Dawn in Valensford came with sound. Carts rumbling over cobblestones. Shop shutters clattering open. The distant bell of the cathedral marking the hour. And beneath it all, the constant pulse of heartbeats.
Albrecht lay awake in his narrow bed, listening. He'd woken before first light, his mind clear, his body humming with unused energy. The cow's life was still there inside him, a banked fire. But he could feel it burning lower. The hunger was waking up again.
He rose, dressed in his still-dirty clothes, and went to the window. The rooftops were wet with dew. Smoke curled from chimneys. The town was coming alive.
He needed money. More than a few coppers. He needed information. And he needed to feed the hunger properly.
Last night's rat had been nothing. A crumb. Today he would eat a meal.
But carefully. Intelligently. He was not an animal. He was a man with a purpose.
He left the flophouse and walked into the morning market. The square was chaos—stalls piled with vegetables, fish on ice, bolts of cloth, iron pots. Voices shouted prices. The air smelled of ripe fruit, fresh bread, and the sharp tang of the butcher's block.
He moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning. Not looking at goods. Looking at people.
A baker, flour-dusted, laughing as he handed a loaf to a child. Life burning warm and steady.
A guardsman leaning against a wall, bored, picking his teeth. His life burned slower, dimmer.
An old woman haggling over thread, her hands shaking. Her flame guttered low.
Albrecht's hunger stirred at each. But he kept walking.
He stopped at a stall selling secondhand goods—tools, belts, a few rusted knives. The stallkeeper was a thin man with quick eyes and a long nose. He watched Albrecht approach.
"Looking for something?"
"Information," Albrecht said.
The man's eyes narrowed. "I sell things, not talk."
Albrecht picked up a small knife, tested the edge. Dull. He set it down. "I'm new in town. Looking for work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that pays."
The stallkeeper smiled, showing crooked teeth. "Aren't we all?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You look like you can handle yourself. There's a place. The Rusty Nail tavern, down by the river gate. Ask for Draven. He sometimes has… special jobs."
"What kind of special jobs?"
"The kind that don't get talked about in the market." The stallkeeper straightened up, his business face returning. "That'll be a copper for the information."
Albrecht had one copper left. He placed it on the stall.
"Thanks," he said.
The Rusty Nail was not like the Boar's Head. It sat low and sour by the river, where the air smelled of fish and wet stone. The sign was so rusted the nail was just a brown stain.
Inside, it was dark even at midmorning. A few men sat in shadowed corners. No one looked up when he entered.
The barman here was a different creature than the last—tall, gaunt, with a scar through his left eyebrow. He wiped the bar with a cloth that might have been clean once.
"What?" he said.
"Draven," Albrecht said.
The barman's eyes flickered. "Who's asking?"
"Someone looking for work."
A pause. Then the barman jerked his head toward a back door. "Through there. Knock twice."
The door led to a narrow hallway, then another door. Albrecht knocked twice.
It opened. A man stood there—broad-shouldered, with a beard shot through with grey and eyes like chipped flint. Draven.
"You're new," Draven said.
"I am."
"Who sent you?"
"The stallkeeper in the market. The one with the long nose."
Draven grunted. "Corbin. Come in."
The room was small, windowless, lit by a single lantern. A table, two chairs, a ledger book open. Draven sat, didn't offer Albrecht a seat.
"What can you do?" Draven asked.
"I'm strong."
"Strength is cheap. Can you fight?"
"If I have to."
"Can you keep quiet?"
"Yes."
Draven studied him. "There's a merchant. Name's Orval. He owes money. A lot of money. He's been… avoiding payment."
"And you want me to convince him?"
"I want you to collect. He has a warehouse by the west dock. He'll be there tonight, counting inventory. Go in. Take what he owes. Fifty silvers. If he gives trouble…" Draven shrugged. "Convince him."
"How much do I get?"
"Ten percent. Five silvers."
It was more money than Albrecht had ever held. "And if he doesn't have it?"
"He has it. He's just stubborn." Draven leaned forward. "Do this clean, and there might be more work. Do it messy, and you're on your own."
"Understood."
Draven gave him the details—the warehouse location, the time, a description of Orval. Balding, fat, with a mole on his right cheek.
Albrecht left the Rusty Nail and walked toward the river. The west dock was quieter, mostly warehouses and closed shops. He found Orval's warehouse—a large, timbered building with a faded sign showing a ship's anchor.
He circled it. One main door. A smaller side door. High windows, too small to climb through. He'd go in the side door after dark.
He had hours to wait.
He spent them walking the town, learning its streets, its rhythms. He watched the guards on the walls, their patrol patterns. He watched the rich in their fine clothes, the poor in their rags. He listened to the heartbeats.
Some burned bright and fast—young lovers arguing in an alley, children chasing a dog. Some burned slow and heavy—an old man sleeping on a bench, a drunk already passed out in a doorway.
His hunger tasted each, but did not feed.
Not yet.
