The rain was cold.
Not the kind that refreshes you — the kind that soaks through your bones and makes your teeth ache.
Kael sat with his back against the crumbling wall of an abandoned warehouse, knees drawn to his chest. The streets of Blackwater never slept, but this part of the city was a graveyard after sundown.
It should have been quiet.
It wasn't.
The sound of boots splashing in puddles came from the mouth of the alley. Heavy boots. Confident boots. The kind of steps made by people who didn't care who heard them.
Kael's breath misted in the air. He had nothing worth stealing. No coin, no food, not even the tattered coat clinging to his shoulders — that was worth less than the mud on their boots. But in Blackwater, men didn't always come for coin.
"Look at this," a voice sneered.
Three shapes emerged from the dark — street enforcers for the Slum Boss, the same man Kael had spent months avoiding.
"Kael, Kael, Kael," the leader drawled, the grin on his face more scar than skin. "You've been very rude. Running errands for others, skipping your dues. That's not how things work here."
Kael pushed himself up, his palms against wet stone. His heart hammered, but he kept his voice steady.
"I told you. I have nothing left to give."
"That's funny," the leader said, glancing at his companions. "Because last I heard, you were helping old Marta with her deliveries. And Marta pays in food. Which means…" He took a step closer, breath foul with ale. "…you've been eating without asking permission."
Kael's stomach twisted.
Blackwater's rules were simple — everything you earned belonged to someone stronger than you. He'd survived by keeping his head down. Tonight, his luck had run out.
The first punch drove the air from his lungs. The second split his lip. Kael stumbled back, but the wall was there, unyielding.
He raised his arms to block the next strike, but another man grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms.
"Let's teach him how this works," the leader said, and the blows kept coming. Fists, knees, boots. His vision blurred, a ringing filling his ears.
Kael's mind screamed for help.
Someone. Anyone.
Through the haze, he saw shadows at the mouth of the alley. Passersby. Watching. And doing nothing. Their faces were blank, as if he were no more than a stray dog being kicked.
He tried to call out — but blood filled his mouth, and the words came out as a choking cough.
So this is it, he thought bitterly. I starve, or I get beaten to death in the gutter. And God just watches.
The thought burned in his chest.
"Please…" he whispered, whether to the night or the heavens, he didn't know. "Please… make it stop…"
Nothing answered.
No divine light. No miracle.
The leader laughed, drew a knife, and pressed the cold steel to Kael's throat. "Lesson's over. This one's for fun."
And then —
"Do you want to kill them?"
The voice wasn't heard. It was felt.
Low. Hungry. Wrapping around his thoughts like smoke.
Kael froze. "What…?"
"Do you want to kill them?" the voice repeated, slower this time. "Not just them. Everyone who watches and does nothing. Everyone who treats you like you're less than human."
The words were fire in his veins.
"Yes," Kael rasped. "I want them gone. All of them."
The voice purred. "Then I will feed you. But you will feed me in return."
From the mouth of the alley, the darkness deepened — as if the night itself bent inward. A shape emerged. Horns curved from its head, eyes like molten gold, and teeth too sharp to belong to anything human.
"Who… what are you?" Kael managed.
The thing smiled, its shadow stretching over the cobblestones. "I am hunger given form. I am the Feast. And tonight, boy, you are my knife."
---
The leader's grin faltered as the air around Kael shifted. The rain seemed to hang in midair, each droplet glistening unnaturally in the flickering lamplight.
The two men holding Kael suddenly jerked back, their hands snapping open as if touching him burned.
"What the hell—?"
Kael's breathing slowed. The pain in his ribs, the ache in his skull — gone. Replaced by something else. Something alive, crawling beneath his skin.
The horned figure stepped closer, passing through one of the enforcers as though the man were made of mist. The thug staggered, clutching his chest with a strangled gasp. His veins darkened, spiderwebbing under the skin, and he collapsed, twitching once before going still.
The leader took a step back. "What did you do?!"
