The boy's first life was drowning.
Not in water— he never had the strength to swim but in flesh that betrayed him. His lungs seized with every breath until his chest rattled like coins in a jar. The white ceiling above his bed was all he knew, cracked tiles that became constellations when he stared too long. His eyes could only see one, one leg big and one leg that was only bones and skins. His right hand was patched with needles while he had no left— it left him before he could even know what it meant to suffer.
Machines beeped. Nurses whispered. Needles pierced his veins again and again.
One night, a nurse leaned close, brushing damp hair from his forehead. "Still awake?"
His throat scraped when he forced a whisper. "Not… done yet."
The nurse blinked, said nothing, adjusted the blanket, and left. Silence swallowed him again.
But in the silence, he was never voiceless. His thoughts clawed. 'I'm not finished. I'll outlast you all. If there's a next time—make me whole.'
The day the monitor's green line slowed and flattened, he did not surrender with peace. He went down cursing his body. He whispered to the dark: "If there is a next time… let me walk."
The dark listened.
Mist rolled across the marshlands of the Barony of Aelthas. Wolves howled in the fog. Beyond the hills, Fenreach raiders sharpened axes by firelight. The barony lived in the knife-edge shadow of war.
It was here that a child was born again.
The birthing chamber stank of herbs crushed beneath stone, of blood on straw, of sweat dripping from Lady Serenya's brow. Midwives muttered prayers.
"Again," one urged.
The woman screamed, bore down, and silence followed. Too much silence.
The child lay limp in the midwife's arms. No cry. No sound.
"Dead," one muttered.
But then a gasp rattled through the tiny chest, jagged, wheezing. The midwives were startled. Moments later—silence again. A second gasp. Silence. A third.
His heart stopped before he could live, not once, not twice but thrice. Thrice, he protested to live. Death denied him of peace and life gave him the will to suffer.
When at last the babe's breaths did not cease, a midwife crossed herself. "Cursed," she whispered. "He clings when he should not."
Lady Serenya did not hear. She reached, trembling, and cradled the boy against her breast. His tiny hand clawed at her hair, his eyes unfocused, cloudy. His ribs shuddered with each breath.
"He lives," she said, though her lips trembled. "And he will keep living."
Behind her stood Baron Aldren, broad as stone, scarred from battles with Fenreach raiders. His calloused hands gripped his sword pommel, knuckles pale. He did not move, only studied the frail child.
"What name?" asked a midwife.
"Rhael," Serenya whispered, kissing his damp forehead. "He will endure."
Aldren's gaze lingered too long. His jaw tightened. At last he nodded once, silent.
---
Endure—yes, but not thrive.
Rhael's childhood bed was a fortress of wood beams and linen sheets. His legs bent under him like reeds, his lungs clamped at the faintest draft, his sight faded to fog. He counted cracks on the ceiling until they became maps, imagined rivers and mountains where only beams crossed.
But unlike his first life, this one had hands that touched. He was still whole. His organs may fail him but both his eyes can see, both his hands present and his legs are maybe weak but it was present.
One winter night, when coughing racked him so hard blood flecked his lips, the door opened.
A tall man in moss-colored robes stepped inside, eyes gleaming like riverstone. He knelt, pressing glowing hands to the boy's chest. The pain eased, just slightly, enough for air to scrape through.
Rhael stared up, lids heavy. "Who…?"
The man's voice was low, steady. "Your flesh is weak, but your will is iron. That is enough to bind you here."
His mother rose from her chair, clutching the healer's sleeve. "He breathes calmer when you are near."
The man's lips quirked, almost-smile. "Then let me stay often. But know this: each dawn, he must drink the draught. A year without fail. Bitter as poison, it will scour weakness and feed the spark that clings to life. Miss a day, and all balance breaks."
From the doorway came Aldren's voice, hard as drawn steel. "Then he will not miss a day. You will have coins, herbs, and men. If the coin fails, I'll carve what's needed from the raiders' corpses."