As dusk settled, he bought a meat pie with his last copper. He ate it sitting on a barrel behind a chandler's shop, watching the warehouse. The pie was greasy, good. It quieted the normal hunger. The other hunger waited.
When full dark came, and the town grew quiet, he moved.
The side door was locked. A simple iron bolt. He put his shoulder to it—not with brute force, but with the cow's strength, focused and smooth. The wood around the lock splintered. The door opened.
Inside, the warehouse was vast and dark, stacked with crates and barrels. A single lantern burned on a desk at the far end. A man sat there, bent over ledgers.
Orval.
Albrecht moved quietly between the stacks. The air smelled of dust, hemp, and the river's damp.
Orval didn't hear him until he was ten feet away. Then the man looked up, his eyes widening.
"Who are you? How did you get in?"
"Draven sent me," Albrecht said.
Orval's face paled. He stood up, knocking his chair over. "I told him. Next week. I need until next week."
"He wants it tonight."
"I don't have it!" Orval's voice rose, panicked. "Business is bad. The tariffs—"
"Fifty silvers," Albrecht said, his voice calm. "Give it to me, and I leave."
Orval licked his lips. His eyes darted toward a chest under the desk. "I… I have twenty. Here. Take it. Tell Draven the rest next week."
He fumbled with a key, opened the chest, pulled out a leather pouch. He tossed it on the desk. Coins clinked.
Albrecht didn't touch it. "Fifty."
"I don't have it!"
Albrecht took a step closer. Orval backed up, hitting the wall.
"Please," the merchant whispered. "I have a family."
Albrecht looked at him. Really looked. Not at his fear, but at his life. It burned in him—a frantic, greasy flame, fueled by panic and cheap wine. A life of greed and cowardice.
The hunger uncoiled.
Here was a man who would not be missed. A man who owed criminals. A man who, in another life, had probably ruined others without a thought.
"Tell me," Albrecht said softly. "If our positions were reversed, would you show me mercy?"
Orval stared, not understanding.
Albrecht reached out and touched the man's chest, over his heart.
"Wait—" Orval began.
Albrecht did not wait.
He let the hunger flow.
It was different from the animals. Richer. More complex. Orval's life flooded into him—not just strength, but memories, fears, desires. A flash of a woman's face (his wife, tired). The smell of his child's hair. The taste of good wine. The thrill of a successful cheat.
Albrecht took it all.
Orval gasped. His eyes went wide. He tried to speak, but no sound came. His legs buckled. Albrecht held him up against the wall, hand on his chest, drinking.
It took less than a minute.
When it was done, Orval slid to the floor, eyes open, empty. Not dead. Not alive. A shell.
Albrecht stepped back, breathing hard. His skin felt electric. His blood sang. The world sharpened—he could see the grain in the wood across the room, hear the scuttle of rats in the walls, smell the river through the cracks.
Power. Real power.
He looked at his hands. They seemed the same. But he could feel the difference. Orval's life was in him now, added to the cow's, the goat's, the dog's.
He picked up the pouch of twenty silvers. Then he searched the chest, found another pouch—thirty silvers more. Draven's fifty.
He took it all.
He left the warehouse the way he came, closing the broken door behind him as best he could. The night air was cool on his face.
He walked back through the sleeping town, the coins heavy in his pocket, the new life burning bright inside him.
At the edge of the cathedral square, he stopped. The great doors were closed, the square empty. Moonlight washed the stones silver.
He looked up at the spire, black against the stars.
"I ate a man tonight," he whispered to the silent goddess. "And I feel no guilt. Only hunger for more."
The cathedral did not answer.
He smiled, a cold, quiet thing.
Tomorrow, he would pay Draven. And then he would learn what else this town had to offer.
The next morning, Albrecht woke feeling new.
The world was brighter, louder, more *present*. He could hear the heartbeat of the man in the room below him—a slow, rhythmic thud. He could smell the bacon frying in the flophouse's kitchen two floors down. When he flexed his hand, the muscles moved with a fluid precision that felt… borrowed. Because it was.
Orval's life was now his fuel.
He dressed, counting his coins. Fifty silvers. A small fortune to a man with nothing. He would give Draven his share, keep the rest. But first, breakfast.
He went to a better tavern this time, one with clean tables and the smell of fresh bread. He ordered eggs, sausage, ale. He ate slowly, savoring the flavors. The normal hunger was quiet. The deeper hunger slept, satisfied for now.
As he ate, he watched the people around him. A young couple sharing a sweet roll. A merchant reading a broadsheet. A guardsman off-duty, flirting with the serving girl.
He could feel their lives. Warm, bright, tempting.
But he was not an animal. He would not feed in the light, in a crowd. He was a scientist. He needed control. Data.
After breakfast, he went to the Rusty Nail.
Draven was in the back room again. This time, he offered Albrecht a chair.
"You got it?" Draven asked.
Albrecht placed the pouch of fifty silvers on the table. Draven counted, nodded.
"Clean?"
"Clean."
"Orval?"
"Convinced."
Draven smiled, a thin slice of satisfaction. He took five silvers from the pouch, pushed them across the table to Albrecht. Then he took five more, added them to Albrecht's pile.
