The forge became his stage.
Kael stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, striking steel with careful rhythm. Sparks danced in the air, the sound of iron on iron ringing out through the village square. To any who passed, he was simply a boy learning his father's trade — sweating, focused, no different from the sons of carpenters or hunters.
But it was an act. A mask.
Inside, the hunger paced like a caged beast.
Every swing of the hammer, every hiss of quenched metal, was a battle against it. Kael clenched his teeth, his jaw aching from the strain of keeping it hidden. His father never spoke of the rumors that spread through the village, but Kael could feel them — the stares, the way conversations hushed when he passed, the way mothers pulled their children aside.
And Orlen… Orlen no longer met his eyes.
"Harder," his father barked, his voice like gravel.
Kael struck harder. The blade on the anvil flared bright under the heat, and the scent of iron filled his nostrils. For a heartbeat, he imagined it was blood. His grip tightened, and the hunger clawed at him.
"Enough," his father grunted at last. He doused the blade in the trough, steam hissing. Then his gaze flicked to Kael — sharp, unreadable. "You've grown strong, boy. Too strong for your years."
Kael looked away, the hammer heavy in his hand. "I… work hard."
"Aye," his father muttered, though doubt laced his tone. He turned back to the fire.
Kael exhaled slowly, his mask slipping back into place.
When the forge closed at dusk, Kael walked through the village with his head bowed, keeping his steps measured. Children played by the well, tossing stones and laughing. He forced himself to smile when one of them waved, though the hunger whispered in his ear — their hearts beat so loud, so sweet…
He clenched his fists and hurried past.
At the tavern, voices carried through the night. Farmers spoke of wolves taking sheep, of shadows in the forest. Kael lingered outside, listening.
"They say the beast has glowing eyes," one man murmured.
"Wolves don't glow," another spat. "Mark my words — it's something else. Something foul."
Kael's stomach twisted. He slipped into the alley, pressing his back against the wall. His heart hammered. His secret was too close, too fragile. All it would take was one slip — one careless moment — and the mask would shatter.
But the hunger didn't care for masks.
That night, it returned with savage fury, burning his veins, tearing at his chest. He writhed on his cot, teeth clenched, eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. His mother stirred beside the hearth, whispering soft prayers, her voice trembling though she thought he didn't notice.
Unable to bear it, Kael rose and fled.
The forest swallowed him whole, shadows thick as ink. His breath came ragged, his nails biting into his palms. The hunger screamed — feed, feed, FEED.
But there were no deer tonight. No boar. Nothing but silence.
Until he heard it.
Footsteps.
A merchant, perhaps, or a traveler returning late. The man's lantern swung in the dark, casting a fragile glow across the underbrush. His breath clouded in the cold, his boots crunching snow.
Kael froze, torn. His human mind begged him to turn back, to run, to resist. But the hunger surged, and before he realized it, he was moving.
The lantern hit the ground first.
When Kael returned to the forge at dawn, his hands still trembled. He scrubbed at them until the skin was raw, but the scent lingered — that sweet, copper tang. He wanted to vomit, yet part of him wanted more.
Always more.
For days, the mask grew heavier. The village spoke now of a "phantom" in the woods, a killer that struck at night. The hunters found the broken carcass of a deer, but no wolf would leave it like that. Too precise. Too brutal.
Kael kept silent, but guilt gnawed at him. Orlen avoided him entirely. His mother watched him with eyes full of fear she tried to hide. And his father — though he said nothing — had begun to sleep with his hammer beside the bed.
The boy was a dragon hidden in human skin, and the seams were beginning to show.
It was on the fifth night after the merchant's disappearance that Kael's mask nearly slipped for good.
A knight had arrived in the village — a man of steel and authority, bearing the crest of a noble house. He was no passing traveler, no nameless victim. He came with questions.
"Three bodies," the knight declared in the square, his voice cold as frost. "One a merchant, two wanderers. All slain within a league of these woods. Their throats torn. Their blood drained."
The villagers shifted uneasily. Some glanced toward Kael, subtle, fearful.
The knight's eyes followed theirs.
And Kael felt it — the weight of suspicion pressing down on him like iron chains.
That night, Kael did not sleep. He lay awake, staring at the rafters, listening to the hunger pulse in his veins. The knight was watching him. The village was whispering. The mask was cracking.
He closed his eyes, and in the darkness he saw blood. Always blood.
The hunger whispered: Kill again. Kill, and silence the voices. Kill, and survive.
Kael clutched the blanket to his chest, trembling. His mask of normalcy was slipping — and soon, he feared, there would be nothing left of the boy beneath it.