The moment Sythriss left, silence took its place.
Not a peaceful silence—an oppressive one.
I sat there, shoulders tense, staring at nothing, my hands curled into fists against the ice.
My breath was steady. Too steady. My heart beat strong, unshaken.
I wasn't weak. I wasn't broken. I wasn't dead.
I should be grateful.
But there was something wrong.
A dull, gnawing discomfort sat in my chest, lurking beneath my ribs, whispering at the edges of my thoughts. I had felt it ever since I woke, but now that Sythriss was gone, it settled in, taking up space inside me.
I had been a sellsword. I had fought in wars, seen men turned inside out by magic, watched good men die in the mud while monsters walked away untouched.
I had always understood that some things were out of my hands. That sometimes, the only choice you had was to keep moving forward.
But this?
This wasn't just something I could push through. This wasn't just another scar to carry.
I wasn't me anymore.
My hands twitched against the ice. My fingers—longer, thinner. My skin—too smooth.
I forced myself to move, to examine, to understand.
There was no wound on my chest. No scar. No proof of what had happened to me.
But it had happened.
I touched my face.
It was different. I was different.
I tried to tell myself it didn't matter. That it was just a body. That I was still me underneath it all.
But the thought rang hollow.
I forced a slow breath, steadying myself, pushing the thoughts down before they could get too deep, before they could stick.
It didn't matter. Not now.
I needed to focus on something real. Something solid.
I needed—
Pain lanced through my stomach.
I stiffened, breath catching as the dull ache in my gut sharpened.
Then it hit again. Harder. Deeper. Insatiable.
Hunger.
A hunger so vicious it stole the breath from my lungs.
I doubled over, fingers digging into my arms, trying to suppress the sudden, overwhelming emptiness inside me.
No, not empty. It was a void.
The kind of hunger that gnawed at the edges of your ribs, that hollowed out your insides like a starving beast sinking its teeth into your core.
A sharp sound echoed above me.
I barely had time to react before something heavy crashed down through the ceiling.
A carcass.
Fur. Bone. Blood.
The scent hit me like a hammer to the skull—raw and rich and unbearable.
Something inside me snapped.
Instinct seized control, my body moving before I could think. Before I could stop it.
I was on my feet. My nails dug into the ice as I lunged forward.
Meat.
I ripped into it before I could tell myself not to.
Warm blood. Flesh. Relief.
The moment it touched my tongue, my vision swam. My body craved it, like I had been starving for years.
It was only after the first bite—after the warmth slid down my throat—that my mind caught up to what I was doing.
I went still.
I was eating raw meat.
Like a beast.
Like a dragon.
I stared down at my bloodied hands, my breath sharp, unsteady.
And for the first time, the realization truly settled in.
I wasn't human.
Not anymore.
The warmth still coated my tongue, thick and too real.
I could feel it, pooling in my stomach, seeping into my limbs like fire through my veins. It was immediate—filling, empowering, terrifying.
I had always known hunger. The kind that came from marching too long without rations, from weeks of war where food was a luxury, not a guarantee.
But this?
This wasn't human hunger.
It wasn't the slow, aching emptiness of a man who had gone too long without eating.
It was desperate. Consuming.
Like my body wasn't just demanding food. It was demanding something else.
Power.
Sustenance.
I stared down at my bloodied hands, my breath sharp and unsteady. The flesh beneath my nails, the warmth still lingering in my mouth—it should have made me sick.
It didn't.
That was the worst part.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to step back, to breathe.
It's just survival. I told myself. You had no choice.
But another voice—the one creeping beneath my thoughts, the one that had been whispering since I woke—sighed.
You wanted it.
A shudder ran through me.
The truth sat heavy in my stomach, mingling with the meal I had devoured.
I forced myself to look away. To think of something else.
The ice walls around me loomed, stretching high above, untouched, unmoved. My escape wasn't here—not yet.
I was still a prisoner.
But was that really what I was?
Sythriss had called me daughter. She had named me. Given me a place.
But a place among what?
I had fought against creatures like this my entire life.
Dragons. Monsters.
Things that were stronger, older, more powerful than anything a man could stand against.
And now—I was one of them.
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening again.
No.
Not yet.
I wasn't one of them.
Not in mind. Not in spirit.
But my body?
