My hands shake as I carve into the beast.
The skin is tough, but my shard is sharp. I cut away chunks of dark meat, shoving them into my mouth. Sour. Bitter. Stringy.
Delicious.
I've lived on ants and beetles for months. This is a feast.
The meat fills my shrunken stomach, warmth spreading through my limbs. The pain fades. For the first time in days, I feel almost human.
I eat until I can't eat anymore. Five kilograms. It'll last me a week if I'm careful.
If I live that long.
I drag the carcass out of the crack. The sun is nearly gone. I need to get back to my hole before full dark. The Shatterlands are even more dangerous at night.
"Put the meat down."
I freeze.
Four scavengers block my path. Five. The leader has a face full of scars, eyes hard as stone. They're all bigger than me. Stronger.
They've been watching. Waiting for the beasts to leave. Waiting for easy prey.
The scarred man takes a step forward. "Put. The meat. DOWN."
I stare at him. My hand tightens on the carcass.
I nearly died for this. Fought a beast with my bare hands. And now he wants me to just hand it over?
I don't answer. I attack.
My fist connects with his jaw. His head snaps back. For a heartbeat, there's silence.
Then they swarm me.
Fists. Boots. I curl into a ball, trying to protect my head. They beat me until I can't move. Until I can barely breathe.
When they're done, they take the meat.
All of it.
I lie there in the dirt, tasting blood. Watching them walk away with my kill.
No hatred. No anger. Just cold acceptance.
This is the Shatterlands. The strong take. The weak suffer.
That's the only law.
-----
Night comes fast.
I crawl back to my hole like a beaten dog. Every part of me hurts. Ribs cracked. Face swollen. Hands torn.
But I'm alive.
I curl up in the dark, shivering. The cold seeps into my bones. Sleep won't come. The pain keeps me awake.
So I reach for the box.
It's metal. Old. From the First World. I blow the dust off and open it carefully. Inside are pictures. Faded, worn. The old man spent years collecting them.
I stare at the images. Buildings that touch the sky. People with clean faces and bright clothes. Cities full of light.
The First World. Before the Shatterlands. Before the ruins.
When I look at these pictures, the pain doesn't hurt as much. The hunger quiets. For a moment, I can pretend I'm somewhere else. Someone else.
My heart beats faster. It always does.
Did that world really exist? Or is it just a fantasy? A lie to comfort dying children?
The old man said it was real. He said people lived without fear. Without mutabeasts. Without starving.
He said it might still exist. Somewhere.
I want to find it. I've wanted to since I was small. Even knowing I'll probably die trying.
The old man asked me once why I'd risk death for a dream.
"Because I'm alive," I told him. "I have the right to see this world. All of it."
He went quiet. Then he started teaching me to read. Sharing his food. Keeping me alive.
He said some people are born to fly. They might grow up in cages, but one day they'll break free.
Maybe. Or maybe I'll die in these ruins like everyone else.
The old man talked about destiny. He said everyone has one. You can't escape it.
But I don't believe in destiny. I believe in choice.
And I choose to survive.
I tuck the box under my head like a pillow. My eyes close. Exhaustion drags me under.
Tomorrow, I'll be hungry again.
Tomorrow, I'll fight again.
Tomorrow, I'll keep searching for that dream.
Even if it kills me.