Kael looked at his hands. They were trembling — not from fear, but from an unfamiliar strength thrumming through his muscles. His vision sharpened; every droplet of water, every quiver of the leader's blade, every heartbeat — he could see it, hear it, taste it.
"Eat," the voice whispered again. "Not with your mouth. With your will."
Kael didn't know how he did it — only that he wanted.
The leader's eyes went wide as something invisible dragged at him, pulling, draining. His knees buckled. His skin paled. And Kael felt it — warmth flooding into him, a rush of stolen vitality, as if the man's very existence was being swallowed whole.
The knife clattered to the ground.
Kael let go. The leader slumped into the mud, barely breathing.
The horned figure leaned close, its grin too wide. "That was just a crumb. Imagine what a king's feast would taste like."
The remaining thug ran. The horned figure didn't even glance his way. "Let him go. Fear spreads the scent."
Kael's chest rose and fell, adrenaline singing in his blood. "What… what did I just do?"
"You consumed him," the figure said simply. "A little life. A little strength. One day, you'll consume more — crowns, armies, gods. But every bite comes at a cost."
Kael swallowed, but the taste of power lingered on his tongue. And for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid.
---
The rain kept falling, cold and unrelenting, drumming against the rusted tin roofs and running in grimy rivulets through the alley's cracked cobblestones.
Kael's boots squelched in the mud as he stepped over the leader's limp body. He didn't want to look too closely — not because of fear, but because a small, treacherous part of him enjoyed seeing the man crumpled like that.
What the hell is wrong with me?
His fingers flexed, half-expecting that strange invisible pull to happen again. The warmth still lingered in his muscles, but faint now, like embers cooling after a firestorm.
The horned figure drifted beside him, though its hooves didn't splash in the puddles. It was taller than Kael had realized, and it carried the scent of burnt parchment and something darker — like blood left too long in the air.
"You did well," it said, voice low but resonant enough to cut through the sound of rain. "For someone who has never tasted before."
Kael shot it a sharp look. "You're not real. This… this is some head injury or fever dream."
The figure tilted its head. "Do fever dreams leave corpses in their wake?"
Kael's gaze flicked toward the leader. His chest rose shallowly — not dead, but close. The sight twisted his stomach.
He should have felt guilt. He wanted to feel guilt. Instead, the memory of power — that rush of stolen life — gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
"Why me?" Kael muttered.
The figure didn't answer immediately. Instead, it knelt beside the unconscious leader, pressing clawed fingers to the man's temple. The thug shuddered, lips moving silently, as if whispering secrets in his sleep.
Finally, the figure stood. "Because hunger does not choose the rich or the worthy. It chooses the hungry. And you, Kael, have starved long enough."
Kael's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one asks for a knife before they stab. Yet here we are."
The last surviving thug's footsteps had long faded down the winding streets. Kael could already imagine the whispers spreading — about the night a dock rat took down three of Bramport's most feared debt-collectors. That kind of story didn't stay quiet in a city like this.
Bramport thrived on rumors as much as it thrived on blood. The city was a patchwork of districts ruled by merchant guilds, smuggler crews, and self-proclaimed "watch captains" — all feeding off the desperation of those living under them. Kael had spent most of his twenty-two years learning how to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
Now? He'd just painted a target on his back in fresh, dripping colors.
"Walk with me," the figure said, turning without waiting for agreement.
Against every instinct, Kael followed.
---
They moved through narrow lanes where the smell of saltwater mixed with rotting fish, past shuttered shopfronts and sagging laundry lines swaying in the wind. Kael kept glancing over his shoulder, but no one followed.
"You're not exactly… subtle," he said. "People are going to notice a horned shadow following me."
"They only see what they're allowed to see," the figure replied. "Right now, I am for you alone."
Kael didn't like the sound of that. "So you're some kind of… parasite?"
The figure chuckled. "If you like. But parasites drain without giving. I offer you a feast."
Kael's brow furrowed. "And what's the price? There's always a price."
"Everything," the figure said simply. "Eventually."
Kael stopped in the middle of the lane. "No deal."
