Hunger Unleashed

Arven moved through the Arena's stone corridors, shoulders tense and aching. The bruises from training still throbbed beneath his skin, but something worse gnawed at him now. Something deeper.

His throat was dry. Not thirsty, desperate. A hollow burn settled behind his tongue, refusing to fade. His skin felt tight, his vision too bright, every edge too sharp. He caught the faintest whiff of blood, some scrape or old cut in the air, and it nearly buckled him.

He rubbed his arm, fingers digging in, trying to anchor himself. It didn't help. Every step felt heavier than the last. The floor might as well have been pulling him down. The world had grown too vivid, too loud, too full of heat and scent and pressure.

"I need something," he muttered, voice low and cracked. "A fight.. Anything."

He rounded a corner, and there she was.

Veyra.

Leaning back against a wall, chatting with two fighters, her stance casual, loose. Her red hair was messily tied back, a few strands clinging to her sweat-slick skin. Bandages hugged her ribs, and fresh bruises colored her shoulder. She didn't seem to notice or care.

She wasn't tall, just a little shorter than Arven, but she felt taller. Denser. Like a coiled weapon walking around in human skin. Everything about her gave off heat and motion and sharp edges.

He didn't pause.

He walked straight to her, voice low and frayed at the edge. "Spar with me."

Veyra turned, and her eyes lit up instantly. Her mouth curved into a sharp grin.

"Thought you'd never ask," she said, voice warm with amusement. "But you sure? You and me? You're still half-bandaged."

"I want to see if I even stand a chance."

She tilted her head, studying him.

"Alright," she said with a shrug. "But you know we're not in the same weight class. I'll go easy."

"Don't," he said.

That grin widened.

They headed down the quieter hall together, footsteps soft on worn stone. The torches lining the corridor flickered as they passed, throwing long shadows behind them.

Arven could barely think straight.

He was aware of her in a way that wasn't normal, every breath she took, every shift of her hips, the scent of sweat and iron clinging to her skin. The blood hunger twisted in his gut, sharp and coiling. His fangs pressed faintly against the inside of his lip.

Bleed. Then feed. Bleed. Then feed.

They entered an unused sparring room, square, sunlit from open skylights above. The air was dry, the silence pressing.

Veyra stepped in first, rolling her shoulders loose. She bounced lightly on her bare feet, flexing her fingers with an eager grin.

"Alright, Red," she said, voice bright. "Let's see if you've got more fight than sense."

Arven exhaled, sharp and shallow. His pulse raced. The hunger gnawed at his throat, clawed at his skin. He could smell her blood. Feel it.

But his mind sharpened through it.

Bleed. Then feed.

He raised his guard and stepped forward.

Veyra circled him lazily, hands low, a spark in her eyes.

Arven struck first. A fast jab. Testing range.

She tilted her head and batted it aside like it was nothing.

"Too stiff," she said.

He didn't stop. A one-two combo, followed by a low kick aimed at her thigh.

She skipped back, light as air.

"You're not going to tag me like that."

Arven growled and came in again, sharper this time. A hook thrown with more weight.

She blocked with her forearm, then stepped in fast.

Her fist drove into his ribs.

Pain flared bright, but he barely reacted before her other fist caught his jaw, clean, hard. His head snapped to the side.

Stars exploded behind his eyes.

He stumbled, breath caught in his throat.

Veyra paused, one eyebrow lifted. "You good?"

Arven spat blood, his lip split. He rose slow, breath hissing through his teeth.

"Do more," he said, voice rough.

Something wild flickered across her face.

Her grin turned feral.

"Gladly."

Veyra came faster now.

Arven caught the first punch on his shoulder, but it rocked him off balance. Before he could recover, a low kick slammed into his thigh, jarring the muscle and buckling his knee. He grunted, forced himself forward anyway, swinging wide and wild.

She ducked effortlessly. His fist sailed past.

Her elbow rammed into his gut.

Air exploded from his lungs. His knees gave. She grabbed his arm mid-collapse, twisted it, and drove him face-first into the floor.

Stone tore into his cheek. Blood smeared across the ground.

Through the ringing in his ears, her voice came soft and smug.

"Come on, Red. You're not ready yet."

And that was when it started.

Why does it feel like this?

Memory surged, fists flying in the alleys of Earth, busted knuckles, the thick stink of fear and sweat. He'd fought then. Desperate. Reckless. Alive.

