The Sweetest Hunger

Each footfall pressed into the dust like a seal. The earth didn't just receive his weight—it marked it. He didn't look down. He didn't need to.

At the tree, the rope caught his eye.

It wasn't normal. It never had been.

Thick. Coarse. Dark as burnt hemp. The fibers shimmered faintly in the new light—barely visible, but alive. Braided so tightly that even air seemed afraid to pass through.

The kind of rope used when escape was never part of the plan.

Eva had tied it herself.

Back when her hands still trembled and her breath wouldn't steady. She'd pulled it from the front carriage without knowing why—just knowing that she had to.

It had obeyed her then.

But now it was his.

Eva stood near the cart's gate, one hand gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her chest rose in short, stiff bursts. She stared—not blinking—watching this man she no longer recognized.

Her lips moved.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

But when her hand flew up to slap her own cheek—nothing changed.

The light. The dust. The rope.

Him.

Still there. Still walking.

And then—he stopped.

His eyes shifted—not toward the rope, but the horse's back.

A long, dry streak marred its flank. Not blood. Not fresh. Not accidental.

A mark.

Drawn or burned. Precise. Geometric. Too perfect to be a wound.

He didn't flinch.

He knew it.

Or worse—he'd put it there.

The horse's side brushed against the tree's lower branch, and suddenly—leaves.

Not a few.

A cascade.

Falling like a curtain drawn too quickly, blanketing the horse's back and the ground beneath it. The tree had held them in, waiting for this exact moment to let go.

The horse didn't move.

It lowered its head again.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

The kind that comes from long separation. Shared war. Shared silence.

Loyalty.

He softened. Just slightly. Enough for Eva to see it.

That unspoken ache—the kind reserved for something not just lost, but forgotten.

His fingers reached for the knot.

"Po…" he whispered—half breath, half prayer.

The rope unfurled in his hands with a dry hiss. And even before it hit the ground, the horse stepped forward.

Then—tongue.

It reached out, long and strange, and dragged across his cloak. The smear it left behind wasn't drool. It was thicker—syrupy. Pale. Unnatural. The kind of substance that clung for days.

He didn't react.

Not even a blink.

He moved closer instead, placing both hands gently on the horse's back. His fingers stroked downward—slow, exacting.

Not comfort.

Search.

Like he was reading the horse's skin for something buried. Something forgotten.

The horse leaned into it, twisting slightly, shifting its weight under his hand with quiet, eager trust.

Eva watched from the cart—unmoving. Breath shallow. Heart uncertain.

And for a moment…

There was peace.

Not warmth.

But stillness.

And then—the wind shifted.

Not a breeze. Not a warning. But a change.

A chaotic spiral, first left, then right, fast and colder each time. Trees creaked like bones in a restless body. The light dimmed—not gradually, but like the sun had suddenly backed away.

The gold turned thin.

The sky fractured with purple and ash.

Even the faint warmth of pink on the horizon bled gray.

Night was coming.

But not gently.

Not like before.

Then, without meaning to, his foot bumped something on the ground. At first, he didn't notice. But the subtle, dry crackle beneath his boot stopped him cold.

Ants.

Not ordinary ones. These were black-bodied, thick-legged giants—each nearly the size of a thumb joint. They moved in synchronized waves, marching with precision. Their heads tilted upward, antennae twitching not in chaos but in command.

And they weren't avoiding him.

They flowed around him—some climbing over his boot without hesitation, others circling like scouts around a monument. Their armor-like exoskeletons glinted under the shifting sky. Forest ants, yes—but not wild. These were guided. Deployed.

His reflex kicked in. He jerked his left leg sharply, sending a spray of ants tumbling through the dust. But in focusing on one foot, he forgot the other.

The right had already become a highway.

They swarmed fast, vanishing beneath the hem of his cloak, slipping into the folds of his trousers with uncanny precision—like they knew where to go, what to find, how to hurt.

"Shit—"

The curse hissed from his lips, low and sharp. Then it hit him.

A sting—not a bite. A pierce. Deep, sudden, like a rusted nail hammered into the skin just above his ankle. It wasn't surface pain. It was internal, molten. His body jerked in a single, violent jump—muscles snapping tight, eyes wide, breath torn away.

His foot crashed down, scraping through gravel and leaves. The impact sent debris flying, crushed ants popping underfoot, their bodies flung onto bark, onto hooves.

The horses neighed in alarm. One jerked violently, hooves stamping, nostrils flaring. But the rope held. Eva's knot—raw-fingered, desperate—did not fail.

He staggered, smacking both legs with open palms, scraping cloth, shaking off what he could. His face was twisted—not in panic, but in fury. He'd been pierced. Tricked. Touched without permission.

But in his eyes now—something colder. Recognition.

This wasn't an accident. These weren't wild.

These were sent.

A puff of dust spiraled up as he shifted, thick and sun-baked, curling into the air like smoke from a dying fire. The earth had awakened—unwilling, disturbed. Visibility dropped. The air dimmed. Even the light had turned murky, filtered through a haze that felt... intelligent.

Without hesitation, he yanked a folded cloth from his coat—deep maroon, finely woven—the same one he had used hours earlier in the mansion garden. He sealed it tightly over his nose and mouth. His breathing slowed. Intentional.

He knew this air wasn't clean. It was watching.

Crouched, the pain surged again. No longer sharp. Now spreading. Crawling.

It moved like a current through his veins, slow and invasive.

But he didn't cry out.

Eyes narrowed, jaw set, he shifted toward the front of the carriage. Every step heavier. But every step his.

Eva hadn't moved. Still pinned to the side of the cart, her breath shallow, her hands clutched so tight her knuckles had gone white.

She'd seen him tend wounds. Dress himself. Speak with silence.

But not this.