A note before you read: this chapter includes graphic violence and a scene depicting suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.
Sound crashed over me from every direction at once. The whisper of snowflakes settling on the branches above. The creak of frozen limbs shifting in the wind. Water dripping somewhere distant, each drop sounding like a thunderclap against my skull. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears like a war drum, too fast, too loud, too much. I tried to open my eyes and the light seared right through me.
My neck.
The pain was a living thing, throbbing and searing, pulsing with every beat of my heart. I reached for it, my fingers trembling, and felt the wounds. Two punctures, wet and warm, still oozing. They screamed when I touched them. Or maybe that was me, feeling the fresh wave of agony that sent white spots dancing behind my eyes.
I was burning. Every inch of my skin was on fire, but the cold of the snow beneath me should have numbed it. It didn't. The cold was there, biting and sharp, but it couldn't
touch the heat inside me. My blood felt wrong. Thick. Hot. Alive in a way it had never been before.
God, I was hungry.
Not the dull ache I felt if I missed breakfast. Or the empty gnaw of a long day's work without food. This was something else. Something primal and ravenous that clawed at the inside of my stomach, that made my mouth water and my teeth ache with a need I
couldn't name. My stomach lurched violently, and my body convulsed, my back
arching off the snow as the hunger gripped me mercilessly.
I needed food. I needed it now.
My eyes darted wildly, searching the clearing. The trees. The snow.
Bran. His body was a few feet away, still as stone with his fur matted with dark stains. His eyes were open, glazed over, staring at nothing. The snow around was still stained black.
What was Bran doing out here? Why was he—
I moved before I could finish the thought. One moment I was on my back. The next I was crouched over him, my hands tearing at his flesh, my teeth sinking into his flank. The
taste of blood flooded my mouth, hot and coppery, and I drank it down like a man dying of thirst. I ripped the meat from his bones, swallowing fur, gristle and muscle together, anything to fill the need inside me.
I couldn't stop. I knew what I was doing. I knew it was wrong. But some deeper part of me didn't care. Some deeper part of me was laughing, or screaming, or both.
Why am I doing this? Why is Bran here? What is wrong with me?
The questions came too fast, splintering and fragmenting. I tried to hold onto them, but they slipped away like water through my fingers. All that remained was the hunger, and the flesh between my teeth, and the desperate, animal need to consume.
It didn't take long. Bran wasn't a large dog. I finished him in minutes. When there was nothing left but bones and scraps of fur, I fell back onto my knees, my chest heaving, my hands slick with blood.
The hunger was still there.
I clawed at the snow, shoving handfuls into my mouth, desperate for something, anything to make it stop. The cold melted on my tongue, turning to water, but it didn't help. Not even a little. The hunger just sat there in my gut.
I tried to stand again. My legs buckled beneath me. I fell again, my face hitting the snow, and I stayed there for a long moment, gasping.
The world was still screaming in my ears. Every sound, every whisper of wind, every distant creak and groan pressed against my skull. My head was pounding. My throat was raw.
And then, faintly, cutting through all the noise.
"Nicholas!"
I forced my head up, squinting through the trees.
"Where the hell is he?"
I heard it. The vibration of his vocal cords. The rush of air from his lungs. The steady,
rhythmic thump of his heart, pumping blood through his veins. I could smell it too. The blood. Warm and rich and alive, calling to me from a hundred feet away. The hunger that had been gnawing at my insides roared back to life, drowning out everything else.
I was running before I even knew I had moved. The forest blurred around me. Snow exploded beneath my feet. Branches whipped across my face, snapping against my skin, but I didn't feel them. I didn't feel anything except the pull, the pull, the pull of
that heartbeat, that blood, that life.
I don't know how fast I was moving. But I knew I was running faster than I had ever run. Faster than any man had ever run. The trees rushed past me in a smear of white and brown, and then I was there, skidding to a halt at the edge of a frozen creek.