I flexed my fingers, still covered in drying blood, feeling the strength in them—the wrongness of them.
No scars. No wounds. No sign of the man I had once been.
I had always carried the evidence of my battles. Every cut, every break, every wound—I had worn them like armor. They told the story of my survival.
But now?
Now there was nothing left of that man.
Nothing but my mind.
And for the first time, I wondered—
How long will that last?
A soft, distant click echoed through the chamber.
I tensed.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
I didn't know if I was ready for that.
But ready or not—
I wasn't alone anymore.
The footsteps were light. Too light.
Not Vaelith.
My breath caught, body tensing. The hunger was still there, coiled in my gut, waiting.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing the blood instead of removing it.
Great.
A shape emerged from the passage beyond the ice walls—a familiar figure wrapped in rags, his footsteps silent on the frozen floor.
Not a dragon.
The elf.
The same one who had been there when I first arrived.
His expression was carefully neutral, but there was a tightness in his posture, a stiffness that hadn't been there before.
His sharp gaze flickered over me—and then quickly away.
Then he spoke.
The elf's lips pressed into a thin line. He gestured again toward the carcass. "You must eat more."
I exhaled slowly. "I said I've had enough."
He shifted uncomfortably, but I could feel the weight of his stare, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. "No, you haven't."
Something in his voice had changed. Tighter. Sharper.
I frowned. "I'll live."
His jaw tensed, and he muttered under his breath. However, my ears picked it up with ease. "You are not who I am worried about."
What?
I scoffed, shifting back, crossing my arms but letting them drop at the feel of unfamiliarity with my body. "I'm not dying, elf."
A pause.
Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.
My irritation flared. "I'm fine."
His gaze flickered. "Are you?"
I stiffened. Something in my gut twisted.
Hunger.
No. I had eaten. At least a little—I had survived on much less before.
Hadn't I?
Then why did my stomach feel hollow?
A sharp ache spread through my ribs. I clenched my teeth.
The elf didn't miss it.
He stepped back, slow, measured. "Eat."
I shook my head. "I said no."
His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but then he hesitated.
His brows furrowed. His stance shifted—subtle, but different.
His pulse quickened.
I could hear it.
I inhaled sharply, and—there.
A presence. A warmth, coiled tight beneath his skin.
A core.
Magic.
I sucked in a breath, a gnawing hunger beginning to twist. I could feel it.
Not just the way a human might notice magic in the air, not like the vague, unsettling aura that I felt when around the sorcerers.
This was different.
I could measure it. Weigh it.
He was close to me in strength. I can beat him. I can kill him. I can eat him!
And suddenly, the hunger roared.
Take it!
The thought came unbidden. Sudden. Dark.
I swallowed, throat dry. My teeth felt sharp. My stomach twisted violently.
No.
I knew that voice. I hadn't heard it before, but I knew it.
This isn't mine.
The elf hadn't moved. He was watching me now—really watching.
The tension in his body had shifted. Not quite bracing. Not quite fear.
Waiting.
For what?
For me to lose control...
His heartbeat—I could hear it.
A slow, steady rhythm. A pulse of power beneath his skin.
A pulse I could take.
The scent of him—clean, sharp, alive.
Warm. Too warm.
Food.
I took a half-step forward—
A flicker of movement.
The elf shifted.
Not much. Barely anything. But I saw it.
A weight shift. A small step backward.
A calculated move.
He knew.
He had been expecting this.
I froze.
My fingers had twitched—a breath away from reaching for him.
What was I—?
No. No, no, no.
STOP.
The thought slammed into me like ice water.
I turned, snatched the carcass, and ripped into it.
It was savage. Desperate. My nails tore through flesh, my teeth sank into warm meat before I could think, before I could stop.
The hunger howled in relief.
A growl escaped from me, resonating across the room.
The elf exhaled.
I barely noticed.
I just ate.
My hands moved mechanically, tearing into the meal, letting the hunger take what it needed before it could turn its gaze elsewhere.
The elf's breathing remained steady, but I could still hear the tension in his pulse.
I knew what he had been preparing for.
He thought I would attack him.
The thought made something coil tight in my chest.
I swallowed another bite, feeling the warmth seep through my body. Strength returned in small waves, pushing back the sharp edge of that desperate, gnawing need.
I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes for just a moment.
I wouldn't attack him.
As long as I could stay in control.