The Devourer's Curse

Weeks passed in a haze of sweat and humiliation. Alistair's attempts to reclaim his body felt Sisyphean—every step on the manor's stairs left him gasping, every swing of a practice sword dissolved into trembling failure.

Cecily smuggled him lean meats and bitter herbal tonics, but progress was glacial.

This body is a prison, he seethed, taking a breath in between thoughts, staring at his dim reflection in a soup spoon.

Then, one evening, a platter arrived from the kitchens: a rare Wyvern steak, its edges shimmering with mana-infused herbs, meant for his father's table.

Alistair's stomach growled—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated in his bones. Not hunger. Hunger.

The steak sat congealing on the tray, its arcane glow faint but unmistakable.

Alistair poked it, grimacing. "Magic rations? Father really does spare no expense for himself."

His stomach roared again, a sound like grinding stones. On impulse, he tore off a chunk with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth.

Fire exploded across his tongue. Not spice—power. A thread of molten energy snaked down his throat, coiling in his gut before surging outward. His muscles tightened, his pulse steadied.

For three glorious breaths, he felt… light. Then, nothing.

The steak turned to ash on his tongue.

Alistair stared at the remaining meat. Hallucination? But his hands—still doughy, still stained with gravy—no longer trembled. A voice, faint and serpentine, hissed in his mind: More.

"My Lord?" Cecily hovered in the doorway, eyeing the half-eaten steak. "Your father's steward is asking why his dinner never arrived."

Alistair wiped his mouth, pulse racing. "Tell him the dogs got it."

As she left, he pressed a hand to his stomach. What did I just do?

That night, Alistair lay awake, the voice in his mind now a persistent murmur: Consume. Feed.

Moonlight pooled on the floor as he crept to the window, his corpulent silhouette grotesque against the silver light. Below, the manor's kitchens were dark, but he knew where the enchanted imports were stored—apples from the Elvish groves, their skins glittering with preservation spells.

A test, he told himself. One more test.

His hands shook, but not from weakness this time.

The apple glowed faintly in his palm, its magic humming like a trapped bee. Alistair bit into it, juice dripping down his chin.

Fireworks.

Heat blazed through him, sharper than the steak's—a wildfire racing along his nerves. His veins lit like molten gold beneath his skin, and for a heartbeat, his body felt weightless, powerful. The apple's flesh dissolved into ash, but the energy lingered, thrumming in his fingertips. He flexed his hand, marveling as the tremors from hours of sword practice vanished.

It's the magic. I'm absorbing it.

The realization struck like a thunderclap.

He sank onto a stool, mind racing.

This wasn't gluttony. It was alchemy. His curse, his salvation. But the risks… If the family discovered he could drain enchanted resources meant for their armies, they'd eviscerate him like a pig.

A floorboard creaked.

Alistair froze, shoving the apple core into his pocket. Cecily's shadow flickered in the hallway, her lantern bobbing. He waited until her footsteps faded, then let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held.

No one can know.

He traced the ash on his palm, the Devourer's voice now a satisfied purr in his skull. For the first time since awakening, Alistair smiled.