Eros lay sprawled in the ash, chest heaving as if every breath might be his last. His arms shook when he tried to lift them, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion. The massive carcass of the eagle still smoked nearby, a ruin of twisted feathers and blackened flesh. Heat rose off it in waves, and the stench of rot and blood clung to the night air. It smelled like the inside of a slaughterhouse left to fester under the sun.
He wanted to shut his eyes and never open them again. But before he could surrender to that impulse, something shimmered above him.
The Reader's Notes.
The book hovered in the air, its pages peeling open with a rustle that didn't belong to this world. Ink bled across the parchment, glowing faintly in the darkness. Eros' gaze locked on the familiar entry: Immortal Martyr.
Three embers burned beneath the words. His breath caught. He remembered only two. Now, impossibly, a third flame flickered to life, steady and sharp.
A voice spoke in his mind, cold, detached, without the faintest hint of humanity.
"You have recovered one flame, Reader."
Relief surged through him, so sharp it almost made him dizzy. But alongside it crept unease, confusion. «Recovered? So killing that thing gave one back?»
As if answering, new symbols scratched themselves into existence under his abilities. Letters formed in real time, like invisible hands typing them into being.
[???]: [01/???]
Eros frowned. His pulse stumbled in his throat. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The counter stared back at him, merciless. One out of… how many? He didn't know, but his gut twisted with certainty: it was tied to the eagle.
The book hovered closer, pages trembling in the faint light. Frustration boiled up. He wanted it gone. And in that instant, the Reader's Notes dissolved into smoke, vanishing from sight.
He stiffened. Then, tentatively, he pictured it again. The book answered, flashing back into existence in his hands as if it had never left.
His heart beat faster. "So… I can call it. Dismiss it. Whenever I want."
It was like discovering a muscle he hadn't known existed, a part of himself that had always been there waiting. He stared down at the embers again—three flames, whole once more.
«So that's it. I die, I come back with scars, and the book pats me on the head like a dog. Kill one of its freaks and it throws me a bone, gives me back what it already stole. Some power. More like a rigged game.»
The thought sat heavy in his chest, equal parts triumph and horror. He laughed once, the sound jagged and bitter. It wasn't joy. It was relief wearing the mask of fear. «This is my power? To die, to rise, and carry every death with me?»
The answer was silence, and the weight of it pressed harder than the monster ever had.
The diary vanished again when he willed it away. Ash crunched under his palms as reality swept back in. The adrenaline that had fueled him was gone, leaving only pain and something even more dangerous: hunger.
It hit him in waves. His stomach twisted, cramping so hard he doubled over. His mouth tasted of ash and iron. His head spun.
His eyes slid, unwillingly, toward the carcass.
The eagle's body was half-buried in its own blood. Feathers drooped, their edges burned and frayed. The body twitched occasionally as if refusing to surrender.
Revulsion turned his gut inside out. He gagged. Yet the emptiness inside him screamed louder.
«If I don't eat it, I'll die… again, of course. That's all there is.»
His hands shook as he picked up a jagged rock. He forced himself back to the corpse and pressed the edge into its flank. The skin split slowly, like leather. Heat surged out with a stench so vile it made his eyes water. Sulfur, blood, something sour like rot.
He gagged again, bent double, bile scalding his throat. Still, he cut. He carved out strips of flesh that looked the least spoiled, the least corrupted. Even those gleamed dark and wrong under the light.
Every slice of the stone sent vibrations into his arms. His fingers numbed. He thought of butcher shops he had once passed in the city—glass windows filled with meat neat and clean. This was the opposite. Here, flesh resisted, skin clung, tendons snapped under pressure. He felt like he was defiling something that should never be touched.
But hunger didn't care about dignity. Hunger only wanted.
He carried one strip back to the hollow under the fallen tree. His knees threatened to give with every step. He dumped the meat on the ground, then crouched to gather reeds and splinters.
He struck stone against stone. Once. Twice. Sparks flashed and died. His palms stung. His heart hammered. Again. Again. On the fifth strike, a spark caught. The reeds smoldered, then flared.
Fire.
