The hunger was not like ordinary hunger.
Food filled the belly, but this gnawing force lived elsewhere. It pulsed in Kael's veins, restless and cruel, like a second heart beating beneath his own. He tried to ignore it, tried to bury it beneath routine, beneath the sound of hammer against anvil, the hiss of quenched steel, the heavy sighs of his father watching him work.
But hunger was patient. Hunger waited.
It began with glances. Kael caught himself watching the butcher carve fresh haunches of venison, his amber eyes fixed not on the meat itself but on the crimson dripping from the cleaver. He lingered by the well, watching droplets of blood from skinned rabbits swirl in the icy water. Once, his friend Orlen sliced his thumb on a shard of broken glass, and Kael had to excuse himself before the trembling in his chest betrayed him.
He didn't understand why it called to him. He only knew it did.
That winter stretched long, cruel, and sharp. The village buried three children before the snow began to melt. Hunger haunted every household, though Kael's hunger was different — darker. His mother fretted over his thinness, pushing extra broth into his bowl. His father grumbled that a boy who worked metal should eat like a man. Kael ate, and smiled when he was told, but the emptiness inside only grew.
One night, unable to bear it, he slipped from his cot.
The moon was sharp and silver, laying cold light across the sleeping village. Kael moved like a shadow, his breath frosting in the night air. He crossed the frozen fields to the edge of the woods, where the trees loomed black and ancient. His feet carried him deeper, deeper, guided not by thought but by instinct.
The forest was alive in winter silence. The creak of boughs, the crunch of snow, the soft rustle of distant animals. Kael's ears caught it all, sharper than they should have been. His nostrils flared, and there — a scent.
Warmth.
Life.
He followed it.
The deer had broken through snow to reach the roots of an oak. Its breath puffed into the air, ears twitching at every whisper of wind. Kael froze, staring. His mouth watered. The hunger roared inside him, urging him forward.
Before he could think, before he could even question, Kael moved. His feet pounded snow, his body stronger and faster than it should have been. The deer bolted, but he was already on it, leaping with a force no boy of ten could muster. His hands closed around its throat, nails biting into fur and flesh.
The deer kicked, struggled, but Kael's grip was unyielding. His heart thundered in his ears, matching the frantic pulse of the beast beneath his palms. The hunger screamed for release. And then, without knowing why, Kael lowered his face and bit.
Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic, coating his tongue in fire. The world went silent.
When it was over, Kael knelt in the snow, chest heaving, hands trembling. The deer lay limp at his knees, its eyes frozen in terror. His lips dripped crimson.
The hunger was quiet now. For the first time in weeks, he felt… whole.
And terrified.
He dragged the carcass into the underbrush, hiding it beneath branches. When dawn came, he returned to the forge as if nothing had happened. His arms ached, his throat burned, but he smiled when his father barked at him to pump the bellows harder.
For a few days, it worked. The hunger slept.
But hunger is never satisfied for long.
The second kill came easier.
And the third.
Soon Kael hunted at least once each week, slipping from his home beneath the cover of night. His body grew stronger, his senses sharper, his movements quicker. He could smell life in the air, hear heartbeats in the silence. The forest became his refuge, the one place where he did not feel like a caged beast.
Yet, no matter how much he killed, the hunger always returned.
And it was changing.
Animals no longer quieted the fire as they once had. The hunger was restless, dissatisfied, whispering to him in thoughts that were not his own. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw faces — villagers, strangers, his own friends — bathed in crimson light.
It was late spring when Kael made his first mistake.
He had chased a boar deep into the woods, wrestled it to the ground, and torn into its neck with a desperation that bordered on madness. Blood coated his hands, his face, his tunic. He was so consumed that he didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
"Kael?"
The voice froze him where he knelt. Slowly, he turned.
Orlen stood a few paces away, a bundle of kindling spilling from his arms. His face had gone pale, eyes wide in horror. He looked not at the boar, but at Kael — his blood-streaked mouth, his glowing amber eyes.
Kael's heart seized. The hunger whispered: Take him. Feed. Silence him.
"No," Kael rasped aloud, shaking his head.
Orlen stumbled back, dropping the rest of the wood. "What… what are you?" His voice cracked like thin ice.
Kael opened his mouth, but no words came. Only the copper tang of blood on his tongue.
Orlen turned and ran.
Kael did not chase him. He sat in the snowmelt, staring at his hands, at the beast lying limp beside him. For the first time, guilt gnawed sharper than hunger. He pressed his face into his palms and wept, the taste of iron burning his throat.
That night, Orlen did not come to the forge, nor the next. The village whispered again — of beasts in the woods, of shadows with glowing eyes. Kael's father said nothing, but the way he watched his son was heavier than any accusation.
Kael lay awake, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the beat of his own cursed heart.
The hunger was growing.
And he knew, deep down, that animals would never be enough again.