The valley slept under a sky that had never been so silent. Stars shimmered in their distant arrogance, indifferent to the world below—but not entirely. One child, small and fragile by mortal standards, moved among the shadows with the patience of a predator.
He had survived the night. The villagers, the midwives, the whispered prayers—all had fled or died, leaving only him. His body was pale, streaked with soot and dried blood, his small hands still trembling from the first taste of his own hunger. But within that trembling was a spark—sharp, deliberate, unnatural. The spark that drew attention across the void.
And it came.
The air thickened, folding in on itself like a tide of darkness. From nowhere, a shadow larger than the tallest mountain dripped into the valley, coiling around the trees, pressing against the stones. The villagers' abandoned homes trembled as though frightened of their own roofs. And in that shadow, eyes burned—ancient, infinite, hungrier than death itself.
Zorvak.
He did not announce himself. There was no thunder, no roar, no heralding fire. He simply was. The scent of sulfur, iron, and smoke rolled ahead of him like a tide of oblivion. Horns scraped the jagged peaks. The world beneath him folded slightly, as if afraid to breathe.
The child turned, unafraid. Small shoulders back, knees bent, fists curled. Hunger had taught him patience. Hunger had taught him cunning. Hunger had taught him to watch.
Zorvak's gaze pierced the boy, more than vision—it weighed him, measured him, calculated him. "Curious," the demon murmured, voice vibrating through bone and stone. "So small. So fragile. And yet… I feel it. Hunger beyond life. Cunning beyond reason. You will serve, child. If you survive."
The boy tilted his head. Not in fear, but in appraisal. Already, he considered his options: submission, deception, betrayal. Submission was weakness. Betrayal was survival. And survival was the only lesson the stars had ever taught him.
Zorvak leaned closer, the shadow stretching around the hut, enveloping it in darkness that smelled of old fire. "The heavens mock you. Their stars turned away at your birth. But I see. I see what they refuse to acknowledge."
The child's lips curled into a smile—small, sharp, predatory. "Then… watch me," he whispered, barely audible, tasting the syllables like blood on his tongue.
Zorvak's laughter was soft but immense, rolling across the valley and curling around the peaks. "Yes. Watch. Learn. Hunger is your tool. Fear is your weapon. One day, you will teach the constellations what it means to bleed."
Something in the valley stirred—the first whisper of the Chains. They trembled in the boy's veins, faint, unseen, waiting. And from far above, one star flickered, a momentary falter in its arrogant gleam, as if sensing the shift already underway.
"Remember this night, little one," Zorvak said, voice like iron sliding over glass. "Tonight, I have marked you. The world's mercy will not touch you. Only I will teach you to embrace the hunger. Only I will show you what the constellations fear."
The boy's eyes gleamed. Hunger pulsed inside him, but it was no longer blind. It was purposeful. Calculated. Infinite.
"Then teach me," he said softly, and the shadows leaned closer, whispering their consent.
And somewhere deep in the void, Zorvak's grin widened. The game had begun.