Hunger, a disheveled young man, was experiencing a hunger that seemed to never leave.
He had been mugged that morning, relieved of the last few silver coins he had saved for food. His vision grew hazy, but he continued to scour the muddy lanes for something, anything, to eat. He stopped only when the voices of two rough-looking men snagged his attention, his ears straining toward their conversation.
"There's an abundant amount of fruit in the forest," one grumbled.
"If only it weren't a monster zone."
The man leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and shaking his head. His companion leaned in, voice sharp.
"Not only that! Rumors say it resides in a great wolf—"
Krey was already moving. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and took off, his mind a broken chant.
"Food, food, food, FOOD!"
He fled the outskirts of the castle walls—a shunned place that housed those with no place in the kingdom, a district so forsaken not even rats would dare to tread there.
He ran across a field of lush greenery, the sun beaming at his back, the dark line of the forest now in sight. Starvation gnawed at his strength, but he ran faster than he ever had. The blades of tall grass cut his skin, but he dismissed the blood that welled from the cuts on his feet.
At the forest's edge, he stood before the embrace of heavy shadows. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.
A sharp, piercing pain shot through his foot.
"Ugh!" he groaned.
He lifted his sole to find a deep stab wound. On the ground lay a long, wicked thorn, slick with his blood. He ignored the injury and searched for another way in, eventually finding a narrow path clear of vines. Stepping cautiously, he entered the true gloom of the woods.
At first, he saw no fruit. He widened his strides, his eyes growing shaky, sweat pouring down his face in cold rivulets.
"Were they speaking rubbish? Were they lying? Where's my food? Where, damn it, where!"
The hunger twisted inside him, a pain he could no longer ignore. His knees buckled, hitting the dirt with a hard thud. On his hands and knees, he grasped a handful of earth and coarse grass. Slowly, he raised it to his mouth and began to chew.
"Damn it," he mumbled, soil gritting between his teeth. "Why did I fool myself? There's nothing here."
He forced himself to swallow. He had just eaten grass. Humiliation burned his cheeks; his eye twitched, and a single, lonely tear escaped his eye socket.
But before the teardrop could hit the ground, a breeze stirred the canopy. Leaves shifted. A beam of late sunlight pierced the gloom, falling upon a round, green fruit that had been hidden in the shadow of the grass.
He stared, tilting his head.
"I—is that…"
Licking his cracked lips, he crawled forward. He extended a trembling hand, gripped the cool, firm fruit, and raised it to his face.
"A pear."
A soft, disbelieving chuckle escaped him.
"Ha."
Then another. And another, until he was laughing—a raw, manic sound that abruptly cut off. He drove his fist into the ground, the impact shuddering up his arm.
"Why didn't you show up sooner…?"
He felt a sudden, irrational disdain for the innocent fruit. He muttered insults about its plain color and its simple shape. But as he held it, the sunbeam grew brighter, making the plump skin glisten.
Finally, he picked himself up, closed his eyes, and bit down.
Though it had humiliated him, the pear was exquisitely juicy. Sweetness hugged his tongue; his stomach grumbled in startled approval. He ate hastily, consuming everything but the core.
He patted his stomach with a brief, satisfied grin, but the hunger was only dented, not sated. He spoke to the remains of his first meal.
"Don't worry. You won't be lonely for much longer."
He began to stroll with more purpose, keeping to patches of sunlight, searching the ground. As the sun descended and a harsh wind picked up. He found them, a thick, vibrant bush hiding vines of dark, plump berries.
He picked them with delicate care, gently placing each one into his pockets, careful not to crush his precious haul.
He was straightening up when a movement caught his eye. From the side of his vision, two points of crimson light glowed from the deepening shadows. They fixed on him, piercing and intelligent, as if an arrow of pure dread had stabbed his soul.
He sensed the danger with every nerve.
That is what he wished he had done. But in truth, a paralyzing fear rooted him to the spot.
"Move," he whispered.