The figure turned slowly, its eyes glimmering like molten brass. "You've already eaten, Kael. The first bite binds the tongue. Whether you want the rest or not, the hunger will come."
The words were too certain, too final. Kael's gut twisted.
He thought of the years of empty bellies, of fists slamming into his ribs because he'd missed a payment, of nights where his sister, Mara, had cried herself to sleep from hunger while he lied to her about things getting better.
If this… thing… could make sure no one ever had that power over him again…
No.
He shook his head sharply, pushing the thought away. "I'm going home."
The figure's smile widened, though its eyes didn't change. "Home, then. But remember — the first bite is never the last."
---
By the time Kael reached the leaning, two-room shack he shared with Mara, the rain had soaked through his coat. He stepped inside quietly, careful not to wake her.
The interior smelled of damp wood and boiled cabbage. Mara was curled under a patched blanket on the cot, her dark hair spilling over the pillow.
Kael crouched beside her, brushing a stray strand from her face. She stirred but didn't wake.
He should have been thinking about the danger he'd just brought to their doorstep. About the gang retaliation, about the thing that called itself his benefactor.
But all he could think about was how light the leader had felt in his grip when the life drained from him.
And how much stronger Kael had felt with every heartbeat he stole.
---
Kael stayed crouched by Mara's cot longer than he meant to, watching the slow, even rise and fall of her breathing. Her face was softer in sleep, untouched by the constant grind of the city.
He envied her for that.
Finally, he stood, peeling off his soaked coat and hanging it by the warped doorframe. His shirt clung to his skin, cold as the sea, and his fingers were stiff from the night air. He poured himself a mug of lukewarm water from the clay jug, took a sip, then stopped.
The taste was different.
It wasn't the metallic tang of Bramport's overused wells — it was richer, heavier, as if the water carried something thicker beneath the surface. His throat tightened, and for a heartbeat he felt the same invisible pull he'd felt in the alley.
He set the mug down hard, the clay chipping at the rim.
Not again. Not now.
But the sensation lingered — like a whisper brushing against the back of his skull.
Hunger…
He turned sharply toward the corner of the room, half-expecting to see the horned figure standing in the shadows. Nothing. Only the warped outline of their cupboard and the thin rope of smoke curling from the cooking pit.
Still, the whisper didn't fade.
Kael rubbed his temples. "I'm just tired."
---
He lay on his cot across from Mara's, the straw mattress creaking under his weight. The sound of the rain outside had softened, replaced by the slow drip of water seeping through the roof into a metal bucket.
For a time, he tried to focus on the rhythm of it, to let it pull him into sleep. But when it came, it was not restful.
---
He was back in the alley.
The bodies of the debt-collectors lay around him, but they were… wrong. Their skin was pale and thin, stretched tight over jagged bones. Their eyes were open, glassy, staring straight at him.
One by one, their mouths moved, but no sound came — only the shape of the same word over and over.
Hunger.
Kael stepped back, but the cobblestones beneath his boots pulsed like a living thing. The walls of the alley warped, narrowing, until they curved overhead to form a ribcage. The sky vanished.
From the shadows between the ribs, the horned figure emerged.
Its horns were longer now, sweeping upward like blackened branches. Its body was leaner, but the edges of it blurred, as though it wasn't entirely solid.
"You've tasted power," it said. "And you will again."
"I don't want it," Kael said. His voice cracked in the strange air. "I didn't ask—"
The figure's voice overrode his, smooth as oil. "You think your refusal matters? The first bite is a seed. Seeds grow. They need to grow."
The ground shifted. Bones erupted from the earth like roots, curling toward him. The pale faces of the thugs appeared within them, their eyes pleading now, their mouths still shaping that single word.
Hunger.
Kael's chest tightened. His legs refused to move. The air thickened until every breath scraped against his lungs.
The figure stepped closer, its molten gaze locking onto his. "When the next feast comes, you will not hesitate. You will take. And each time you take, you will rise higher… until you stand above kings."
Kael's voice was barely a whisper. "And then?"
The figure's smile was a slow, dangerous curve. "And then you will eat the gods."