Niall was crouched by the water, his back to me, checking the surface, humming to himself. Two flasks sat beside him. His bow was slung across his back.
The sight of him stopped me cold.
Something in my mind, some remnant of the man I used to be recognized him. Niall. My friend. The man who I'd grown up with. The man who'd been there as a brother after my parents passed away. The man who I could always rely on.
Niall.
For a single moment, I faltered. My legs shifted in the snow, my body hesitating, something inside me screaming to stop.
Niall heard the sound. He straightened, turning around, his face breaking into a grin.
"Nicholas! How are—"
The grin faded as his eyes swept over me. The blood-soaked clothes. The wild look in my eyes. The blood still dripping from my chin. His hand went to his bow, but he didn't draw it. He looked too stunned, too confused.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked. "What—"
I lunged.
There was no time for him to react. I hit him square in the chest, driving us both into the creek. The water was ice cold, but I barely felt it. I was on top of him, my hands pinning his shoulders, my teeth bared. His large hands shoved at me, tried to push me away, but it felt like they were feathers, light and useless.
I bit down, sinking my teeth into his neck. The skin gave way and I tasted the blood beneath. It was everything I had been craving, everything I had needed. Delicious , warm, laced with fear. I bit again, and again, tearing at his flesh, ripping through his veins and muscle. His screams bubbled up through the water, but I didn't stop. I
couldn't stop.
I inhaled water, choking, and the shock of it pulled me back for a moment. I grunted, hauling both of us out of the freezing creek. My hands found his collar, and I dragged
him onto the snowbank, coughing out water.
Blood pooled beneath him. His hands went to his neck desperately trying to hold the wound, while he coughed out his own blood and water. But there was no point.
I went down on him again. I bit, I tore, I drank.
His struggles grew weaker and his hands fell away. His chest stopped rising. But I kept going.
When the hunger finally subsided, I was kneeling over his body, my hands slick with his blood, my mouth wet and my chest heaving. I stared down at Niall's face. His eyes were open, frozen in shock. His mouth was slightly parted, as if he had been about
to say something.
I scrambled backward, slipping in the snow. I fell onto my back, my hands clawing at the ground, trying to push myself away from what I had done.
"God," I heard myself gasp. "God, no."
The world came back into focus. The sounds were still too loud, but they were fading. The hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that felt worse than pain. I looked at Niall's body. At the blood spreading across the snow like a dark flower. At the torn flesh. At his broken neck.
I had done this. I had killed him. I had killed my friend. I had torn him apart and drunk his blood like a beast, a monster, a thing that had no right to be called a man.
A sound escaped my chest. It wasn't a word or even a scream. It was just a raw and broken noise that belonged to something inside me that had been shattered beyond repair.
I crawled to Niall's side, my hands reaching for him, but I didn't know what to do. There was nothing to do. He was gone. I had taken everything from him.
I went still as soon as I heard voices. They were distant, but clear enough to recognise.
I swore, scrambling up to my feet, my heart hammering. My mind was a storm of panic and instinct, crashing against each other. I looked down at Niall's body, at the blood staining the snow, and I knew I couldn't leave him here. They would find him. They would see what I had done.
I grabbed Niall's body. He was heavy, he had always been a broad man, but I lifted him as if he weighed nothing. The strength that had coursed through me during the attack was still there, burning beneath my skin. I ran.
The forest blurred past me again, but this time I was aware of it. The trees. The snow. The ground beneath my feet. I needed somewhere to hide him. Somewhere no one else could find him.
I spotted the hillside rising to my left, its slope covered in snow and scattered with old oaks. I veered toward it, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I scanned the slope as I ran, looking for anything that could serve as a grave.
And then I saw it. A hollow beneath a massive old oak, its roots exposed and gnarled, forming a natural alcove. The snow had drifted into it, but the space beneath was dark and deep. It was perfect.
I dropped to my knees and began tearing at the snow with my hands. I dug frantically, piling the white powder aside, exposing the frozen earth beneath. The ground was hard,
but I didn't stop. I clawed at it, my nails breaking, my fingers bleeding, until I had made a shallow grave just enough to cover him.
