The ache was a dead, heavy weight in his guts, a phantom limb where there'd been a piece of his soul. It's been five years. Five f**king years, and the pain still hadn't left. Atlas pulled his hood tighter over his head, the wind clawing at his cloak. It howled through the tall mountains of the Whispering Wastes, raising ancient dust that had the taste of grit.
Just keep moving.
The mantra was etched flawlessly in his mind. When the hunger acted up, it was the only thing that worked. Not food hunger; he'd basically forgotten what that felt like, but rather a deep, cosmic sense of hunger that existed within the vacant place beneath his ribs, trying to satisfy a void that used to constitute a star.
Although it wasn't gone, not really. That was the cruel irony. It had dissolved into a joke during the ritual, a failed ascension that had turned him into…this. A man with a baby black hole in his chest, a singularity that was always hungry. He had been called a disaster by the Aphelion Order. A loose cannon. They had left him to die, and often, he found himself wishing they had succeeded just a bit more.
And then he heard it. The sizzle of a Starlight flare, far to the east.
He halted, his head jerking up. It was an unpleasant discharge of power, sloppy and uncontrolled. Some narrow-minded bastard was way in over his head. The void in his gut churned uncomfortably, reacting to the surge of energy.
Out here, trouble attracted more trouble. And a spectacle like that was a dinner bell for every scavenger, cultist, and pesky opportunist within a hundred miles.
He'd been aimlessly walking around for far too long and decided it was about time for him to look for some shelter. On the horizon, the sun was a blood-orange smudge, fading into the purple of twilight, where shadows stretched endlessly across the ground. He caught himself scowling. He hated sunsets. They reminded him too much of what he'd lost: the fire and light he was meant to embody, the Nova he should have become, before his own power decided to consume itself.
A rift opened before him, a sharp cut in the stone. It's good enough. He moved quickly, with the efficiency and caution of someone who had spent his entire life expecting a knife in his back. He gathered the dry brush and stacked it into a small pile. Eat, sleep, walk, survive. It was a sh**ty life, but it was his.
The first evening star, a lone, unyielding spark of white flame, illuminated against the vast, unbroken sea of black that was the sky above him. To him, that constant glow felt like slander. Somewhere deep inside, he could almost remember having a light like that of his own. Although, that was before the Wardens began to control him, ruining his gift, and teaching him that the only valuable power was the power that he consumed.
A fantasy, he thought, crushing a twig in his fist.
He summoned a small fire. The night's coolness was a comfort. Although it served as a disguise for a more profound cold rooted inside him, the kind that never left. That cold was nothing new to him; he had become used to it. But tonight it wasn't the same. Tonight it felt more chilling. As if someone or something were watching.
A pebble rolled down the canyon wall, skipping against the rocks before settling in the dust. That wasn't the wind.
Atlas's fingers tightened around the worn hilt of his blade before his mind even caught up to the sound. Every muscle tensed, his breath held, his ears straining for more, and he went motionless.
What do we have here?" The voice echoed from the canyon's entrance. "A little lamb, wandering all alone."
Two muscular figures emerged from the shadows, men wearing cloaks and covered in grime, the nasty smell of sweat carrying through the air. He could feel the faint resonance of their Starlight, lackluster and weak. They seem to be Flickers, or in other words, amateurs.
The void in his chest was hungry.
Atlas said nothing, letting them feel as if they're in control. It was always their first mistake.
One of them stepped forward and said, "Don't get your piss in a twist, friend." "Hand over the goods and we'll all walk away happy."
Atlas rose to his feet. "I don't have anything," he rasped.
The second man laughed. "That's what they all say. You Starborn pricks always think you can act poor and get away with it. Y'all should know better than that."
He took another step, and Atlas felt a faint tug. An attempt at a gravity bind, a trick far beyond this idiot's skill level. It was like being grabbed by a toddler.
He didn't fight it. Wasn't worth the effort.
He just let the void inside him take a small sip.
The bandit's Starlight-fueled gravity didn't just disappear; it inverted. The thug stumbled forward, his own power pulling him off balance as if the ground beneath him had suddenly collapsed. His eyes widened, and his cocky smirk was wiped clean from his face, replaced by disbelief.
"What the…?"
"He's not a Flicker," his partner hissed, the confidence leaving his voice.
Atlas's lips curved into a cold smile. He didn't need to move; the fight was already over. They just hadn't realized it yet.
His voice dropped to a low murmur. "You should have stayed in the shadows."