Vathis: Ashes of the Forsaken

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The Hunger Does Not End

The first night after his transformation, Aeron did not sleep.

Sleep was for men.

For those who had limitations.

For those who did not know the endless, gnawing, ever-present hunger clawing at the walls of their mind.

He lay in the dark, awake, aware, waiting.

For what?

For more.

His body burned—an inferno deep inside, something that never dimmed, never settled, never let him rest. His stomach twisted, demanding more, always more.

Even now, despite the blood on his tongue, despite the atrocity that had been forced upon him, the truth could no longer be denied.

Selene had not been enough.

No single life could ever be enough.

And his father knew it.

"Still awake?" Malik's voice cut through the darkness, sharp and knowing.

Aeron turned his head, seeing his father standing in the ruined temple doorway, moonlight carving his silhouette into something monstrous.

"Your body is changing," Malik murmured, stepping closer. "You feel it, don't you?"

Aeron did not answer.

Because his father already knew.

The hunger was not something that could be hidden.

"You think it's unbearable now," Malik continued. "But it will only grow."

Aeron's fingers dug into the stone beneath him.

"You will never be satisfied."

Malik knelt beside him, voice soft.

"But if you listen to me… you will at least learn how to control it."

A lesson.

A leash.

Aeron hated him.

Hated him so much that the hunger whispered, Eat him. Eat him now. Rip out his throat and devour him whole.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

So he forced himself to sit up, forcing his rage and hatred into submission.

"Teach me."

Malik smiled.

"Good."

---

The Feast of the Forgotten

The training did not begin with magic.

It did not begin with combat.

It began with hunting.

"Before you devour gods, you must first learn to devour men."

Malik led him into the wilderness. Into the places where the lost and the broken wandered, where men who would not be missed existed in the shadow of the world.

Aeron was given one rule.

"No leftovers."

The first kill was sloppy.

He tore. He ripped. He bit.

But it wasn't enough.

The hunger mocked him.

More.

More.

MORE.

The second was better.

The third was clean.

By the fourth, he had learned to savor.

By the seventh, he no longer cared.

They were not people.

They were meat.

And he was starving.

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The Return to Civilization

The first time Aeron saw his reflection, he did not recognize himself.

His eyes were sharper.

His skin was pale, deathlike.

His teeth were wrong.

"You are almost ready," Malik told him.

Almost.

The hunger disagreed.

Aeron stared into his own gaze.

There was nothing left of the boy he had once been.

No dreams.

No hopes.

No love.

Only hunger.

And soon—

The gods would be next.