"Please, for the love of—"
The crimson eyes advanced, stepping from the dark. They belonged to a wolf of immense size, with a coat of fur as deep and beautiful as the dark blue sky.
His legs finally understood, keeping him upright even as shock threatened to buckle them. The wolf' jaws parted, saliva dripping in long strands. The message was clear.
Acting on pure instinct, Krey shoved the berries in his hand into his mouth, turned, and ran.
Behind him, the forest erupted. A cacophony of crashing foliage and snapping branches thundered in his wake. He glanced back to see the wolf in ferocious pursuit, its charge leaving deep imprints in the earth, toppling young trees in its path. His face pale, Krey pushed harder and dove into a dense, thorny bush.
Consumed by predatory hunger, the wolf blasted past his hiding place.
Shaking, Krey shifted deeper into the bush to conceal himself better. He leaned back—and the ground vanished. His balance disappeared. His whole body followed as he tumbled down into darkness. His life flashed before his eyes; it was, unsurprisingly, a short and dull reel.
"Ah," he thought.
"I've lived a boring life. Such a shame."
He hit the bottom with a jarring thud and opened his eyes.
"I'm alive?"
He was in a dim, subterranean room, lit only by faint seams of sunlight filtering through the bush above. It appeared to be a cave. And in its center stood a statue, erect and solemn.
He walked toward it, then slowly circled it.
"Wow."
It was a grand statue of what appeared to be a hero or a lord. In its hands, it held a unique but utterly dull sword. The weapon had every part of a blade—except for a proper hilt, it was missing a guard. The sword was not stone; it was real metal, though stained by time. Upon closer inspection, the statue's carved eyes were fixed intently on a spot behind him.
"A hero, perhaps," Krey murmured to himself.
A low growl answered from the darkness behind him.
He turned. A pack of wolves stood at the mouth of a small tunnel. Two were smaller, flanking a larger leader. All three bared their fangs, their menace a palpable force in the cramped space.
"Curses. More wolves."
Acting without thought, his hand shot out and wrenched the sword from the statue's grasp. Stone fingers shattered with a loud crack. He twisted back to face the pack just as they lunged.
With no time to think, he swung at the lead wolf's temple. The dull blade connected with a solid thud, doing no more than blunt damage and staggering the beast.
Pushed back, he reversed his grip, holding the tang with both hands, and struck downward. The wolf anticipated, dodging to the side and aiming for his ribs. Krey shifted his weight and lunged backward—only to find the two smaller wolves already there. While the leader had held his attention, they had flanked him perfectly.
Trapped by his own momentum, he acted on pure instinct. He swung the sword up over his shoulder in a desperate thrust. It pierced through the mouth of one smaller wolf. But he could not stop the other. Agony seared through his left leg as its jaws clamped down.
Blood soaked instantly through his torn pants.
"Get off me!" he snarled through gritted teeth.
He yanked the sword free, reversed his grip once more, and drove the point down through the second wolf's skull.
The lead wolf witnessed it all. It threw back its head and howled—a sound of pure, frothing rage. Saliva foamed around its muzzle. Its eyes flooded with a vicious, bloody crimson. It gathered its weight onto its front legs and launched itself at him with terrifying speed.
Adrenaline screaming in his veins, Krey gripped the sword and slashed horizontally. In his inexperience, he struck with the flat of the blade.
By sheer luck, he connected with the wolf's front leg. A sickening crunch echoed in the chamber. The leg buckled, and the wolf crashed to the ground, snarling and crippled.
Krey did not hesitate. He stood over it and brought the sword down. Again. And again. He did not stop until the crimson light had fled its eyes, leaving them dark and empty.
The sword slipped from his numb fingers. He clasped his chest, lungs burning as he gasped for air. Slowly, the violent trembling subsided.
He retrieved the blade and looked around. His eyes found what the statue's gaze had been locked upon: a door. Set into the far wall was a large, thick door made of some tough, shining material. Above it, carved into a stone plaque, were three words.
"State thy name."
He didn't know what the carving fully said, but he was able to understand the word "name." Opening his mouth, he muttered,
"Krey."