Chapter 4: A Hollow Meal

The streets of the city stretched endlessly before Elias, their noise and movement making his head throb. He forced himself to push aside any thoughts of the girl who had helped him. She didn't matter. Nothing did—not the people, not the city, not the meaningless interactions of those who still had lives to live.

What mattered was survival.

His stomach twisted with hunger, a dull ache that had been easy to ignore while his rage had burned brightly. But now, in the lull that followed the encounter in the alley, he felt it gnawing at him. He needed food.

After wandering through winding streets and crowded alleys, Elias found what he was looking for—a cheap, rundown restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. Its wooden sign was chipped, the paint faded, but the scent of roasted meat and stale ale drifted from inside, reminding him how long it had been since his last proper meal.

He stepped through the doorway, his presence barely acknowledged by the tired patrons scattered across the dimly lit room. Most of them were drunks or travelers, their faces shadowed with exhaustion, their voices murmuring in quiet conversations. No one paid him any attention, and he preferred it that way.

Elias walked up to the counter, where an old man with graying hair and a disinterested gaze wiped a wooden mug clean.

"What'll it be?" the man asked without looking up.

Elias reached into his pocket, pulling out a few copper coins he had taken from the wreckage of his home before leaving. It wasn't much, but it would be enough for something simple.

"Whatever this can get me," Elias muttered.

The old man glanced at the coins, then gave a short nod. A moment later, a plate was set before Elias—a chunk of bread, a bowl of thin stew, and a small piece of meat that looked like it had been overcooked hours ago. It wasn't much, but food was food.

He took a seat in the corner of the room, as far from the others as possible. As he ate, he realized how little he cared about the taste. The food might as well have been ash in his mouth. Every bite was mechanical, done out of necessity rather than any real desire.

Around him, the conversations continued. He caught snippets of talk about the upcoming Trials, of warriors seeking glory, of adventurers hoping to gain favor with the gods. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on his meal. He didn't care about glory. He didn't care about gaining favor. He was here for only one reason—revenge.

When he finished eating, he left the plate behind and stepped back into the night air.

The city was quieter now, though the distant hum of activity never fully faded. Elias needed a place to sleep, somewhere out of the way where he wouldn't be disturbed.

After walking for what felt like hours, he found a small, run-down inn at the edge of the city. The building looked as though it had been standing for centuries, its wooden beams cracked, the paint peeling. But it was cheap, and that was all that mattered.

Inside, the innkeeper barely spared him a glance as he slid a few more coins across the counter.

"Room's upstairs, second door on the left," the man grunted.

Elias took the key and climbed the creaky stairs, exhaustion weighing heavily on him.

The room was small and sparse—a simple bed, a wooden chair, and a single candle on a nightstand. It was enough.

As he sat on the bed, he let out a slow breath, his body finally beginning to register how tired he truly was. But sleep wouldn't come easily. His mind was too full, his thoughts a storm that refused to settle. The images of his family, the laughter of the people in the city, the taste of food that no longer mattered—it all swirled together in a mess of emotions he couldn't untangle.

For the first time since arriving in the city, he allowed himself to admit something he had been avoiding.

He was lost. Not just physically, but in every sense of the word.

He had nothing. No home. No family. No purpose beyond the hunger for vengeance that refused to let go.

Lying back on the bed, he stared at the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists.

Tomorrow, he would find the Trial. Tomorrow, he would take the first step toward making the gods pay.

But for tonight, he was just a broken boy in a forgotten room, surrounded by a city that didn't care whether he lived or died.

And for the first time in days, he closed his eyes.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he had nothing else left to do.