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To all my lovely FTR's (First-Time Readers), here is a place to publicly declare your (undeniably foolish) decision to read the remarkable story of Ravenous! See? You just gotta register it with that little mage guy up there. Now, carry on... If you so dare.

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Cosmet was more shadow than town.

Its streets writhed beneath soot and silence, thick with the weight of lives forgotten—each corner sagging with the presence of peasantry and slag, all fused into a kind of breathing decay. The people moved like figures in a faded fresco, eyes dimmed to cinders, always watching, always not. Wherever Jean-Odon of Aldia looked, those gray, listless stares found him, hollow and blinking as if from another realm.

They did not walk; they skittered.

Serfs swept past him like a swarm of fevered vermin, unnerved by the sheer anomaly of his existence. They didn't fear him—they feared what his presence meant. They smelled the difference, the ripple in the pattern, the omen.

And yet, even their strange scuttling presence paled against the true curse of this place.

The stench.

It rose from the stones like something long dead, something that had never been alive at all—a sort of sour magic that clung to the skin, the breath, the very memory. Jean could feel it settling in his lungs, curling there like smoke spun from a graveyard. Still, something above made his heart twitch faintly in its cage.

Up in the heavens, it loomed.

A castle suspended in twilight, woven into the fabric of violet clouds and that strange, bruised blue that haunts the hours just before nightfall. The Dark Palace. Fabled and feared. Shimmering like a crown upon nothing.

It belonged to him.

Blackthorne.

A noble in name, in legend, but never in soul. The man who had once fractured the skies and conjured the Damson Storm—a whisper of history so painful, even the books refused to speak it. Yet here he was, still, lingering like a curse made flesh, and Cosmet thrived beneath his withering gaze.

For all its charm of name, the town was rot in bloom.

Still, it was the only way.

To cross the Eldritch—narrow, silver, haunted—was to flirt with death in its purest poetry. Once, they said, it had been a wharve for song and ships, clean waters and coin. But then came the widow. Beautiful. Lonely. Dead. She fell, they said. Slipped between railings into the river's obsidian mouth, swallowed whole. And from shame or heartbreak, she returned. Not as woman, but as wraith. Now the Eldritch whispered only to the foolish.

Jean was foolish. Or rather, desperate.

He traveled not alone. A retinue trailed him—twelve soldiers of Cairnholm's High Guard and seven servants cloaked in magic, their spells flickering like candlelight beneath their sleeves. All sworn to the High King. All sworn to him. His satchel bore the burden of a sealed letter—one said to hold the most important command in all the Five Lands.

He hadn't yet needed to spill blood. Not yet.

Not at all, if I can help it.

He whispered that thought like a prayer, clutched it like a charm as they wound their way through Cosmet's labyrinthine roads. His broadsword sagged at his hip, growing heavier with each step, like it, too, dreaded what waited beyond the bend. Clouds sagged in the skies above them, swollen with stormlight, but oddly, this soothed him.

He had chivalry to his left. Magic to his right. Nothing could go wrong.

Nothing.

Until that voice.

It sliced through the air like a needle through silk. Soft. Familiar. Drenched in the past.

"Uncle?"

Jean turned—and there he was.

Prince Vaelric.

Son of the Dark Palace. Blackthorne's heir. That strange, serpentine boy with the grin too wide, like he knew something no one else did. He stood like a painting come to life, all pale limbs and sharpness, eyes the color of burnt glass. The smile was already blooming.

"Not surprised to find you skulking 'round 'ere," Vaelric drawled, accent thick with that Faldian slant—all skipped sounds and slowed poison. "Cosmet's a whisperin' town, Uncle. News moves like smoke, and your name? Well. It stinks loud."

Jean bowed low, ignoring the prince's mockery, though his guards had already bristled. He waved them down gently.

"Your Highness."

"Oh, please." Vaelric waved a delicate hand. "Let's not get all tangled in pleasantries. You're family after all." His tone bent and curved with dangerous charm.

Jean cleared his throat, ever the diplomat. "Yes, well, leave it to the radiant heir of a pile of dross to make one feel welcome."

"Ah, still sharp I see," Vaelric chuckled. Then his expression darkened, shifted into something stranger. "What purpose does it serve it you coming 'ere, then? Certainly not some reconciliation with my father."

