Morning came grey and damp. Albrecht woke in the woodshed, his back against the rough planks. For a moment, he didn't remember. Then it all settled into place—the ditch, the dog, the village. The hunger.
It was still there. A low, deep ache in his gut. Not for food. For more.
He stood. His body felt strong. Too strong. The wound on his leg was a pink scar. He'd healed overnight. That shouldn't have been possible.
He knew why. The dog. He'd taken more than just meat. He'd taken its life. Its vitality. And now his body was using it.
The pottage bowl was empty beside him. He picked it up, licked the last cold grease from his fingers. It did nothing for the real hunger.
Outside, the village was stirring. Smoke rose from hearths. A child cried. The goats in the pen next to the shed bleated.
He could feel them. Their warmth. Their simple, beating hearts. The strength in their small bodies.
The hunger stirred.
He pushed open the shed door. The woman from the well—Hilda—was feeding chickens in the yard. She froze when she saw him.
"You're still here," she said. Not a question. An accusation.
"I'm leaving," he said. "Thank you for the roof."
She nodded, her eyes wary. She expected him to ask for more. For breakfast. For coin.
He didn't. He walked toward the goat pen instead.
Three goats. Two brown, one black with a white spot on its forehead. They looked at him with their strange rectangular pupils.
"You keep them for milk?" he asked.
Hilda nodded again. "The spotted one gives the most. Why?"
He didn't answer. He reached through the wooden slats of the pen. The spotted goat came forward, curious. It sniffed his fingers.
He let it. Then he touched its head.
The hunger rose up, sharp and sudden. It wasn't a thought. It was an instinct. A need.
*Take.*
It was easier this time. He didn't need to grab or fight. He just let the hunger flow down his arm, through his fingers, into the goat.
The goat stiffened. It tried to pull back, but his hand held it still. Not with muscle. With something else.
He felt the life flow out of the goat and into him. Warm. Rich. Strong.
The goat's legs buckled. It made a soft, confused sound. Then it collapsed into the straw.
He pulled his hand back. The hunger eased. Just a little.
He felt… fuller. Sharper. His vision cleared like a fog had lifted. He could hear the chickens scratching in the dirt twenty paces away. He could smell the iron in Hilda's fear-sweat.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
He looked at the goat. It was still breathing, but shallow. Its eyes were dull.
"It's sick," he said, his voice calm. "It won't give milk anymore. You should slaughter it."
Hilda stared from him to the goat. "It was fine a moment ago."
He shrugged. "Animals get sick."
He turned and walked away, toward the road out of the village. He didn't look back.
Behind him, he heard Hilda calling for her husband. Heard the worried voices. He didn't care.
The road was mud and stones. He walked, his steps steady. The morning was cold, but he wasn't. He felt warm from the inside. Fed.
He thought about what he'd done. Twice now. The dog. The goat.
He could take life. He could eat it without teeth. And it made him stronger.
How much stronger? He didn't know. But he wanted to find out.
He walked for an hour. The village disappeared behind him. The road wound through empty fields and patches of thin forest.
His mind worked. Albrecht's knowledge, Lysander's memories. They mixed together now, smoother.
Albrecht knew: energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred. He was transferring it. From them to him.
Lysander knew: the world was unfair. The strong took from the weak. The Hero took his honor, his love, his name. Now he would take everything else.
A cart approached from the opposite direction. A farmer, old and bent, driving a donkey. The cart was full of turnips.
The farmer nodded as they passed. "Mornin'."
Albrecht nodded back. His eyes were on the donkey. It was old, too. Its ribs showed. But there was still life there. Still strength.
The hunger whispered.
*Not yet*, he told himself. *Not on the open road.*
But soon.
By midday, he reached a crossroads. A signpost, weathered and leaning. One arm pointed west: "Valensford – 2 Days." The other pointed north: "Harrow's Watch – 4 Days."
Valensford. The name rang in Lysander's memory. A market town. A place where a disgraced noble might not be recognized. A place with people. Many people.
He turned west.
The road grew wider, more traveled. He passed a few more carts. Pilgrims in rough robes. A merchant with a guarded wagon. No one paid him much mind. He was just another traveler, dressed in ruined clothes, walking.