I dragged Niall's body into the hollow. His face was still frozen in that look of shock, his eyes still open. I reached down and closed them, trying not to look at him. Then I covered him with snow, piling it high and patting it down with my palms until it looked natural.
I stepped back, my chest heaving, my eyes scanning the ground. My footprints were everywhere around the hollow, but beyond that, the snow was unbroken. I had run so fast that I hadn't left a single footprint.
I stared at the snow, trying to understand. How was that possible? How could I have moved without leaving tracks?
I didn't have time to figure it out. I squatted down, using my hands to smooth over the footprints I had left in the immediate area, erasing every trace of my presence. When I
was finished, I stood, took one last look at the hollow, and ran.
I ran all the way back home.
The familiar path appeared before me, as I burst through the treeline and stumbled to a halt, my hands braced on my knees, gasping for air desperately. The cottage stood before me, dark and quiet.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, and I froze, my heart lurching into my throat.
It was empty.
Rose wasn't here. The fire was low, barely more than embers, but the room was still warm. Her cloak was gone from its hook by the door. A half-eaten loaf of bread sat on the table, next to a cup of cold tea. She had been here recently, but she was gone now. Out working in the spinning house, or tending to something in the village.
I let out a breath and the tension in my shoulders eased just slightly. I didn't want her to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this.
My hands were still trembling as I crossed to the hearth. The fire was dying, but there was enough heat left to burn. I stripped off my clothes and threw them into the flames one by one, watching the fabric curl and blacken. The smell of burning wool and
blood filled the room, acrid and thick, but I didn't move. I just stood there, staring into the fire.
The warmth washed over me, chasing away the cold that had seeped into my bones. My breathing slowed. My heart stopped pounding. The panic receded, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness.
I sank to the floor in front of the hearth, my knees drawing up to my chest. The flames danced before me, casting long shadows across the walls. I watched them for a long
time, not thinking, not feeling, just existing.
Bran was gone.
The thought surfaced slowly. Bran, my dog. He was gone, and I had eaten him. I ripped apart his flesh from his bones and swallowed it, and I hadn't stopped.
And Niall. He was gone too. I killed him. I bit him and drank his blood until there was nothing left. I couldn't forget the taste either. So sweet, refreshing.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the images. But they were burned into my mind, seared into my memory like brands.
My hand drifted to my neck. The wounds were still there, tender and raw. I could feel them beneath my fingers, two small punctures that had already begun to close.
The man in the forest. The dark figure with eyes that swallowed light. It had felt like a
dream, or a vision, but I knew it was real. I had felt his teeth in my neck. I had seen the things he showed me. There was no way I could ever forget.
And then the hunger. The visceral, ravenous hunger that had consumed me, that had driven me to eat my own dog, to kill my own friend.
I shuddered, wrapping my arms around myself. The warmth of the fire couldn't touch the cold that had settled deep in my chest.
What if it happened again? What if I was in the village, surrounded by people, and the hunger came back? What if Rose was standing next to me, and I couldn't stop myself? The thought made me sick. My stomach lurched, and I leaned forward, gagging, but nothing came up.
My eyes drifted towards the table. A knife sat there, between the loaf of bread.
My mind was quiet. Too quiet. The panic had faded, leaving behind a strange, hollow clarity.
What if I didn't have to be a danger to anyone? What if I could just… end it? The villagers would be safe. Rose would be safe. They would mourn me, but they would live.
They would go on. They would forget.
I reached for the knife.
My hand was steady as I picked it up. The blade caught the firelight, glinting orange and gold. I turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the cold bite of the metal.
Tears stung my eyes. They were hot, burning, and they spilled down my cheeks as I set the blade against my wrist.
