Iron Hunger

The Hollow never truly slept.

By night, it whispered — creaking wood, coughing lungs, the distant clang of makeshift hammers. Children curled up beside scrap-fires. Old men murmured about "when it was worse," though few could name a time when it wasn't.

Logan stood alone on a rooftop, eyes cast toward the Iron Court's distant silhouette. The fortress cut the skyline like a jagged tooth. Even from here, its towers looked invincible.

He clenched his left fist. His right arm — or what remained of it — pulsed faintly beneath its wrappings. The Ash Plate hadn't spoken again, but it didn't need to.

It hungered.

So did he.

---

Kaela found him just before dawn, carrying a steaming tin of bitter broth.

"You're not sleeping," she said.

"Neither are you," Logan replied, not turning.

Kaela set the tin beside him and leaned against the wall. "Word came from the outer districts. A squad of Iron Knights swept through—said they were looking for 'a rogue thief of state property.' They didn't leave survivors."

Logan's jaw tensed. "Because of me."

"Because of them," she corrected. "You just gave them a new excuse."

He didn't answer. The silence between them carried a shared understanding: the Iron Court's cruelty was never new. Only louder now.

---

In the farthest district of the city — the Gate Quarter, where the Iron Fortress met the edge of the outer world — a man stepped through the fog like a sword being drawn.

Knight Solen of the Fang Plate.

His armor was obsidian-dark, jagged along the arms and shoulders like carved bone. Every step he took left frost on the stone beneath him — his aura a cold counterpoint to Logan's fire.

He stopped before the burned remains of a rebel safehouse, eyes scanning the charred bones of a child near the door.

He spoke to no one.

> "Starved Flame. You feed on pain."

He unsheathed his glaive, its edge whispering like a butcher's promise.

> "Let's see if you burn through ice."

---

Back in the Hollow, training resumed. Logan pushed himself harder now — not out of pride, but necessity.

Every rebel who looked at him saw a symbol.

He couldn't afford to be weak.

Hark watched from the side of the pit, arms crossed, grunting occasionally as Logan failed to dodge a flurry of staff strikes from one of the more experienced fighters.

Kaela approached him quietly.

"He's reckless."

"No," Hark said. "He's desperate. That's worse."

Kaela's voice dropped. "I heard from a smuggler. They've released a named knight."

Hark's face darkened. "Which one?"

"Fang."

"…Shit."

---

Logan collapsed onto the stone, breathing hard, the ash-heat in his arm flaring wildly.

He gritted his teeth. Why do you burn so loud when I lose?

The mark on his arm pulsed — not in pain, but in response.

A voice — faint, distant — brushed the edge of his thoughts.

> Because loss is fuel.

---

That night, a child approached him.

Same boy as before — wooden sword, too-big coat, fire in his eyes.

"Teach me."

Logan blinked. "What?"

"I want to fight. Like you."

"You don't," Logan said quietly.

The boy stood taller. "I do."

Logan looked at the kid's eyes — saw himself in them. Saw hunger. Rage. Hope.

He sighed. "Come back tomorrow. With real wood for that sword."

---

That tomorrow never came.

Knight Solen arrived before the sun.

Without warning. Without mercy.

The Hollow burned.

---

Logan was jolted awake by screams. Smoke poured through the windows. Explosions echoed off the stone.

He ran through the corridors — no time for boots, shirt half-fastened, blade in hand.

Rebels were already fighting in the streets, but Solen moved through them like a shark through blood — methodical, freezing every weapon mid-air, shattering blades with a twist of his glaive.

His voice was ice over steel:

> "You were born of ash. I am the end of all flame."

He slammed his glaive into the ground — a shockwave of frost rippled through the street. Fires died. Skin cracked. People screamed.

Kaela fought near the courtyard, throwing knives that shattered against Solen's Plate.

Hark bellowed, charging with a steel maul — only for Solen to parry and drive him into the ground.

---

Logan appeared in the smoke, arm glowing red-hot, blade lit with ember-flame.

Solen turned, eyes narrowing beneath his helmet.

> "You must be the boy who screams in silence."

Their blades met.

Fire against ice.

Ash against steel.

Logan's flame flared, parrying strikes he could barely see. Every blow numbed his bones. Solen was faster, colder, cleaner.

Still — Logan moved.

Not by instinct.

By hunger.

---

Then Solen feinted low, spun — and drove the glaive into Logan's shoulder.

He collapsed.

The flame guttered.

The rebels shouted. The Hollow's children screamed.

Solen stood above Logan, lifting the glaive for the killing blow.

> "Fire starves without breath."

---

And then — the flame screamed.

Not Logan's.

The Ash Plate's.

It erupted — not from the wound, but from within. An explosion of raw heat sent Solen skidding backward, his armor sizzling. Logan rose, one eye bloodied, one arm aflame.

> "You want silence?" he rasped.

> "Then burn with me."

---

The second clash was raw, brutal, untrained.

Logan didn't fight like a soldier.

He fought like a wound.

Ash poured from his arm in streams. His blade became a molten brand. He didn't block — he absorbed. Letting pain fuel him. Letting memory drive him.

And for the first time, Solen was forced back.

The glaive cracked.

His frost shattered.

And then—

A scream cut through the battlefield.

The child.

The boy with the wooden sword.

Crushed beneath rubble from a collapsing wall.

---

Logan froze.

Solen took the opening and slammed his boot into Logan's chest, launching him backward through a stall.

But Solen didn't press the advantage.

He looked at the boy's body.

Then at Logan.

> "That," he said quietly, "is your legacy."

He vanished into the smoke, leaving Logan broken and the Hollow bleeding.

---

End of Chapter 4