The Ashlands Snare

Joseph pressed his back against the jagged obsidian ridge. The stone remained cold, refusing to soak up the feverish heat radiating from his skin. He clamped his jaw shut, holding a breath that threatened to burst his ribs, while the metallic, sulfur-choked dust stung his lungs with every cautious inhalation. Fine grit worked its way into his pores, grinding against his skin and turning sweat into a thick, abrasive paste. A few yards below, the rhythmic thud of Jalal’s cavalry hit the brittle limestone floor—a heavy, relentless percussion that sounded like a funeral march. The echoes bounced off the canyon walls, amplifying the threat until it felt as though the riders surrounded him from every side. His right hand, crisscrossed with weeping scratches, gripped the leather satchel strapped tight across his chest. The 'Aether-Graph' sat nestled inside the ancient hide, but it wasn't a silent document. It pulsed. A faint, rhythmic heat thrummed against his fingertips, traveling up his arm like a second heartbeat. The map was alive, breathing in sync with his own panicked heaving. He fought to shove down the image of his father—the hollowed eyes, the final, desperate whispers about le…