I thought about Rose. About her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she always knew when I was lying. I thought about Mother and Father, about the fever that had taken them,
about the years I had spent trying to keep us afloat. I thought about Bran, about Niall, about everyone I had loved and everyone I had lost. She would be devastated, confused, maybe even angry. But it was better than the alternative. I couldn't live with myself if I hurt her. Not after what I promised my parents as they lay on that bed.
This was the only way. I drew a deep breath. I steadied my conviction.
And then, with one swift motion, I slashed the blade across my wrist.
The pain was immediate and searing. A hot, white flash that made me gasp. Blood welled up from the wound, dark and thick, spilling over my skin and dripping onto the
floor. I dropped the knife, clutching my wrist, gritting my teeth against the agony.
There. It was done. It had reached the vein. I would be dead in a few minutes. A few minutes, and then it would be over.
I had never once thought this might be the way I would go out. Not here in my own home. But did any of us really have a say in how we died?
I thought about my burial. Who would come. Who would cry. What they would say about me when I wasn't there to hear it. I wondered if people would remember the stupid things I'd done, the things I'd said, the moments I had laughed until my stomach hurt. Or if, in the end, all of that would be reduced to a few kind words and a name
carved into stone.
Then I thought about this morning. If I had stayed in, none of this would have happened. I would have woken up, eaten breakfast, complained about something meaningless, and gone on with my day. Bran and Niall would be alive. I would have gone back to sleep without ever knowing
how close I had come to dying.
That was the cruelest part. My life hadn't needed to end today. It had only needed one small decision to change.
I thought about all the mornings I would never get to see. All the places I would never go. All the people I would never meet. The things I would never get to say. There was still so much I hadn't done.
I leaned back against the hearth, my breathing ragged, my eyes fixed on the blood pooling beneath my hand. It spread across the floorboards slowly. I watched it flow, waiting for the numbness to set in, waiting for the darkness to claim me.
But it didn't.
The blood began to slow. The flow weakened, then stopped. I stared at my wrist, my mind refusing to understand what I was seeing. The wound was closing. The edges of the cut were knitting together, sealing themselves shut with an awful, creeping certainty. I watched as my skin pulled tight, the flesh mending, until there
was nothing left but a thin white line, barely visible in the firelight.
The blood on the floor remained, but my wrist was whole.
I stared at it, my heart pounding. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. I pressed my hand against the wound, but there was nothing there. No pain. No blood. No sign that I had ever been cut.
I scrambled backward, my back hitting the wall, my eyes wide and unblinking. "No," I
whispered. "No, no, no."
I looked at the knife on the floor. I looked at the blood. I had tried to kill myself, and I couldn't. My body wouldn't let me.
The horror settled over me like a shroud. I was trapped. I was stuck in this body, this monster, this thing that I had become. There was no escape. There was no way out.
I pressed my hands over my face and wept.
***************
I opened my eyes to darkness.
For a moment I didn't know where I was. The ceiling above me was familiar, the same old rafters, the same smoke-stained wood, but everything else felt wrong. I was on the floor, my back against the hearth, my body aching in ways I didn't understand.
The memory hit me like a physical blow as I stared at the dried puddle of blood.
I scrambled to my knees, my heart lurching. I had to clean it before Rose came back home.
My eyes found the corner where I had kept a rag. I grabbed it, dipped it in the bucket of water by the hearth, and scrubbed at the floorboards. The blood was dark and crusted, but it came up with enough effort. I scrubbed until my hands were raw and the
wood was clean.
I heard the voices before I reached the door.
They were outside, approaching the cottage. I could hear them clearly. The crunch of snow beneath their boots. The rustle of their cloaks. The steady, rhythmic thump of their hearts. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing a linen shirt and pulling it over my
head.
I shoved the rag under a pile of dirty clothes, hoping it would be hidden, before splashing water over my face. As the footsteps reached the front of the cottage I smoothed my hair, trying to look normal, trying to look like nothing had happened.
I recognized Rose's scent before she spoke. It was stronger now, richer, more distinct. I could pick it out from the cold air, from the woodsmoke, from everything else.