"Bonus," Draven said. "For efficiency."
Albrecht took the ten silvers. "Thank you."
"There's another job. If you're interested."
"I'm listening."
"A tax collector. Name's Finn. He works the river district. He's been skimming. My employer wants his books. And his… cooperation."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he needs to understand that cheating us is bad for his health." Draven leaned back. "Finn has a guard. A big man. Good with a sword. You'll need to handle him."
"And the pay?"
"Twenty silvers. Plus whatever you find on Finn that we don't want."
Albrecht thought for a moment. "When?"
"Tonight. Finn visits the Riverwatch Tavern every night. He drinks, counts his take, then walks home along the river path. Take him there. Quietly."
"I'll do it."
Draven gave him the details. Finn's description. The guard's. The route.
Albrecht left, the ten silvers heavy in his pocket. He walked to a bathhouse, paid for hot water and soap. He scrubbed the ditch and the warehouse from his skin, bought new clothes from a used-clothes stall—simple trousers, a grey tunic, a leather vest. He looked like a laborer now, not a noble or a beggar.
He kept the old clothes. They might be useful.
The day passed slowly. He walked the river path, memorizing its turns, its shadows. He found the place Draven had described—a narrow stretch between a stone wall and the water, where the streetlamps didn't reach.
Good.
As evening fell, he went to the Riverwatch Tavern. It was a busy place, full of dockworkers and sailors. He took a seat in a corner, ordered ale, watched.
Finn arrived an hour later. He was a small man, neat, with a carefully trimmed beard and clothes just a little too fine for his station. His guard was exactly as described—a mountain of muscle with a sword at his hip and a face that had been broken more than once.
They took a table near the fire. Finn pulled out a ledger, began counting coins from a locked box. The guard stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes moving.
Albrecht watched. He sipped his ale. He waited.
Two hours later, Finn packed up his box. He and the guard left.
Albrecht followed.
The streets were quiet here by the river. The night was clear, cold. Finn walked quickly, the guard a step behind him. They turned onto the river path.
Albrecht let them get ahead, then moved. He didn't run. He walked, his steps silent on the cobbles.
He caught up just as they entered the dark stretch between wall and water.
"Evening," Albrecht said.
Finn jumped. The guard turned, his hand going to his sword.
"Who are you?" the guard growled.
"A friend," Albrecht said. "Finn, I need your books."
Finn's eyes widened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Draven sends his regards."
The guard drew his sword. "Walk away," he said.
Albrecht looked at him. The guard's life burned hot and strong—a warrior's life, fed by violence and pride. A good meal.
"No," Albrecht said.
He moved.
The guard was fast. His sword cut the air where Albrecht had been. But Albrecht was faster—Orval's stolen strength, the cow's, the goat's, all of it flowing through him. He dodged, stepped inside the guard's reach, and placed his hand on the man's chest.
*Take.*
It was quicker this time. More focused. He didn't want memories, just strength.
The guard gasped. His sword clattered to the stones. His eyes rolled back. He fell.
Finn screamed and turned to run.
Albrecht caught him by the collar, dragged him back. He took the ledger box from Finn's hands, then looked into the man's terrified face.
"Please," Finn whimpered. "I'll give you money. Everything."
Albrecht touched Finn's forehead.
*Take.*
This time, he took it all. The life. The memories. The greed. The fear.
Finn went limp.
Albrecht let him drop beside the guard. Both men breathed, but shallowly. Their eyes were empty. They would not wake.
He opened the ledger box. Coins. A book of accounts. He took the coins—thirty silvers. He kept the book. Draven would want it.
He looked at the two men on the ground. Two lives, now his. He felt stronger than he ever had. His senses stretched. He could hear fish jumping in the river. Could smell the moss on the wall.
He walked away, leaving them in the dark.
Back at the Rusty Nail, Draven was waiting.
"Well?"
Albrecht handed him the ledger book. "Done."
Draven flipped through it, smiled. "Good. The guard?"
"Handled."
"And Finn?"
"He won't be a problem."
Draven counted out twenty silvers, pushed them across. "You're useful."
"Thank you."
"There will be more work. Come back tomorrow."
Albrecht left, the thirty silvers from Finn's box plus Draven's twenty heavy in his pocket. Fifty more silvers. He was rich.
But richer still was the power inside him. Three human lives now, added to the animals. He felt… expansive. Unstoppable.
He walked through the night, not toward the flophouse, but toward the cathedral. He stood in the empty square again, looking up.
"Two more," he whispered. "And I feel nothing. Should I feel something?"
The spire loomed, silent.
"I think," Albrecht said, "that your grace is a lie. Life isn't sacred. It's just fuel. And I am learning how to burn it."
He turned away, toward his rented room. Tomorrow, there would be more work. More lives to take.
The hunger slept inside him, full for now.
But he knew it would wake again.
And next time, he wondered, what would happen if he took a life that was blessed? A life touched by the Goddess?
He smiled in the dark.
He would find out.