Hunger wasn't a new sensation for Zain. Growing up in the Edge, he had gone days with nothing but stale bread and rainwater. He knew the dull ache of an empty stomach.
But this was different.
This wasn't an ache; it was a demand. It felt as if a second mouth had opened up inside his chest, screaming for sustenance. It clawed at his ribs, making his vision swim and his hands shake.
"I need... food," Zain gasped, stumbling through the labyrinth of rusted metal and garbage that made up the island's junkyard.
"Not food," Nox corrected, his voice echoing with disdain. "Essence. Your body is burning through its own life force to keep me anchored to this plane. If you eat bread, you will vomit. You need life."
Zain stopped, leaning against a pile of scrap metal. "Life? You mean... killing?"
"Unless you find a volunteer," Nox deadpanned.
A scuffling sound came from the shadows to his left.
Zain froze. His instincts, sharpened by years of avoiding gangs and guards, kicked in. He crouched low, his eyes scanning the gloom.
A pair of beady, red eyes stared back at him.
It was a Wire-Tail Rat. They were pests that infested the lower districts of every floating island. They were the size of a medium dog, with matted grey fur and a tail that ended in a sharp, bone-like spike. They were vicious, diseased scavengers.
Usually, Zain would run. A Wire-Tail could bite a finger off in a second.
But right now, looking at the beast, he didn't feel fear. He felt... salivation.
The black seal on his right arm pulsed, sensing the prey.
"Pathetic," Nox muttered. "A vermin. Is this what my glorious return begins with? A rat?"
"It's the only thing here," Zain whispered.
The rat hissed, baring yellow teeth. It sensed Zain's weakness. It tensed its hind legs and sprang.
Zain didn't have a weapon. He didn't have a plan. He just reacted.
He threw his right hand up to catch the beast.
"Grip."
The command from Nox synchronized with Zain's muscles. His hand closed around the rat's throat mid-air.
The impact nearly knocked him over. The rat thrashed wildy, its claws tearing into the sleeve of his tunic, scratching his skin. The bone-spike on its tail whipped around, aiming for Zain's face.
"Do it!" Zain yelled, squeezing as hard as he could.
He pushed his will into the black ink. Rot. Decay. Die.
The seal flared.
The rat's screech cut off abruptly.
Where Zain's fingers touched the coarse fur, the grey hair turned white, then disintegrated into ash. The flesh beneath withered. The creature's eyes, once bright red with rage, dimmed and turned milky.
It didn't just die; it aged. In three seconds, the thrashing beast turned into a desiccated husk, like a mummy left in the desert for a century.
And then, the rush hit him.
A stream of warmth flowed from the dead creature, up Zain's arm, and straight into his chest. It washed away the cold. It silenced the screaming hunger. It felt like drinking hot soup on a freezing winter night, but a thousand times more potent.
Zain dropped the carcass. It crumbled into dust when it hit the ground.
He stared at his hand. The scratches on his arm were already closing up. The fatigue was gone. He felt stronger, lighter.
"Marginal," Nox critiqued, unimpressed. "Hardly a snack. But it will keep you from collapsing for a few hours."
Zain breathed heavily, looking at the pile of dust. "I absorbed its life..."
"You absorbed its time," Nox corrected. "The Void accelerates entropy. You steal the future intended for that creature and use it to fuel your present. It is the only absolute law of the universe: The strong eat the time of the weak."
Zain clenched his fist. The power was terrifying. It was evil.
But it was also the only reason he was standing.
"The docks," Zain said, his voice firmer now. "We need to move before the patrol comes this way."
The Cargo District was a chaotic mess of cranes, shouting sailors, and floating ships tethered to the island by thick iron chains.
Usually, this place was loud, but tonight, the tension was palpable. Squads of Temple Guards were patrolling the piers, checking identification papers.
Zain crouched behind a stack of crates, watching the checkpoint.
"ID," a guard barked at a sailor.
The sailor handed over a parchment. The guard scanned it with a glowing blue crystal. "Clear. Move along."
Zain cursed silently. They're scanning for seals. If he walked up there, the scanner wouldn't just beep; it would probably explode.
"You cannot pass the gate," Nox observed.
"I know," Zain whispered. He scanned the line of ships.
Most were merchant vessels, heavily guarded. But at the far end of the pier, near the darker, unlit section of the docks, sat a bulky, ugly ship. It looked like a patchwork of rusted metal plates and scavenged wood.
It was a Junker.
Junkers were scavengers who sailed the dangerous currents of the Sky Sea, salvaging wrecks from the Void Wars. They were technically legal, but everyone knew they dabbled in smuggling.
Zain watched as a crew of rough-looking men loaded unmarked crates onto the ship. They were moving fast, anxious. They weren't checking IDs. They just wanted to leave before the lockdown fully tightened.
"That one," Zain decided.
"A ship of thieves. Fitting."
Zain waited for the patrol to pass. When the guards turned the corner, he sprinted across the open gap. He moved silently, his years of sneaking through the slums paying off.
He reached the hull of the Junker ship. The loading ramp was up, but a thick mooring chain still connected the ship to the dock.
"Hey! Hurry it up!" a voice shouted from the deck. "The wind is shifting!"
The engines of the ship—massive, rotating mana-propellers—began to whine, spinning up to speed. The chain tightened. The ship was drifting away.
Now or never.
Zain leaped. He grabbed the cold, greasy iron of the chain.
He pulled himself up, hand over hand, dangling over the endless drop of the Abyss below. One slip, and he would fall forever.
He reached the anchor port and squeezed through the opening just as the ship lurched away from the dock.
He tumbled onto a hard metal floor in the dark anchor room. The smell of oil and stale tobacco filled the air.
He was in.
He lay there for a moment, listening. Heavy boots stomped on the deck above. The ship listed to the side as it caught the wind currents, leaving Edge Island behind.
Zain let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was alive. He had escaped.
"Don't get comfortable," Nox whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp warning. "We are not alone down here."
Zain froze.
He slowly turned his head toward the shadowy corner of the anchor room.
Two glowing yellow eyes were watching him.
It wasn't a rat this time.
A girl, no older than him, was sitting on a crate in the shadows. She held a curved dagger in her hand, flipping it casually. She wore the leather gear of a Junker, and her face was smeared with grease.
She stopped flipping the knife and pointed it at Zain's throat.
"Well, well," she said, her voice amused. "A stowaway? On The Rusty Bucket?"
She hopped off the crate, moving with the silent grace of a cat.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out the hatch and watch you bounce off the clouds," she smiled, but the blade didn't waver. "And make it quick. I'm missing dinner for this."