The Nameless Hunger

There was no time here.

No sky. No breath. No way to tell how long he had stood in this place—this stone corridor that bled shadow and memory in equal measure. The feathers on the walls pulsed like skin, wet and warm, and the ground beneath his feet whispered with each step.

Not words.

But **names**.

Names that had once belonged to children. Names that were burned from the mouths of mothers. Names that, when spoken aloud, could split the air and open wounds in places no blade could reach.

Kliwon no longer pretended to be brave.

He no longer fought to steady his heartbeat or deny the rising tide of dread that wrapped around his lungs like ivy.

This was not fear.

This was remembrance.

The corridor opened into a chamber so vast he could not see its ceiling. It was not a cave. Not a temple.

It was a **mouth**.

The walls curved inward like ribs, and the air moved not with wind, but with breath. A giant one—slow and endless. As though the land itself was dreaming, and he had walked into the hollow of its throat.

And in the center, **they** waited.

They were not Watchers.

They were what Watchers feared.

Seven of them.

Seven thrones carved from bone and obsidian. Seven figures wrapped in silence and shadow. They had no eyes. No mouths. But they turned toward him in unison, and the feathers on their skin writhed like maggots.

The one in the middle stood.

It did not walk. It did not float.

It moved like a thought.

Suddenly, it was before him.

And when it spoke, it did so through **Kliwon's own voice**.

> "So the last one remembers."

He fell to his knees.

Not out of submission.

But because his body could not remain upright in their presence.

He felt it immediately—the weight of all those who had ever invoked them. Of every blood-offering, every scream sealed into ash, every child sacrificed in the name of harvest, of rain, of health.

Their power was not built on darkness.

It was built on **memory denied**.

On grief swallowed whole.

Kliwon raised his head, trembling.

"What are you?"

The entity did not answer with words.

Instead, it reached forward.

And touched his forehead.

---

**Memory.**

Not his own.

A thousand years ago.

A tribe in the heart of a jungle with no name.

A child born during an eclipse. Eyes black. Skin marked with feathers.

They called her **Sembara**.

She never spoke.

But when she screamed, the trees bent.

The tribe believed she was cursed.

They built a pyre.

The fire reached the sky.

And when she burned, **they came**.

The Seven.

Born not of flesh.

Born of **meaning**.

Formed from the first pain that was never mourned.

They fed on the scream.

And found it sweet.

So they stayed.

They taught the tribe the first songs. The first symbols. The first sacrifices.

And the world bent to their rules.

Every ritual since then was an echo.

A way to keep them asleep.

But not forgotten.

Because if the rituals stopped—

They would wake.

---

Kliwon gasped.

He was back in the chamber.

His skin burned.

His blood ran cold.

And the Seven had begun to move.

Their heads tilted, as if listening.

Then the central one said—again, in his voice:

> "You broke the pact."

"No," Kliwon said. "I completed the ritual. I gave the offering."

> "You gave a memory. Not a soul. The balance remains hungry."

He stood, struggling against the pull of the chamber.

"Then take me," he said.

"I'm not afraid."

The Seven laughed.

Or perhaps it was the chamber laughing.

It echoed in every direction—laughter not cruel, but **ancient**, as if amusement had not been felt in centuries.

> "You misunderstand.

> You are not the meal.

> You are the **fire**."

He blinked.

"What?"

> "The fire that unbinds.

> The wind that scatters ash.

> You carry all of them now—

> Their names.

> Their pain.

> Their voices."

> "And you have brought them here."

Suddenly, the chamber rippled.

And they appeared.

The spirits.

The children. The mothers. The broken men and the silent wives. The ones who had whispered into Kliwon's ear for weeks. The ones who had touched his hand and wept.

They surrounded the thrones.

But they were not kneeling.

They stood tall.

Some weeping.

Some screaming.

Some singing.

The sound filled the chamber.

A roar of names.

> "We are not forgotten.

> We are not offerings.

> We are not yours."

And the Seven reeled.

Their shadows broke like glass.

The feathers on their arms writhed.

And then—**they screamed**.

It was not a human scream.

It was the sound of language breaking.

Of meaning unraveling.

Kliwon stepped forward, holding out his palm.

The crow mark shone like a star.

"You fed on their silence," he said.

"But they remember now."

He clenched his fist.

"And I do too."

The chamber shook.

Cracks split the thrones.

The walls peeled back like wings.

And light—real, golden light—poured in.

The Seven rose as one, towering over him.

But they were no longer solid.

They were becoming memory.

And memory, once spoken aloud, cannot control.

---

As the light touched Kliwon's face, he felt them leaving.

The spirits.

Not in pain.

In **release**.

They nodded to him, one by one.

Some wept as they vanished.

Others smiled.

And the chamber crumbled.

---

He awoke in a forest clearing.

The mirror beside him.

This one uncracked.

And in its surface, he saw **himself**.

Whole.

Alive.

And alone.

For the first time, the mark on his palm did not burn.

It was still there.

But quiet.

Dormant.

He stood.

The forest was alive with birdsong.

Real birds.

No feathers on the wind. No crows circling overhead.

Just life.

Just breath.

He did not know if the Seven were truly gone.

He did not know if other gates remained.

But he knew what he had become.

Not a Watcher.

Not a priest.

Not a child of ritual.

He was the one who **remembered**.

And that would be enough.

---