The stone wasn't just cold; it was a gritty, damp cold that smelled of wet earth and something else, something metallic and long-dead. Blaze's cheek was stuck to it. He tried to peel it away, and a flake of skin remained behind. Each breath was a fresh betrayal, a rasp of sandpaper in his lungs. The whispers had faded, all but one. It wasn't a voice, not really. It was a low thrumming that seemed to vibrate up from the ring, through his bones, and into the base of his skull. A single, insistent pulse: Thirst.
He rolled onto his back with a groan that was swallowed by the chamber's silence. Moonlight, thin and watery, dripped through cracks in the ceiling far above. Dust motes swam in the beams, and for a horrifying second, he could see the shape of every single one. Jagged. Crystalline. It was too much.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was burned onto the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the faded murals on the walls weren't just lines of paint; he could see the faint brushstrokes, the texture of the plaster beneath. A drip of water from somewhere deep in the ruins didn't just echo—it slammed into his eardrums, each impact a physical blow.
"What is this?" The words were a ragged tear in his own throat. His voice sounded like a stranger's, thin and reedy.
And then the hunger hit. Not in his belly. This was a deeper, more fundamental hollowness. It was in his throat, a raw, scraped-out ache. His jaw tightened, and his tongue felt thick and useless. He needed… he didn't know. But the need was a physical thing, an animal clawing its way up from his gut.
Blood, the thrumming in his skull seemed to suggest. Life.
He recoiled from the thought, shoving himself upright so fast his head spun. His body, for all the aches, felt strangely light, wound tight as a crossbow string. He lurched toward the archway, one hand braced on the crumbling wall, knuckles white.
Outside, the canyon air was a shock of cold. He stumbled onto the rocky ground, his stomach twisting into a knot of want and disgust. The ache in his throat was an inferno now. He doubled over, gagging on nothing, teeth grinding together.
That's when he heard it. A low growl that vibrated through the soles of his worn boots.
His head snapped up before he'd even made the choice to move. His focus narrowed, punching through the gloom. There. Two pinpricks of sickly green light. The shape that stepped into the moonlight was wrong. It was a wolf, but stretched, distorted. Its shoulders were impossibly broad, the muscles beneath its mangy fur coiling and uncoiling like snakes. Faint blue lines, veins of raw mana, pulsed along its flanks.
A normal man would have felt fear. Blaze felt it, a cold knot in his gut, but it was drowned out by something else. The scent of the beast hit him—a wave of wet fur, hot breath, and under it all, the rich, intoxicating smell of its blood, pumping just beneath the skin.
His mouth flooded with saliva.
The wolf lunged.
There was no thought, no plan. Just a panicked shove of his legs, a clumsy scramble to the side. The world didn't slow down; it fractured. He saw the wolf's yellowed fangs, a fleck of saliva catching the moonlight, the dirt spraying from its claws. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his teeth, and rolled behind a boulder, the wolf's snapping jaws missing him by an inch. He came up gasping, clutching the hilt of his dagger, his heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his ribs. I moved? How did I move?
The beast snarled, spinning on him, its green eyes burning with feral hunger. It leaped again.
This time, Blaze didn't dodge. He thrust the dagger forward in a clumsy, desperate stab. The blade, dull as it was, met the wolf's shoulder with a sickening, wet crunch. The beast shrieked, a sound of pure pain, and its claws raked across Blaze's chest. The pain was white-hot, blinding. He felt his own warmth spill out, and the sight of it—his own blood, dark in the moonlight—broke something inside him.
The hunger didn't roar. It detonated.
The dagger was gone, knocked from his hand. He didn't care. He tackled the thrashing wolf, his body moving with a strength that wasn't his. He pinned it, his hands finding its throat, squeezing. The wolf's hot, ragged breaths washed over his face. Its wound bled freely, the smell driving him mad.
He fought himself for a second, a single, lucid moment of horror. No. Don't.
But the thirst was absolute. He lowered his head, and he bit down.
The taste was salt and fire. Hot, coppery, and overwhelmingly alive. It wasn't just a liquid; it was vitality, a raw power that flooded him, chasing the cold from his limbs. His body arched, a guttural sound tearing from his own throat as the wolf's struggles weakened. He drank, messy and desperate, until the thrashing stopped and the beast went limp beneath him.
Silence.
He pulled back, gasping, blood dripping from his chin. He stared at the corpse, its throat a mangled ruin. Then he felt it—a tingling warmth spreading across his chest. He looked down. The deep gashes from the wolf's claws were closing, the skin knitting itself back together like thread being pulled tight. In seconds, there was nothing left but torn cloth and smooth, unbroken skin.
He scrambled back, away from the body, his hands shaking violently. "It healed… I healed…"
The ring on his finger pulsed, a soft crimson glow. A voice, no longer a thrum but a clear, silken whisper in his mind, spoke.
This is only the beginning. Strength. Regeneration. This is your birthright.
Blaze's stomach heaved. He stared at the dead wolf, at his own blood-soaked hands. Horror and disgust warred with the incredible, undeniable power humming in his veins. The gnawing hunger was gone, replaced by a vibrant, terrifying strength.
And the worst part? The most terrifying part of it all?
He wanted more.