Jean hesitated, then said, "Just passing through. Crossing the Eldritch."

"The El'ritch?" Vaelric raised an eyebrow. "Tricky feat, that. Still... you never did enjoy the easy way. Orders from the King, I s'pose?"

Jean nodded. "Confidential ones."

"My, such weighty words," Vaelric mused. "Funny, isn't it? That you, of all people, ended up as the High King's pet."

Jean stiffened. "You know why."

"Do I?" Vaelric's grin sharpened. "Remind me, Uncle. Refresh this poor, forsaken memory."

Jean heaved a sigh. "After the Storm, I served as reviver. Helped rebuild. Became instructor to the Princess. Rose in rank. That's all."

"Mm. Yes." Vaelric's voice curled like smoke. "That's right. You sold your silence. Turned your back on blood. And now here you are, peddling secrets like a traveling priest."

Jean said nothing. The words stung more than he'd have liked to admit, but he held his composure like a blade sheathed in silk. Vaelric stepped closer, circling.

"Do you ever think of it, Uncle? What you left behind? What you let happen?"

Jean met his gaze. "Of course I do."

Vaelric tilted his head. "Do you dream of it, too? The Damson Storm? I do. Always in violet. Always with screaming."

"That wasn't me," Jean said, quietly. "You know that."

"Do I?" Vaelric's smile faltered, just slightly. "You were there. In the rubble. Holding a blade."

"I was trying to stop it."

"But the Storm came all the same."

Jean clenched his fists. "What do you want from me?"

Vaelric's smile returned, slower this time. "Truth, perhaps. Or maybe just the satisfaction of seeing an old man bleed."

Suddenly, without a breath between movements, Vaelric vanished.

And reappeared at Jean's side.

A dagger gleamed at his throat.

Time stilled.

Even the air hesitated.

"You forget," Vaelric whispered, "my father gifted me with Time. I've been swimming in it since I was a child."

The blade traced Jean's collarbone.

"Does it feel like betrayal, Uncle? Or justice?"

Jean's voice trembled. "Vaelric, lad, I'm not here for anything that would harm you or your father. Just a crossing. That's all. No secrets, no schemes—"

But Vaelric's eyes were moons now, twin voids.

"Betrayal is betrayal," he hissed, and the dagger bit. Blood oozed from Jean's neck.

"Please—what do you want? Gold? A title?"

"I want what's owed," Vaelric murmured. "What was stolen. What my father seeks still."

Jean's heart dropped like a stone into the Eldritch.

"You don't understand," he said, voice breaking. "It's gone. Long gone. Since the Storm."

Vaelric reached into Jean's satchel and pulled the letter free. "Well now. What do we have here?" Winter's chill seeped into his laughter as he unsealed the letter, his eyes scanning the words before a harsh, crow-like cackle ripped free once more. "War plans? Oh, Uncle. How boring."

He dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.

But Jean was already moving.

Jaw tight, he sank his teeth into Vaelric's arm and wrenched him away. The dagger clattered to the ground with a metallic gasp. Magic flared—darkness blooming from Vaelric's hands like venom—but Jean slipped beneath it, rising into a low crouch as frost coiled at his fingertips. He released the spell in a fluid arc, like winter's breath made fresh. It struck Vaelric in the hip, and his scream cracked, high and brittle, more boy than prince. Ice spidered out from the wound, pinning him to the stones like an insect caught mid-crawl.

Jean hesitated, just a second.

Then grabbed the letter and ran.

The time-stilled world shattered around him. Guards stirred, gasped, gave chase. But Jean was faster. Or maybe just more desperate.

At the bridge's threshold, he dropped to his knees, chanting. The Eldritch whispered beneath him, its dark waters beckoning.

Suddenly, the wind answered.

A gale roared.

And as the knights descended, he cast his waning magic to the earth.

The storm took him.

Lifted him like a forgotten promise.

He soared across the night, arms outstretched, eyes locked on the horizon, never daring to look back. He flew, not with wings, but with the breath of old gods and even older magic—and prayed to land somewhere kinder.

When he finally awoke, it was morning.

And he was in a field of hay.