The dunes of the Grey Waste didn’t shift with the wind. They shifted with the decay of forgotten minutes.
Four leagues north of the telegraph line, the flat ash plain gave way to rolling, wave-like ridges of pale grey dust that rose twenty feet above the valley floor. The mules labored against the incline, their hooves sinking four inches into the powder before finding the compacted stratum below.
Ren Vale walked at the head of the wagon, his breath pluming in short, rhythmic bursts against the freezing air. His thirty-one-year-old knees had settled into a steady, steady beat. The paced step Chrono-Scribe had drilled into him. He no longer fought the terrain. He let the weight of his boots compress the ash, using the downward driving force of each stride to propel the next.
Beside him, Mira sat in the cart, her charcoal shawl wrapped tightly around her throat. Her right arm—faceted smoky quartz—hung over the side, lighting up the dust beneath the cart wheels with a steady, pulsating violet glow.
Suddenly, the lead mule halted.
The beast let out a shrill, strangled bray of terror. Its front legs shook as it backed into the traces.
“Halt,” Chrono-Scribe Ren called from the bench, pulling the handbrake.
