kept it bound.

The storm was growing. The edges crept outwards each day.

It was bringing them gifts. Strange creatures washed onto the sand as they tumbled out of the rifts.

Prime material for Seoona’s experiments. She felt no pity for them, since they were dead anyway. The desert was a place of raw, radiant energy. When the sun fell the sands themselves would begin to give out an eerie, pale glow, as if they stood on the face of the moon.

Anyone who came here through the rifts was doomed to die; the energies of the Aleph had already infected them down to the bones.

In a way, Seoona’s experiments offered them a chance at survival.

Seoona’s lieutenant trudged up the sands, bowing her head respectfully. “We captured another heretic soul. Given the usual choice… They chose death.”

“To die rather than serve. Break before bending. When we suffered our tortures under the Inquisitor’s eye, it was our rallying call, one that brought me great comfort. And now that I am the one who wishes them to serve, it has become truly irritating.” Seoona felt the humor of the situation, as much as she felt anything at all these days.

“I imagine they think I’m a traitor...” Seoona continued. The thought did bother her… “But that is not the case. I was always loyal to my path, and they were merely walking alongside me. Now that our paths diverge, they must be brought to heel.”

“So it is.” Her lieutenant agreed.

Seoona wondered just what lurked behind that mask of servile obedience. One of the girl’s more endearing traits was how unreadable she was; an insect’s lack of clear emotion.

The girl had come to her from the desert. Half familiar, elvish, and half chitin-clad other.

The creation of her daughter, fulfilling the work she’d left behind. A true Ascended, born from the meager race of the sand devils and an infusion of elven blood.

That was her other endearing trait.

She reminded Seoona of her daughter’s devotion.

In the desert beneath the dune, an army drilled and trained. They were not quite sand devils, anymore. They had been grafted with other species, other bloods, carefully sculpted and cut into a new shape more suitable for carrying shield and spear.

At their head were the Ascended. Growing more powerful each day, growing into their skin and learning to speak like men. The fruits of her labor and the strange powers of the Aleph.

Her designs and driving will.

The Aleph’s warping influence.

And the All-Storm, their hidden benefactor, the terrible maelstrom which cloaked the world from the gaze of Pathos and Logos. Their scuttling servants remained unaware of what was growing underfoot, what was rising from the desert’s ashes.

---

Nic twisted and stretched, letting his consciousness fill every inch of his new body. He was alone. Even his familiars had been left behind as he found his way to the warped glade where the old heretic had worked to create a new form.

Everything here was already dead or dying.

It was the perfect testing ground.

D̵̛̲̣̲̮̦͚͉̹̆͊͋̓́̓̎̅̂̐̊̃͂͛̈͠ȋ̷͇̊̾̌̈̏̓̔̂̍̎̑̆̀͜ͅë̸̛͉̻̥̤̞̮͇̙́͌̊͒̎̃̍͌̒̆͗̈̉͒͘

Nic spoke and the last threads of grass withered to nothing. The trees that had hung on to life, despite the metal and glass blistering from their flesh, began to crumble and rot. The word struck everything around him at the level of the living soul- the tiny flecks of spirit possessed by unthinking life couldn’t hope to resist.

A wave of rot expanded around Nic. It created a ring of dead earth.

He reached into his bag and took out three clumps of grass. Nothing special, just clumps of dug-up earth with sprouts of living grass.

He set them at three distances, each one further than the next, and kneeled down by the one closest to the middle of the ring. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered to a whisper.

Į̶̠̺̩̄͑̎̿̕͠-̸̯͈͚̺̃̉̀̃̈́͐͌͌͋͛͝͠

All three grasses instantly died, crumbling to ash and dissolving onto the wind.

He sighed, and brought out more.

Volume wasn’t the answer then. It was something else. Nicolas felt a tug against his soul each time he used the power of the Old Speech; this time he tried to push back against that pull, to deny the words the power they drew from his spirit.

Ị̵̢̛̣̝͔̗͓͍̘̱͇̱͖̦̙̫̊̉͛̋͒̈̎̂̋͊́̌̕͝͝͠ ̵̢̟̪̰͙͎̰̘̖̠̔̚͝͝͝ǎ̵̗̣̺̘̃̑̍͜͝m̵̩͌

This time the words were a struggle to speak at all. As his soul fought against the draw of its energies, Nic’s body took the shock of the conflict. His aura and Essence surged in chaos, going wild within his meridian channels. His heart palpitated, a pain spreading through his chest.

And he still pushed forward.

Whatever damage happened, he would find a way to undo.

Whatever it cost him, he’d press on.

It was his determination that mattered; his iron-clad will over his own body and his own life. He wouldn’t let this parasitic speech render him mute again. He wouldn’t lose his connection to Winterhome, to the people he’d saved and raised up from nothing.

If he was truly silenced, the world would close in around him. He’d become a killing machine, a nothing.

He refused.

“I am…”

The innermost clump of grass was wilting, but not fast. He could see the blades slowly droop over and lose their life as he continued.

“I am Nicolas Winterhome.” The words rang out clear. No croaking, no amphibian nonsense-noises. He could speak his own mind.

“I am Nicolas Winterhome.” He brought out another clump of grass from his bag, holding it in his hands as he said the words. The first time-

The second time-

The third time-

Dust. The grass dissolved into nothing. Sweat ran down the webs between his fingertips as he struggled to restrain the turbulent flow of Essence within his core, the steady tug at his soul, trying to draw forth its power against his will with every word.

“I am Nicolas Winterhome…” He pronounced every word with care, and the grass rippled in an unseen breeze, but did not die or dissolve.

Nic let out a sigh relief…

Which became a laugh, a laugh of pure relief.

After so long he had reclaimed his own voice.

He was complete again.