The Shroud's mist swallowed him whole, pressing against his skin like cold, damp fingers. Shlok staggered forward, his vision blurred by the shifting, perpetual twilight. He couldn't tell if it was night, day, or something in between—time had no meaning here, only the steady erosion of hope. He had been separated from Veyra and Ananya during a sudden tremor that split the ground between them, and every step he took alone was a step deeper into despair.
What lingered in their absence was the hunger.
It gnawed at him, not in his stomach, but deeper—a profound hollowness in his marrow, a parasitic ache in his soul. With every ragged breath, it whispered a simple, terrible mantra.
Feed… devour… consume…
Shlok clenched his jaw, the muscles trembling. His body still shuddered with the phantom memory of his first kill—the emaciated Hollowed he had barely managed to tear apart in what felt like a lifetime ago. The image of its blackened flesh dissolving into a mist that he had instinctively inhaled was burned into his mind. But worse, far worse, was what came after.
The taste.
The cursed residue had seeped into his veins, a violation that had left him stronger, faster, sharper. The wounds he'd sustained had closed with an unnatural speed, knitting together with fine, black threads of tissue beneath the skin. His breath no longer shook with constant terror; a cold, predatory stillness was taking its place. It was intoxicating.
And it was terrifying.
"If I keep doing this…" he whispered to the uncaring fog, "what will I become?" He thought of Ananya's fearful eyes, of Veyra's grim warnings. He was fighting to get back to them, but he feared what they would find if he succeeded.
A sound sliced through the oppressive silence—a wet, dragging noise, like raw meat being scraped across jagged stone. Shlok froze, his body instantly tensing. His hand tightened around the jagged obsidian shard, the Anchor he had forged in his first trial.
Then it came into view, emerging from the mist like a half-formed nightmare. Another Hollowed.
This one was larger, its form a study in grotesque anatomy. Its spine was arched at an impossible angle, forcing it into a low, predatory crouch. Its ribs, sharpened to points, had split through its translucent skin, hooking outwards like the claws of some great, dead insect. Its jaw hung open far too wide, lined with teeth filed to glistening needles. The mist clung to it, a shroud of its own, as if the world itself wanted to shield this perfect engine of malice.
Its empty, weeping sockets turned toward him.
Shlok's pulse hammered against his ribs. He was still weak from his last encounter, his energy reserves low. If he ran, it would catch him in seconds. If he fought…
The hunger inside him stirred, uncoiling like a serpent in his gut.
Devour it.
He gritted his teeth, shaking his head. No. I won't give in so easily. I am not a monster.
The Hollowed let out a screech like tearing metal and lunged.
The fight was a blur of vicious, desperate motion. This creature was faster, stronger, and more cunning than the last. Its claws raked against the ground, throwing up sparks as it swiped with blinding speed. Shlok ducked and rolled, his movements clumsy, the shard nearly slipping from his sweaty grip.
Too fast—!
A claw grazed his chest, tearing through his shirt and scoring four parallel lines of fire across his ribs. Pain seared through him, and his vision swam with black spots. The Hollowed loomed over him, its gaping mouth ready to strike again.
And that's when the hunger, no longer asking permission, surged.
Shlok's eyes widened as something inside him pulled taut—an invisible thread of pure want, stretching from the core of his being toward the Hollowed. The shard in his grip trembled, and a black heat flooded his veins, overpowering the pain. He felt it again, that devouring pull, but this time it was a clear, undeniable command.
Consume it… or die.
His body moved before his mind did. Ducking under a final, killing swipe, he rammed the obsidian shard deep into the Hollowed's chest and let go, leaving it embedded there like a key in a lock.
The shard pulsed with a ravenous black light.
The Hollowed screamed—not a cry of pain, but a thin, terrified wail—as a torrent of black mist erupted from its body, rushing not into the air, but directly into Shlok through the conduit of his shard. He gasped, his back arching, the sensation a violent, overwhelming fusion of agony and ecstasy. He felt his wounds knitting shut with that crawling, unnatural speed. His limbs felt lighter, infused with a terrible new energy. His sight sharpened, the gray fog now alive with a million details he couldn't see before.
The Hollowed withered like dried paper in a flame, collapsing into a fragile pile of brittle bones and fading smoke.
Shlok dropped to his knees, panting, his shard falling from the disintegrating corpse to the ground beside him. His chest burned. His veins sang. His hands shook—not from exhaustion, but from want.
That taste again. Stronger this time. More potent.
Addictive.
His breath hitched, and for one brief, horrifying second, he wanted more. The thought was so clear, so pure, it terrified him more than the monster had. The Shroud around him seemed to pulse, a silent, approving hum.
Shlok pressed his forehead to the cold stone beneath him, forcing himself to breathe through the craving. If this is what it takes to survive… then how long before I stop being me?
But as he pushed himself to his feet, something else caught his attention. Not far ahead, where the mist was thinner, a faint sigil was carved into a sheer wall of black stone. It glowed with a pale, steady light, a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom.
An exit? A test? Or a trap?
Shlok wiped a smear of blood from his mouth and staggered toward it, picking up his shard as he went. The hunger still coiled inside him, sated for now, but restless.
One thing was certain. The Shroud wasn't just testing him anymore. It was feeding him, changing him, and leading him somewhere. And he had no choice but to follow.