Hunger.
That single feral urge kicked the pit of his gut over and over. It was not just an empty cavity demanding intake; this was a gaping hole screaming to be stuffed with meat chunks. The burning energy from his soul realm wrung his new muscles, forcing bile to churn and ruining his own stomach walls.
Luka sat on the edge of the wooden cot. The decaying boards beneath him creaked long. His back remained hunched. Cold sweat dried on his temples. Oesteria's freezing autumn temperature infiltrated through the wall cracks, piercing straight into his pores. The veins around his solar plexus tensed in agony, creating a cramp forcing him to bite his lip until it bled.
The rusted door hinges shrieked.
Rhea stepped inside. The scent of lilies swept away the stench of moss and wet dirt. The woman carried an old wooden tray, swinging a measured stride lacking the sound of footsteps. She placed the tray on the small table before Luka.
A coarse wooden bowl. A piece of black rye bread hard as stone. A bowl of watery soup with wilted potato chunks and tough meat sinews. The stench of pale broth evaporated into the air, blending with the room's dust.
"Forgive me, My Lord," Rhea whispered. The maid bowed her head. Her gaze fell on the filthy board arrangement. "This is all that remains at the forest border. The villagers hid their remaining harvest. Ulric's tax forces robbed their wheat this morning. This filthy food does not deserve to touch a throne heir's tongue."
Luka stared at the bowl.
The memories in his head rejected this filth. Memory fragments of the palace and long dining tables emerged overlapping. An Eisenhart prince feasting on roasted venison, warm white bread, and red wine poured by servants. This food before him was absolute pig slop. Rations for quarry mine slaves. He should throw the bowl at the wall and demand a proper meal.
Yet, his gut responded with repulsive eagerness.
Saliva pooled thick at the base of his mouth. Before his brain could forbid it, his fingers snatched the black rye bread chunk. The object was hard as gravel. Luka dipped it into the watery soup, letting it soften for a moment before shoving it into his mouth. His jaw ground, breaking the tough texture.
A stale, salty taste and the smell of dirt struck his taste buds. His throat welcomed the bite. Delicious. Far too tasty for discarded food. His stomach contracted in joy, receiving the watery broth with greedy relief. Luka pinched the tough meat chunk from the bowl using bare fingers, tearing the meat sinew with his canines. Grease and broth dripped, soaking his chin and falling to stain his linen shirt.
He ate like a starving street dog.
Devoid of grace. He scavenged the remaining broth at the bowl's bottom with the last bread piece, shoving everything in until his cheeks bulged. He swallowed by force, pushing the rough lump down to his gut.
Luka fell silent. His breath roared.
He stared at the wooden tray, now wiped clean. Filthy grease covered his hands. What had he just done? Why was his body so accustomed to swallowing garbage food? If he was raised in royal luxury, his stomach would surely regurgitate this tough meat. These two overlapping realities made his skull throb near bursting.
Erosion.
That single word emerged, rescuing his sanity. Rhea's explanation buzzed again. The law of erosion robbed his nobility. Ulric shattered his foundation. The damage did not just erase his sword techniques, but ruined his digestive dignity to the most vile degree. Forcing him to enjoy pig slop to survive on muddy streets.
All this humiliation was Ulric's doing. His uncle stole his throne, then forced his body to degenerate to the lowest caste.
Rhea moved forward. The woman's pale fingers swept Luka's chin with a clean cloth. Wiping the grease stains and remaining broth with a deliberate motion. Measured.
"You survived, My Lord," Rhea said. Her gray eyes stared straight. "Your flesh remembers the pain of this escape. Your body discarded nobility to keep breathing. That is the price of an awakening."
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His maid's words embedded deep, muting the remaining questions in his head. True. He was adapting. His body did whatever it took to stay alive and exact revenge.
Rhea removed the wooden tray, replacing it with a small clay chalice. The thick greenish fluid inside evaporated a stinging stench of rotting leaves.
"Your medicine," Rhea said. "To stabilize your veins after you forced yourself to open the inner gate.”
Luka took the chalice. Drinking it in one massive gulp.