But this wasn't fear now.

It wasn't rage.

It was something deeper.

Hunger.

Sharp… Raw. Old…. ancient.

It opened inside him like a second heartbeat.

More.

He pushed himself up on shaking limbs, blood trickling down his face, breath coming ragged through clenched teeth.

Veyra's grin faded, not gone, but cautious now.

"You really don't know when to quit."

She charged again. Fast.

Arven ducked low, arms barely catching the first punch. The second crushed into his shoulder. The third, a vicious hook, caught him across the mouth.

His head snapped sideways. Blood flew.

He staggered, then crashed into the wall with a thud that rattled the room.

"Red," Veyra called, stepping toward him. "This is done. You can't take-"

"Shut up!"

The words came out raw, ripped from his throat. Not a shout. A snarl.

Veyra blinked. Surprise, real and sharp, cracked her calm for just a second.

Arven's foot slammed down hard, cracking the stone floor beneath him. Not for show. For force. The impact surged through his body like lightning.

He moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

The world blurred.

His body launched forward like a shot from a bow, the hunger screaming through his veins. His eyes locked on her. Her arms came up, but she was a breath too slow.

He hit her like a battering ram, full force, shoulder to chest.

She staggered back, off balance.

Arven twisted in close, too close for her to adjust.

And then his mouth found skin.

His teeth sank into her exposed arm.

Blood burst across his tongue, hot, thick, alive.

The taste shattered everything.

It wasn't like Celyne's careful offer. This was raw, stolen, fresh from a beating heart. It rushed into him like fire poured down his throat. His entire body pulsed with it. His muscles lit up. Every nerve flared.

Veyra jerked in his arms, gasping.

He held tighter, drinking deep. The taste drowned everything, sound, pain, even thought.

It was everything.

Veyra's voice cut through the haze, low and angry.

"You little bastard."

Her hands tangled in his hair and yanked back hard, then she slammed his head into the wall.

Stone cracked. Stars burst behind his eyes.

His grip weakened.

Another slam followed, even harder.

His skull screamed. The taste of blood filled his mouth, his and hers.

Then she shoved him off with a grunt, stumbling back.

They stood apart, both gasping.

Blood streamed from her arm. Her chest rose and fell in deep, angry breaths. She watched him now with something new behind her eyes, no longer playfulness. Not even annoyance.

Wariness.

Arven wobbled on his feet. His legs didn't want to hold him. His arms hung slack.

But inside?

Inside burned something wild.

The hunger had eased, yes.

But something else remained.

Her blood was still in him, hot, coiling beneath his skin. Not just energy.

Not just fuel.

It felt aware.

And he had no idea what that meant.

Veyra stood still, cradling her bleeding arm, eyes locked on him like he was something she hadn't seen before.

"You're a vampire," she said, voice low but certain.

Arven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his skin, warm and sticky. He was still swaying, bones buzzing with what he'd taken.

"Yeah," he rasped. His voice sounded foreign to him, raw and deeper than usual.

Veyra narrowed her eyes. "Then how the hell did you fight under sunlight?"

Arven offered the faintest smile, crooked and tired. "I'm special," he said. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Truth was, he didn't understand it either. The thirst had eased, yes, but the thing that entered his blood hadn't simply fed him. It had altered something. Shifted something. A presence lingered beneath his skin, subtle but undeniable.

It felt like connection.

Like echo.

He wouldn't say any of that out loud.

Not yet.

Veyra flexed her arm, the blood running slow now. Her eyes didn't leave him.

"Well," she muttered. "That explains a lot."

Arven exhaled through clenched teeth, dragging his hand across his face again. He smeared more red across his cheek, but didn't care.

"Are we done?"

Veyra gave a lopsided grin despite the pain. "I'd keep going, but you look like you're about to fall over."

She turned slightly, testing her shoulder, her gaze still pinned to him, less playful now. More calculating.

She was reassessing him. Not as a fighter.

As something else.

Arven straightened slowly. His ribs screamed, and his skull throbbed from the wall slam, but there was something beneath the pain. A strange, deep satisfaction. Like something buried had finally been fed.

He didn't know what it would become.

But it wasn't over.

Not even close.

He gave her one last look, then turned and walked toward the door. His steps were slow, uneven, but steady.

The fight was over.

Something else had begun.

And whatever it was, it wouldn't stop here.