The healer bowed slightly. "So sworn. But the final draught requires an herb found only where Fenreach tread. Baron—you will aid me when the year ends."
Aldren's gaze met his, cold and unwavering. "I will. No matter the cost, the matter even if the blood spilled."
The draught was bitter ash.
Each morning, Serenya tilted the cup to Rhael's lips, her voice soft with songs as he gagged and forced it down.
"Swallow," she urged, stroking his hair. "Please, Rhael. Swallow."
He coughed, choked, and obeyed.
'When I am whole,' he thought bitterly, 'Will I still taste ashes?'
At night, when his body trembled too much for sleep, he listened. Sometimes only his mother's quiet prayers. Sometimes the tread of boots. His father's shadow stood at his bedside.
"You will outlast us, boy," Aldren muttered once, thinking him asleep. "You suffer too much to waste it by dying early."
Rhael lay still, eyes shut, breath shallow. 'Outlast you? I can't outlast the night.' But the words lodged like embers inside him.
Seasons turned.
One morning, when the frost melted from the walls, he rasped to his mother: "Not carried. Walk."
Serenya hesitated. "You'll fall."
"Let me."
Two soldiers helped him to the courtyard. The air was sharp, filled with thawing earth. Rhael clenched their arms, forcing his feet forward.
Step.
Step.
Step.
On the third, his knees gave. He fell, spat blood into the mud.
"Enough!" Serenya cried, reaching down.
But he smiled faintly, lips red. "Three."
That night, he dreamed of running. Not hobbling, not crawling—running across endless fields beneath sky wide as eternity.
The year bent toward its end.
On the three hundred and sixtieth day, banners rose at dawn. Aldren, Serenya, Therain, and their soldiers rode south. From his window, Rhael watched sunlight gleam on armor. His mother turned, lifted a hand, voice carrying faintly: "Be strong!"
By dusk, no riders returned. His parents never returned as they promised. No mother to pray, he did not hear his father's footsteps— that calmed and made him sleep.
By midnight, the gates clattered open. Not with horses, but with wagons of corpses.
Servants screamed. Torches flared over pale faces. Serenya's body was carried first, lips still soft, eyes shut. Aldren's chest was torn wide. Therain's skull was broken.
From his chamber, Rhael pressed his palm against the cold glass. His breath fogged. Cleared. Fogged again.
No sound left him. His throat was stone.
They keep empty. Servants fled into marshes, guards into fog. Wolves howled beyond the walls. The place became barren overnight.
Rhael lay unmoving, lips cracked, belly hollow. 'Follow them,' a voice whispered inside. 'Enough clinging. Let go.'
He nearly obeyed.
But on the third night, his veins burned. His limbs quaked, not with weakness but with restless strength. He sat up. Stood.
Step.
Step.
Step.
No collapse.
He laughed, hoarse, broken, pressing his hands to the stone. "I can… I can…"
For the first time, he lived.
But with life came hunger.
At first, the hunger whispered.
A hollow rumble, sharp but bearable. He thought it was nothing more than days without food.
He stumbled into the kitchens. Dust lay thick on the tables, herbs hung brittle from hooks. He clawed open jars of dried beans, snapped his teeth against bread that had hardened to stone. He chewed, swallowed, gagged. His belly filled—but the emptiness yawned wider.
'
"No. No, it isn't enough."
He found cheese greening at the edges, meat stiff as wood. He tore into them anyway. The taste was rot and mold, but still he ate. When the food was gone, the hunger sharpened to claws inside his belly.
He clutched his sides, gasping. "Why won't it stop?"
The hunger answered: 'Because bread is dust. Flesh is what you need.'
He staggered through silent halls.
At the stairwell, he heard a sound: ragged breathing, the scrape of armor. He froze.
A soldier dragged himself forward, one leg bent wrong, blood trailing behind him. His face lit when he saw Rhael. "My lord… you live…"
Rhael's mouth moved. His voice cracked into a rasp. "Help me."