But there was someone else with her. An older man, his footsteps heavier, his breathing slower.
"Nicholas!" Rose called, her voice bright and cheerful. "Are you awake?"
The door swung open.
Rose stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her breath misting in the night air. Behind her, a figure emerged from the darkness. Ruairidh MacGilleain, one of the elders of the town. He was a broad man with a thick brown beard and sharp eyes that seemed to see everything.
"Elder," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "What brings you here at this hour?"
Ruairidh stepped inside, stamping the snow from his boots. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Nicholas."
"Not at all," I said, though my heart was pounding. "Please, sit."
I arranged a chair for him, my hands trembling slightly. Rose hovered by the door, her eyes flicking between us.
"Rose," I said, "fetch us something to eat."
"Of course," Rose said, already moving toward the pantry.
Ruairidh waved a hand, settling into the chair. "No, no. That's not necessary. I came to talk, not to eat."
I stood, my back to the fire, trying to look calm. "What about?"
Ruairidh leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Earlier today, the bailiff informed the council that the baron will be visiting next week, along with his
entourage."
My stomach dropped. The baron rarely visited Valhol. Even during festivities, he appeared only once every few years. If he was coming all the way from his castle to Valhol, especially in weather like this, then something was seriously wrong. There
could only be one reason.
"Is it because of the war rumors?"
Ruairidh nodded slowly. "We suspect as much. But regardless of his reasons, the town needs to be prepared to receive him. A feast will be held, and we'll need to provide
enough food for his retinue."
I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest. "So how does this involve me?"
"You're one of the best hunters in the town, Nicholas. We could buy what we need from the market, but the prices are already rising, and with winter setting in…" He spread his hands. "I'd rather not waste coin if we don't have to."
"So you want me to hunt."
"Will you do it?" he asked, looking at me hopefully.
I opened my mouth to refuse. I had more than enough on my mind already, but Rose's voice came from the pantry.
"He can do it."
I sighed, running the numbers through my head. "It's a huge ask, Elder. I'm not sure I could bring down enough game for the entire feast."
Ruairidh smiled. "I thought you might say that. But I don't expect you to do it alone, Nicholas. You'll lead a hunting party. We'll provide the men, the supplies, whatever you
need. You just have to lead them."
I stared at the fire, my mind racing. A hunting party meant more people to be around. More people I could potentially hurt. But could I refuse at this point? "I'll… consider it."
Ruairidh nodded. "Good."
A knock sounded at the door.
Ruairidh's face lit up. "Ah. He's finally here."
I frowned. "Who?"
Rose emerged from the pantry and moved towards the door, wiping her hands on her apron.
"The other person who'll be helping you gather the hunters," Ruairidh said. "You can't do everything yourself, Nicholas."
Rose reached the door and opened it. I looked up.
And in stepped Niall.
He was grinning, his face flushed from the cold, his eyes bright with amusement. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them for warmth. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Got caught up with something."
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My mind was screaming at me.
Niall was alive. He was standing in front of me, grinning, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't killed him. As if I hadn't bit into his neck and drunk his blood and buried his
body beneath a tree.
Was that all a bad dream?
"Nicholas?" Niall's grin faltered. "You alright, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Rose was watching me, her brow furrowed. "Nicholas?"
I forced a smile. It felt wrong on my face. "I'm fine," I said. "Just… surprised."
Niall clapped me on the shoulder, and I felt his warmth through my shirt. I felt the steady thump of his heart. I could smell his blood, still pumping through his veins.
"Nicholas," Ruairidh said, his voice sharp with concern. "Are you ill?"
"I'm fine," I said again. "Just… tired. It's been a long day."
Niall didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. He clapped me on the shoulder again and turned to Ruairidh. "So, how much did I miss?"
I stood there, frozen, my mind still reeling. Niall was alive. He was alive, and I had no idea how. I had killed him. That was no dream. I had felt his blood on my hands. But he was standing in front of me, alive and whole.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.