the ashland

The fall felt endless.

There was no wind, no sensation of speed—just a weightless drop into an abyss that swallowed everything: sound, light, even thought. Hope felt his mind stretching thin, like it was being pulled apart with every second that passed. Panic clawed at his chest, but he couldn't scream. He couldn't even breathe. It was like the very concept of air had been stripped away, leaving him suspended in nothingness.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the fall stopped.

Hope hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through his bones. But the pain was distant, muted, like it wasn't fully his. He lay there for a moment, face pressed against cold, cracked earth, trying to piece together what had just happened.

When he finally forced himself to look up, his breath caught in his throat.

The world around him was unrecognizable.

The sky above was a swirling mass of dark clouds, tinged with sickly hues of green and purple, as if the very atmosphere was poisoned. Jagged, broken structures jutted from the ground like the bones of a dead city, their forms twisted and unnatural. The air was thick with ash, each breath tasting like smoke and decay.

But it wasn't just the landscape that felt wrong.

It was the feeling of the place. Like the world itself was alive, watching him, waiting for him to make a wrong move. The ground beneath his hands pulsed faintly, as if something beneath the surface was breathing.

The Ashlands.

He'd heard stories—everyone had. But the stories didn't come close to capturing the suffocating dread that settled in his chest. This wasn't just another world. This was a graveyard for souls, a place where survival was a cruel game played by rules no one fully understood.

And now, he was a part of it.

Forcing himself to his feet, Hope scanned his surroundings. The landscape stretched out in every direction, a twisted wasteland of shadows and ruins. But what caught his attention wasn't the terrain—it was the figures moving within it.

Dark shapes lurked at the edges of his vision, their forms shifting and flickering like they weren't entirely solid. Some were human—or had once been—but others were things that defied explanation. Creatures of shadow and bone, their eyes glowing faintly in the gloom, watching him with predatory interest.

Hope's pulse quickened. He had to move. Staying in one place was a death sentence.

But as he took his first step, he felt it—the strange, cold power simmering beneath his skin. It wasn't natural. It wasn't his. But it was there, like a dark reflection waiting just beneath the surface, whispering promises of survival.

He didn't know what it was. But if it kept him alive, he'd use it.

Because in The Ashlands, survival wasn't a choice.

It was the only thing that mattered.