Chapter 4

Ashen sat in the dark.

His back pressed against the cold stone of the ruined temple, his breath shallow, his arms limp at his sides. His sword was still buried in the corpse of the Rakar Beast. His fingers refused to move, the pain in his body settling into a dull, numbing ache.

Blood dripped from his torn arm, pooling on the ground. His heartbeat was slow, heavy.

He had survived.

But he was dying.

His body was shutting down. The weight of exhaustion, hunger, and blood loss dragged him toward unconsciousness. Every second he kept his eyes open was a battle.

"If I sleep, I won't wake up."

But he couldn't move.

He had nothing left.

His stomach twisted violently, the hunger clawing at him like an animal gnawing on his insides. When was the last time he had eaten? Hours? A day? Time blurred together.

His vision swam.

He looked at the dead beast lying only feet away, its blood still warm.

A thought crossed his mind.

No.

No, he couldn't.

His fingers twitched. His breath came in short, weak gasps.

The hunger didn't care.

The survival instinct buried deep within him didn't care.

His hands moved on their own, dragging his exhausted body forward inch by inch. His ribs screamed in protest. His wounded arm trembled violently. But he didn't stop.

He reached the Rakar Beast, collapsing beside it. The creature's thick hide was like stone, its jagged plates still gleaming under the pale light. But where his sword had cut deep, there was an opening—a place where the flesh was exposed beneath the armor.

Ashen's fingers dug into it.

The moment he tore into the raw meat, his stomach twisted again, threatening to reject it. But he forced his jaw to move. Forced himself to chew.

The taste of iron filled his mouth.

It was disgusting.

It was food.

He swallowed.

And for the first time since the massacre, his body felt something other than weakness.

Hunger was the enemy, and he had conquered it.

The First Nightmares

He didn't remember falling asleep.

But when he opened his eyes, the world was red.

The sky, the ground, the temple walls—all bathed in the color of blood. The air was thick and suffocating, like he was trapped in something unseen. A heavy weight pressed down on his chest.

He tried to move, but his body wouldn't listen.

And then he heard it.

The sound of footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Echoing through the ruins like a predator circling its prey.

A shadow loomed in front of him.

Zephyr.

His mentor. His killer. His betrayer.

The man who had shattered his world.

"Still alive?" Zephyr's voice was deep, amused, but distorted—like it wasn't really him. "Impressive. But that's not enough, is it?"

Ashen tried to speak, but his throat locked.

Zephyr's eyes glowed like embers.

"You want to kill me, don't you?"

Ashen's fists clenched.

Zephyr grinned, stepping closer. The shadows around him twisted, moving unnaturally. "Then prove it."

His sword whipped through the air.

Ashen barely had time to react before the blade plunged into his chest.

Pain exploded through him.

He gasped, looking down—the sword was buried deep, right through his heart.

Zephyr smirked. "Still too weak."

Ashen choked.

And then—

He woke up.

His body jolted violently, his breath ragged, his chest burning even though there was no wound. His hands grasped at his torso, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it would break through his ribs.

The ruins were still silent.

The corpse of the Rakar Beast was still beside him.

It was just a nightmare.

But the pain still felt real.

And in the back of his mind, something whispered.

"You are still weak."

The Hunt Begins

Morning came, though the sky was still a dull, gray emptiness.

Ashen stood outside the ruins, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He had to move.

The wasteland was not a place for hesitation.

His body still ached, his wounds still throbbed, but he had eaten. He had rested. And despite the nightmare, he was still alive.

Now, he needed to find more food.

The Rakar had been a stroke of luck, but he couldn't rely on luck forever. He needed to learn to hunt.

The Forsaken had taught him the basics, but back then, he had always been too slow, too weak. They had done the real hunting while he watched.

That was over.

He scanned the horizon. The wastelands stretched endlessly in all directions, cracked earth and jagged cliffs marking the landscape. But in the distance, he spotted something.

Movement.

Small. Fast. Prey.

A desert hare, its fur a pale gray that blended with the dust. It moved carefully, ears twitching.

Ashen reached for his sword.

Too slow.

The hare's head snapped up. It bolted.

Ashen lunged—but his body was still sluggish.

The hare was gone in an instant, disappearing into the cracked earth.

Ashen gritted his teeth.

"Too slow. Too weak."

His grip tightened around the sword.

He would try again.

And again.

Until he caught something.

Blood on His Hands

Two days passed.

Ashen barely slept.

He tracked every movement, studied every twitch of the prey. He learned where the smaller creatures hid, how they moved, when they stopped to drink from hidden sources of water.

And finally—

His sword struck true.

The hare twitched once. Then it was still.

His first clean kill.

It was small. Insignificant to anyone else.

But to Ashen, it was everything.

He knelt beside the corpse, his breath steady. The hunger inside him was quieter now, but he didn't rush. He forced himself to take his time.

He had learned.

He had adapted.

He was surviving.

But survival was not enough.

Not yet.

Not until he was strong enough to kill Zephyr.

He wiped the blood from his blade.

And then, for the first time since the Forsaken's massacre, he smiled.

It was not the smile of joy.

It was the smile of someone who had taken their first step toward something monstrous.