An Apocalypse's Pace

When you follow a storm, you do not ask for its destination; you simply pray you are not torn apart by the journey.

Leaving the crater was like waking from a nightmare into a world that was merely a different kind of bad dream. The keening sound that had filled the air faded as we crossed the threshold back into the dying forest, but the silence that replaced it was no comfort. It was a hollow, ringing silence, the kind that follows a deafening explosion. I walked a few paces behind him, my every step a conscious effort not to make a sound, not to draw his attention. I was no longer following a boy. I was trailing an apocalypse, a quiet, walking end-of-the-world.

He was different. The change was more than just the faint, pulsing veins of purple energy that sometimes surfaced on his skin, or the cold, burning fire in his left eye. It was in the way he moved. Before, he had walked with a weary indifference. Now, he moved with a terrifying, singular purpose. Every step was precise, efficient, and utterly silent. He was a predator now, and the entire, broken world was his hunting ground.

We traveled for the rest of the day without a word passing between us. The oppressive silence was a new kind of prison. My mind, desperate for something to hold onto, raced with a thousand unanswered questions. What had he become? What was that thing in the crater? Who was the "thief" he spoke of? But I did not dare ask. To speak felt like a violation, like making a sound in a sacred, terrible place.

As dusk began to settle, painting the grey, skeletal trees with strokes of orange and deep purple, we encountered our first obstacle. They were not bandits. They were worse. Creatures born of the world's new chaos—large, wolf-like beasts with skin like cracked obsidian and too many eyes, all glowing with a malevolent, green light. They were drawn to us, I realized with a jolt of terror, not by our scent, but by the sheer, raw power that now radiated from the boy in waves.

There were at least a dozen of them, emerging from the shadows of the dying woods, their low growls a symphony of hunger and hate. I drew my sword, my hand trembling, the cold reality of my own weakness a bitter taste in my mouth. I would be dead in seconds.

The boy did not even break his stride.

He did not flick his fingers. He did not create shards of light. He simply lifted a hand, palm open, as he continued to walk forward. The very air around the charging beasts seemed to thicken, to congeal. Their frantic, powerful charge slowed, their legs pumping in a desperate, futile effort, as if they were running through thick, invisible tar.

One of the creatures, the largest of the pack, managed to break free from the strange, heavy air and lunged, its jaws snapping just inches from the boy's throat.

He did not dodge. He did not raise a shield. He simply met its gaze.

And the beast unraveled.

There is no other word for it. It did not explode or burn. Its physical form simply came apart, dissolving into a shower of fine, grey dust and motes of fading green light, its final, agonized howl dissolving with it. The other creatures, seeing this, stopped their struggle, a primal terror overriding their predatory instincts. They turned and fled, vanishing back into the shadows from which they came.

The boy lowered his hand, his expression unchanged. He had not fought them. He had simply... erased them. He had looked upon a living thing and decided it should no longer exist, and the world had obeyed.

He glanced back at me, at my useless sword and my wide, terrified eyes. "Your fear makes you loud," he stated, his voice a flat, cold thing. "Be quieter."

He then turned his head, his gaze fixing on the empty air beside him. I knew what was coming. The ghost was with him again.

"The direction is confirmed," he murmured, his voice a low monotone. His tone then shifted, becoming sharp, clinical, and utterly devoid of the weariness from a moment before. "The energy signature is faint, but unmistakable. She is moving north. Towards the old capital. Reliqua. She will be seeking a place of power to decipher the scrolls. A nexus. Reliqua is the logical choice."

The boy's own, hollow voice returned. "It is a long walk."

His voice shifted back to that sharp, impatient tone. "We will not walk. There are faster ways. Unpleasant. But faster."

He fell silent, his internal conversation over. He looked at me again, his new, burning eye seeming to pin me in place.

"We have a destination," he announced. "A city called Reliqua. We will be there by the next full moon."

Reliqua. The name meant nothing to me, but the certainty in his voice was absolute. He had a target. A purpose. And I was being dragged along in the wake of his terrible, focused will.

"How?" I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper. "That's... that's hundreds of leagues from here."

He did not answer with words. He walked to a clear spot on the dead forest floor and placed his hand flat against the ground. The veins of purple energy on his skin flared to life, and the ground before him began to change. The dirt and dead leaves twisted, groaned, and then rose, reshaping themselves. It was not the simple, crude magic he had used to make a bench by the fire. This was different. This was the work of an artist, a terrible, mad artist.

In a matter of minutes, a sleek, dark chariot, carved from the very substance of the petrified forest, stood before us. It was a thing of nightmarish beauty, all sharp angles and smooth, flowing lines, looking as if it had been grown rather than built. Two horses, formed from shadow and solidified moonlight, stood harnessed to it, their eyes burning with the same purple fire as his own.

He turned to me, gesturing towards the impossible creation with a quiet, final authority.

"Get in," he said. "The hunt has begun."