His stomach rumbled. Not the deep hunger. The normal one. He needed real food, too.
Ahead, he saw a small farmhouse off the road. A thin curl of smoke from the chimney. A chicken scratching in the yard.
He left the road and approached.
A man came out of the house. Big, with thick arms and a thick beard. He held a wood axe loosely in one hand.
"What do you want?" the man called out.
"Food," Albrecht said. "I can work for it."
The man looked him up and down. "You don't look like you can work much."
"Try me."
The man snorted. "Woodpile around back needs splitting. Do a full cord, you get a meal. Half a cord, you get bread and water."
Albrecht nodded. He walked around the house. The woodpile was a mess of unsplit logs. A splitting maul leaned against the stump.
He picked it up. It was heavy. Or it should have been. He hefted it easily. The goat's strength, in his arms now.
He set a log on the stump. Raised the maul. Brought it down.
The log split clean with a satisfying crack.
He did another. Then another. His arms didn't tire. His breath stayed even. He split wood for an hour, the pile of split logs growing.
The farmer came out to watch, his arms crossed. "You've done this before."
"No," Albrecht said, splitting another log. "I'm just strong."
When he was done, he'd split more than a cord. The farmer grunted, impressed despite himself.
"Come in," he said. "Name's Boren."
The farmhouse was one room, dark and smoky. A woman—Boren's wife—stirred a pot over the fire. Two children stared at him from a corner.
The meal was stew. Meat, root vegetables, thick broth. It was good. He ate slowly, savoring it.
"Where you headed?" Boren asked.
"Valensford."
"Looking for work?"
"Maybe."
Boren studied him. "You talk like a lord. But your hands… they're soft. Or they were."
Albrecht looked at his hands. They were clean now, the mud washed off. They were smooth. Lysander's hands. A noble's hands. But they'd just split a cord of wood without a blister.
"I was a lord," he said simply. "Now I'm not."
The wife glanced at him, then away. The children kept staring.
"Fallen on hard times," Boren said, not unkindly.
"Something like that."
After the meal, Boren offered him the barn to sleep in. "No payment needed. You earned it."
The barn was dry, full of hay and the smell of animals. A cow. Two more goats. Chickens roosting above.
Albrecht lay in the hay. He could hear the animals breathing. He could feel their warmth in the dark.
The deep hunger woke again.
He sat up. Looked at the cow in its stall. A big animal. Full of life. Full of strength.
He stood and walked over to it. The cow lowed softly, watching him with big, dark eyes.
He reached out. Touched its neck.
*Take.*
It was harder this time. The cow was bigger. There was more life to pull. But the hunger was stronger now, too. It knew what it wanted.
The cow shuddered. It tried to move away, but he held on. Life flowed into him—a river of warmth, of power.
He took more than he had from the goat. More than from the dog. He took until the cow's legs shook. Until it sank to its knees in the straw.
Then he stopped.
He pulled his hand back. He was breathing hard. His skin felt hot. His blood sang.
The cow was still alive, but barely. It wouldn't get up again.
He returned to his hay pile. He lay down. Closed his eyes.
He could feel the new strength in him. In his muscles. In his bones. He could hear the mice scratching in the walls. He could smell the rain coming outside.
When he slept, he dreamed of feasts. Of tables piled high with beating hearts. And he ate and ate and never got full.
In the morning, Boren found the cow dead in its stall.
"Damn," the farmer said, shaking his head. "Just dropped dead in the night. No sign of sickness."
Albrecht stood nearby, watching. "Maybe it was old."
"Maybe," Boren said, but he looked troubled. He glanced at Albrecht. "You didn't hear anything?"
"I slept soundly."
Boren nodded slowly. "Well. Thanks for the work. The road's that way."
Albrecht left. He walked back to the main road, toward Valensford.
Behind him, the farmer buried a cow. And wondered.
Ahead, the town waited. Full of people. Full of life.
Albrecht walked, his steps strong and steady. The hunger in his belly was quiet for now. Satisfied.
But he knew it would be back.
And next time, he wouldn't stop at animals.