The soldier reached, trembling. "Please… water… help…"
The smell hit Rhael then. Copper. Salt. Life. It flooded his head, drowned thought. His knees buckled. His hands clawed at the stones.
"No," he whispered, to himself, to the hunger. "Not him. Not him—"
But the soldier's pulse throbbed red at his throat. The air reeked of blood.
Rhael lunged.
The man screamed as teeth tore skin, as Rhael's mouth flooded with heat and salt. He swallowed greedily, choked, bit deeper. The soldier thrashed, weakly, then stilled.
Rhael pulled back, face slick, hands trembling. The corpse sprawled broken, throat torn.
He stared.
"I…" His lips curved faintly, unwillingly. His heart beat steady, strong. His vision sharpened. His chest filled with air clean as spring. "Alive."
He laughed, hoarse and broken. "Alive!"
But the body at his feet bled into the stones. The echo of the soldier's last plea rattled in his skull. 'Please… water…'
Rhael shivered. His mouth tasted of iron.
"What am I?"
The hunger was sated for a time. He moved through the keep with strange calm, strength thrumming in his limbs.
At dawn, he thought to leave. He pushed the great doors open, stepping into morning fog.
The first shaft of sunlight touched his skin.
Agony ripped through him.
He shrieked, stumbling back, clutching his arm as smoke hissed from his flesh. Blisters rose instantly, bursting, reforming. The pain was beyond sickness, beyond any seizure he had known. He dragged himself back into shadow, sobbing air into his lungs.
When the burning eased, he stared at his hands. Blisters faded before his eyes, skin knitting clean. No scars remained.
Rhael pressed his forehead to the cold stone. His breath came ragged. "The sun…" He swallowed. "The sun hates me."
In his mind, the hunger murmured: 'No. It is not hate. It is exile. You belong to night now.'
He clenched his fists, trembling. "Then I am chained. Prisoner of darkness. Cursed."
Yet his chest did not seize. His legs did not crumple. His heart beat with strength he had never known.
"Whole," he thought bitterly. "The void heard me. It made me whole… but not human."
Night after night, he prowled empty corridors. The hunger always returned, gnawing, whispering. Once he found a servant hiding in the cellar, trembling with a knife.
"Stay back!" the man cried, voice breaking.
Rhael's lips parted. He meant to say "I won't hurt you." But what came out was: "I'm hungry."
The man bolted. Rhael caught him before the door, dragged him down. The scream echoed, then cut short. Warmth flooded Rhael's chest again. His skin prickled with life.
When he stood, he wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand. He whispered to the silence: "Alive. Still alive."
But his heart whispered back: Monster.
Days bled into nights. The barony emptied. Wolves prowled outside the walls. Inside, only Rhael remained, alone with stone and hunger.
Sometimes he spoke aloud to ghosts.
"Father, you said I'd outlast you." He laughed bitterly into the dark. "You were right."
"Mother," he whispered, clutching the bed where she once sat singing. "I still drink the draught. But it's blood now. Blood, not herbs."
He pressed fingers to his temples, rocking. "Therain, healer… what did you bind into me? What did you make?"
No voices answered, save the gnawing one in his own mind.
"You asked for wholeness. This is the shape of it. Breath without end. Hunger without mercy."
On the seventh night since his awakening, he climbed the highest tower. Mist clung to the hills beyond. Torches of Fenreach raiders flickered in the marsh. He smelled them—sweat, leather, blood, even at this distance.
The hunger throbbed.
Rhael clutched the stones until his nails cracked. His voice shook. "If I step into the dark… if I go to them… will I ever return?"
The hunger laughed inside him. 'You will not return. But you will feed. And you will never die.'
Rhael closed his eyes. His breath came steady, strong. Stronger than it ever had in two lifetimes.
When he opened them again, the world below was sharp, bright. His body thrummed with restless power.
He whispered into the night: "Then let it begin."
And he stepped into the dark.