Bitter. A harsh taste ruined his tongue, crawling up to the bridge of his nose. He fought a grimace. This medicine always made his skull feel heavy for a moment. Afterward, a numbing sensation emerged, suppressing the pain in his stitch scars. He did not question where Rhea obtained this thick concoction in the middle of a dead forest. This maid was his only shield.
Rhea stood. She smoothed the creases of her wool dress, walking closer to the clouded glass window and staring at the dead trees creaking to challenge the storm.
"Ulric's forces act more feral at the border." Rhea's voice cut through the room's air. Her tone was flat, yet her words were honed sharp. "He pulls wheat from the people's granaries, letting them eat frozen dirt. All to fund his territorial expansion war."
Luka stared at his maid's back.
"He sits on your throne, My Lord," Rhea continued. The woman turned around. "Wearing your father's crown, sleeping on a warm silk bed, while you must crawl on a bile-stained wooden floor. He drinks wine over the skulls of your own people.”
Heat spread across Luka's chest. A foreign throb pounded hard behind his right ribs. The rhythm of the soldier's heart he had devoured now merged with his veins. The odd pulse pumped boiling fluid into every vessel casing, spiking his skin temperature until it burned his remaining sanity. A blunt urge in his solar plexus thrashed, poisoning his eyes with a red flash, demanding necks to be torn and fresh blood to be spilled on stone floors.
Ulric. That name was poison. That name was the reason he had to hide in a rotting shack, eat hard bread, and lose the ability to stand straight. Ulric slaughtered his father. Cleaved his king's neck.
"I will decapitate him." Luka's voice was hoarse. Gritty. He clenched his fist. His nails pierced the skin of his own palm. "I will chop his neck in front of the people."
Rhea bowed her head. The obedience of a servant affirming her master's decree. "Of course, My Lord. Retribution must be enforced. Yet, your body remains too weak to collapse the capital's iron walls. Your guard forces are ruined. You need a new sword."
Luka fell silent. True. Killing one lowly guard had drained his physical form. Breaching the gothic Eisenhart palace required more than blind wrath.
"The Syndicate." Rhea stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a sluggish whisper. "The mercenaries at the edge of the Oesterian mountains. The Hollow Syndicate. They move in the shadows. Serving no king. If we can subjugate Silas, their leader, you will possess an unseen executioner force."
The Hollow Syndicate. The group's name triggered memory fragments. The mercenary group most feared by the nobles. They severed necks for gold and territory. Controlling them was no easy feat. Silas was known as a cold-blooded opportunist.
"They are not cheap," Luka said.
"Persuade them with your title." Rhea's gray eyes reflected the copper light from the window. "Offer pardon. Offer official positions under the new king's banner. Offer Ulric's head as payment."
Luka weighed the plan. He needed hunting dogs. He needed ground forces to clear the path to the throne. He could not win alone.
"We depart tomorrow," Luka said. His decision was final.
Rhea bowed in respect. "I will prepare the supplies, My Lord." The woman took the wooden tray. Walking out of the shack. The door creaked, shutting tight. Locking the freezing air outside.
Luka sat alone in the gloom.
He stared at the decaying wooden wall across the cot. His mind replayed Ulric's shadow. The shadow of the stolen gold crown. The shadow of the blood puddle on the marble floor.
His right hand moved up. His fingers groped the thick bandages on the side of his head, descending steadily to touch the base of his neck.
His index fingernail found the coarse thread knot. The thick stitch binding his skin.
He scratched it.
Gently at first. Just a rub on the itchy thread.
Then harder.
His nail pressed the skin around the stitch. Scratching a redness. The itch pierced into the flesh. Something thrashed beneath his stitched skin. Something felt wrong, yet he refused to comprehend it.
He scratched harder.
The friction of nail and dry skin rang constant inside the shack. Rhythmic. Obsessive. The skin around the thread peeled. Fresh blood seeped out, soaking his nail tip, flowing down to his collarbone. Luka did not stop. He kept twisting his index finger over the wound. His eyes stared blank ahead.
He imagined his sword piercing his uncle's neck, while his own hand kept digging into his neck wound by force. A blind instinct trying to unearth a truth that never existed. The bloody scratch kept sounding. Accompanying the rest of the dead night.