---
He woke with a sharp gasp, sitting upright so quickly the cot groaned beneath him.
The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp. A thin band of grey light slipped through the crooked window, casting a pale glow over the room.
Mara was still asleep. The bucket under the leak was nearly full.
Kael pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heartbeat. It wasn't just a dream. He knew it wasn't.
And worse — a small part of him wanted to know if the figure had been telling the truth.
---
Before he could dwell on it, three sharp knocks rattled the door.
Kael froze. No one knocked at this hour unless it was trouble.
The knocks came again, louder.
Mara stirred, murmuring, "Kael…?"
He gestured for her to stay down and moved quietly to the door, muscles tense. He unlatched it just enough to peek outside.
A man stood in the grey morning light, his coat far too fine for the docks, his hair slicked back in a style only the upper districts favored. But his boots were spattered with mud, and there was something too casual in the way he leaned on the doorframe.
"You're Kael," the man said. Not a question.
Kael's grip tightened on the door. "Depends who's asking."
The man's smile was thin. "You made a mess last night. The kind of mess that draws… interest."
"Not interested."
The man's gaze sharpened. "You will be. My employer has an offer. And trust me — you don't want to refuse him."
---
Kael didn't move from the doorway. "If your boss wants something from me, tell him to come himself."
The man's smirk didn't falter. "He doesn't make house calls. But he does pay well. Better than whatever scraps you're clawing together in this hole."
"Not interested."
The man's smile faded, replaced by something sharper. "You don't understand. Last night — people saw what you did. Men with shattered bones and burst veins don't just 'fall over.'"
Kael's stomach tightened.
The man tilted his head. "You want to protect that girl in there? Then you'll come with me. If you don't, the people who really want to know what you are will get here first. And they don't knock."
Kael glanced back at Mara. She had pushed herself up on one elbow, watching silently. Her eyes were wide, but she said nothing.
He turned back to the man. "Fine. But she stays here."
The man grinned again, stepping back from the door. "Good choice."
---
They walked through the wet streets, the morning air thick with the smell of fish and rain-soaked wood. The city was still waking, but Kael noticed more than one set of eyes following them from shadowed doorways.
The man led him into the southern end of the docks, to a warehouse whose windows had been blacked out. Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and metal.
Half a dozen men waited there, each armed — but not with ordinary blades. The steel shimmered faintly, as if heat warped the air around them.
Kael stopped. "You brought me to a gang."
The man shook his head. "We're not a gang. We're something… bigger. And we want to see if you're worth the trouble."
One of the armed men stepped forward, tossing a knife into the air and catching it by the blade. "Test's simple," he said. "In that crate"—he nodded toward a large wooden box in the corner—"is a man who owes us a debt. You finish him, you walk out with coin and a place among us. You refuse…" He trailed off with a shrug.
Kael narrowed his eyes. "You want me to kill a stranger?"
The man who'd brought him here folded his arms. "Not just a stranger. The man in that crate has been… touched by something. We saw what you did last night. We think you can do it again."
Kael's chest tightened. He didn't need to open the crate to feel it — that same pull, the whisper pressing at the edge of his mind.
Hunger…
His breath came faster. The air thickened, just like in the dream.
One of the men smirked. "What's the matter? Need a push?"
The lid of the crate creaked open. Inside, shackled and gagged, was a man with eyes far too bright for a normal human. His gaze locked on Kael instantly — and Kael felt it. Power. Stronger than last night.
The hunger roared in his skull.
Kael's hand trembled. He could walk away. He could refuse.
But the whisper was no longer a whisper.
Take him. Devour him.
His nails bit into his palms. The men were watching closely. The air around the prisoner shimmered.
Kael took a slow step forward.
---
From the far end of the warehouse, in the deepest shadows, another figure watched — tall, lean, with horns curling upward like smoke. The Devil's molten eyes burned with quiet amusement.
"This," he murmured to no one, "is where the feast truly begins."
---
The prisoner lunged forward, chains snapping, and Kael felt his vision narrow to a single point. His teeth clenched, every muscle in his body ready to—