Orange light spilled across the ash, banishing the night for a fragile circle of warmth. Eros sagged with relief. For the first time since the book had swallowed him, he felt something familiar, something almost safe.
He skewered the strip of flesh on a stick and held it over the flames. Fat hissed and dripped into the fire. The acrid smoke stung his nose. His stomach clenched with both revulsion and hunger.
When the edges blackened, he tore off a piece with his teeth.
It was vile. Metallic, foul, like chewing on a coin soaked in blood. He gagged, throat tightening. His eyes blurred with tears. Still, he forced it down. Another bite. Smaller. Chew. Swallow.
By the third, his body stopped rejecting it. His stomach quieted, not in comfort but in surrender. He slumped back, hands trembling, shame and relief tangling in his chest.
He ate slowly, mouthful by mouthful, until the cramps eased. His body relaxed a fraction. It was enough. Enough to live another day.
«This is what I am now. Fine dining on roadkill nightmares… Bon appétit, Eros.»
***
When his strength returned, he forced himself back to the carcass. The fear was gone. He had already crossed that line.
He stripped feathers from the wings, keeping the largest. He tied them with reeds around his crude loincloth, fashioning something closer to clothing. It wasn't armor, but it shielded him from the raw exposure.
From the wings he pried bones—long, hollow, surprisingly light. He ground one against stone until it tapered to a sharp point. A dagger. Another, thinner, became a needle. He sliced sinew from the bird's body, drying it into string.
Piece by piece, he made tools. Primitive, ugly, fragile. Yet when he laid them out by the fire—dagger, needle, a hatchet made from stone lashed to bone—he felt a shift deep inside.
Not prey. Not entirely.
He ran his fingers over the bone knife. It wasn't sharp enough to cut clean, not sturdy enough to last, but it was something. It meant choice. Control. For a moment he remembered his life before detention: using disposable pens, cracking them between his teeth, scribbling meaningless notes. Now he carved survival out of bone and ash.
He sat staring at his hands. They no longer shook as badly.
«Used to be nobody. Now I make knives out of bones and eat nightmares. Character development, sure.»
A couple of hours later, the fire cracked softly, shadows stretching long against the ruined ground. Eros leaned back against the fallen tree, body heavy with exhaustion, but his mind clawed restlessly at questions.
"How can a book do this?" His voice rasped. "How can pages drag me here, chain me, scar me?"
He remembered the notes scribbled in Amanda's room: "Stop Reading!Escape!" Written in ink. Written in blood.
Who had left them? Someone like him? Someone who had failed?
His chest tightened. «Are their bones scattered here too? Is this where Readers go when they lose their flames?»
He pressed his forehead into his hand, shaking. "Will I ever get out? Or is this forever?"
Well, at least now he had two flames. That gave him a little peace of mind. But he'd rather have them all back. How could I recover it? Chances were, given what he'd seen, he'd need every last one in the future.
"Killing anything, maybe? Would a bug count? Or does it always have to be some nightmare trying to tear me apart?" the boy muttered, clearly irritated.
The fire hissed.
Amanda's face surfaced in his mind. Her laugh. The way she used to sneak him food when no one else cared to. That stubborn warmth of hers that always made the world feel less cruel. He pictured her voice calling his name, sharp yet familiar, and the ache in his chest nearly doubled him over.
He clenched the bone knife tight, so hard his knuckles ached. «If she's here, I'll find her. If she's not, I'll tear this world apart until I get answers.»
The flames danced back at him, silent, indifferent.
***
At last, sleep dragged him down. He pulled branches over the hollow beneath the tree, covering himself from view, and curled around the bone axe like it was an anchor. The fire burned low, but enough to push back the dark.
For the first time since he'd opened the cursed book, he felt almost safe. Almost.
Warmth brushed his face. His eyelids twitched open. At first he thought the fire had grown. But this was brighter, sharper.
Sunlight.
His chest lurched. «The sun? But… there was no sun here.»
He bolted upright, clutching the axe, heart hammering in his chest.
And stopped cold.
A figure stood before him. Not beast. Not twisted nightmare. Human.
The shadow tilted its head, unreadable eyes catching the light. Its lips moved.
"Hey buddy"
Eros' breath caught. The world seemed to tilt beneath him.