The Sweetest Hunger

Not in a scream or a quake. But in silence.

His body stilled.

And something shifted.

The place on his chest where blood had poured, thick and black-red, was now dry. The bruised, death-like tone of his skin—gone. Color bloomed slowly beneath the surface, as if remembering what it meant to be alive.

The blood at his nose had vanished. The tremors in his hands faded. Even the smell of death that had clung to him like rot was evaporating.

It was like watching a body reverse time.

Eva blinked hard.

No wounds. No pain. Just… healing.

And then, his voice again.

But different.

"Why have you clung unto the door and the curtain," he asked, voice dragging like a slow blade, "as if trying to make them glued to each other?"

His eyes were barely open—thin slits, but sharp. Focused. Reading her.

It wasn't loud.

But it carried, as if the cart had made space just for his voice. Like the air had parted to let it pass.

Eva didn't answer.

She couldn't. She wasn't even sure she could breathe. Her mind was caught somewhere between his impossible recovery and the sound of his voice. Her thoughts reeled—until something else hit her:

The silence.

The horses weren't screaming anymore.

The air wasn't pressing.

No more knocks. No more groans. No more chaos.

The moment he spoke—it all stopped.

Her grip tightened on the curtain, eyes darting to the edges. The wind that had once battered the wood like fists was gone. Replaced by… nothing. Normal air. Quiet air. Almost gentle.

She turned to him slowly.

Not out of fear.

But out of understanding.

This wasn't coincidence.

This wasn't survival.

This was control.

Then he said it:

"Relax yourself. Everything is okay now."

And it wasn't a lie.

Not by sound or tone. His voice had no weakness. No tremble. Just calm, uncanny certainty.

He sat up straighter. The dry leaves around him shifted like they, too, recognized his authority. Like the cart was adjusting to accommodate him.

Eva remained frozen, muscles rigid, eyes wide.

Then—he smiled.

Not kindly.

Not gratefully.

But knowingly.

Like he'd been waiting for this.

Like all of it—the chaos, the dying, the awakening—had been part of something he understood better than she ever could.

He rose slowly.

The light bent differently as he stood, casting his face in shallow shadow and warm dimness. Each step he took toward her was calm, measured. The cart should have groaned under his weight, but it didn't. It yielded.

And then she remembered—

Her uncle's face when he saw this man.

The fear.

Not respect. Not reverence.

Terror.

The whispering guards. The careful space people gave him, like something inside them already knew.

He wasn't just her employer.

He wasn't just a man.

He was… something else now.

He stopped inches from her.

And looked straight through her.

Not her posture. Not her hands. Her thoughts.

And then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, he said:

"Let me go out and get some fresh air."

Eva's breath caught.

Her hand still clung to the curtain.

And outside—that air was waiting.

She didn't answer right away.

Her lips parted, uncertain—torn between resistance and surrender. Fresh air?

After everything, he wanted to step into that?

The very air she'd spent an hour barricading against—the air that had clawed at the cart, thick with pressure and screams, now beckoned him like an old friend.

Her fingers froze.

She didn't trust it. Not yet.

But slowly—reluctantly—she loosened her grip on the curtain. Her breath stuttered, shallow and uneven, her mind caught in spiraling what-ifs. She lifted the fabric inch by inch, eyes peering out.

That's when it touched her.

A breeze—cool, still. Gentle as breath. It didn't burn. Didn't choke.

It comforted.

Her lungs expanded involuntarily. It was the first breath in what felt like forever that didn't hurt.

Both hands took the curtain now. She pulled it up fully. The fabric, thick and reluctant, folded noisily as it dragged along the wooden grooves—groaning, but not like before. No clawing metal, no scraping dread. Just weight folding into weight.

Then—light.

It burst through like a dam undone.

Not searing. Not cruel. Just… sudden. Pure. A golden flood that poured into every corner of the cart, chasing shadows from crevices like they'd been squatting there too long. It wasn't light that demanded—it offered. Like it had waited outside all along, patient, until someone let it in.

He stepped forward, letting it fall across his face.

And it suited him.

Not in warmth—but in ownership. As if the light was his, answering a summons only he had given.

Eva's stomach clenched.

She couldn't tell anymore what unsettled her more—the chaos they'd just escaped, or the calm, deliberate way this man stood unshaken by it all. Like none of it had ever been beyond his control.

He descended the cart. Wood groaned beneath his boots—the second step hit hard, a hollow thud that echoed like a warning. Dust swirled at his heels. He didn't blink. Didn't pause. His eyes were forward. Movements focused.

He wasn't stepping into the world to observe it.

He was reentering it.

The gravel crunched beneath him as he landed. The glow—once strange, hovering, oppressive—was gone. The rabbit. The box. The black liquid. All gone. No scars on the earth. No signs of struggle. No claw marks. Nothing.

It was as though the nightmare had been… scrubbed away.

He stood still, not to admire the silence, but to confirm it.

Then, with a long, rasping breath, he stretched. Arms raised high, bones cracking back into place, shoulders resetting with audible strain. A rough groan escaped his throat—deep, primal. His fingers spread wide, palms up, reaching—not for the sky, but maybe for something just outside sight.

His chest rose and fell in uneven, pressurized gasps. Not from exhaustion, but from something internal still correcting. Each exhale pushed his cloak outward like an expelled curse. His body looked like it was rejecting what remained—what hadn't fully left him yet.

The horses stirred.

Not in fear—but rhythm.

Their hooves struck the ground in slow, steady pulses. Not wild. Not panicked. Measured. Dust rose in symmetrical spirals beneath them. Their necks bent downward in synchronized motion, ears folding back in a quiet show of deference.

It looked like… a ritual.

Even the tree beside them shifted—an almost imperceptible lean, its branches stretching sideways, just enough to create space. Like the land itself was reorganizing around him.

He turned to the horses.

And smiled.

Not with triumph. Not with arrogance. But something remembered. A slow, honest expression that softened his whole face—made him look, for the first time in hours, human. His dimples returned, sharp and shallow. His jaw eased. And in his eyes, for a heartbeat, she saw someone else.

Someone who used to smile like that before.

Before the bleeding. Before the silence. Before her.

He stepped toward them.