Two days.
Two agonizing days had passed since Zelaes had last had a meal.
His stomach churned in protest, the gnawing hunger clawing at his insides, each pang more vicious than the last. It was as if a beast had taken up residence within him, howling and snapping at the void where sustenance should have been. His shirt was littered with the dried blood of what had been, and even the gaze of it enraged his hunger.
In the recesses of his mind, Zelaes found himself regretting that cursed feast on the hulking devil's body. The monstrous heart—its unnatural power—had seeped into him, altering him in ways he couldn't yet fathom, sharpening his senses, yes, but also intensifying his hunger to unbearable levels.
It was as if the act of consuming the devil had awakened a darker craving, an insatiable hunger that no mere meal could ever satisfy.
His grip faltered on the black slabs of steel he carried, their weight dragged on his weary arms as he stumbled forward. He wasn't entirely sure why he continued to press on—perhaps it was the urge to find food, or maybe it was the weight of his guilt, the burden of surviving when his family had sacrificed themselves for his sake.
Each step forward felt like a betrayal of their memory, but stopping felt even worse.
Ahead, through the gray expanse of withered, brittle grass, a single structure loomed against the horizon—a barn, stubbornly standing amidst the desolation. It was the first sign of civilization he had seen in days, and the moment his eyes locked onto it, a flicker of hope ignited in his chest.
His pace quickened, urgency replacing the aimless shuffling that had consumed him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he lifted his gaze from the ground, eyes fixed on the distant refuge.
But with each step, the ache in his stomach intensified, twisting and coiling like a serpent inside him. Hunger ate at his resolve, and every motion sent sharp pains through his gut, doubling him over as if he were being stabbed from within.
His eyes dropped once more to the black slabs of steel he carried. What do I even do with these? he wondered, their purpose was as obscure as he was.
His makeshift bag, fashioned from his tattered shirt, clung awkwardly to his side, bulging with the weight of the steel. It was not the worst discomfort—no, not compared to the oppressive heat or the relentless hunger.
The true discomfort laid in his uncertainty, the sense of being utterly lost. He didn't know where he was going, nor why he kept moving, and the very ground beneath his feet seemed to shift with each step, his vision blurring as though he were phasing in and out of reality. The edges of his sight swam with dark, squiggly lines that danced and shifted, a mirage of shapes and shadows that left him disoriented.
Zelaes sighed deeply, his breath ragged yet not entirely panicked. His stomach groaned in protest once more, and his knees trembled with the effort of keeping him upright.
He forced himself to look up, eyes straining against the glare of the setting sun as he gauged the distance to the barn. There it was, towering over him like a skeletal giant, its dark silhouette framed against the dying light.
His breaths came in shallow, uneven pants, as he drew closer, he caught the faint echoes of voices—soft, familiar whispers that stirred the dust around his feet.
They circled him, an ephemeral breeze that carried with it the ghostly murmur, of those he had loved and lost. Zelaes's eyes darted around, seeking the source of the sound, but every turn revealed only emptiness.
The voices were not real; he knew that.
Yet, they clung to his ears, persistent and mocking of his solitude.
Frustration welled up within him, mingling with the bitter taste of his own fading sanity.
First, the nightmares, then the flickering lines at the edge of his vision, and now these voices—what would be next? Shadows that followed him?
He huffed in frustration at himself, the sound a low growl in the back of his throat. He was losing himself, piece by piece, the isolation was chipping away at his mind. His grip tightened on the steel slabs, as though holding onto them would anchor him in this reality.
Each step brought him closer to the barn, and with each step, the world around him seemed to grow more uncertain, more surreal.
When he had reached the barn's entrance, its towering doors were closed against the night. Zelaes grasped the handle with his free hand, tugging hard.
The door remained stubbornly shut, refusing to budge even an inch. He cursed under his breath, and released the handle with a reluctant sigh.
Stepping back, he eyed the barn warily, the structure triggering memories of his own past—his family's barn, a place of shelter, safety, and warmth. But that was gone now, reduced to ash and memory, and this barn was nothing but an unwanted reminder.
Zelaes knew he needed to find a way inside. It could be shelter, a place to rest, to regain his strength. But the stubbornness of the door had thwarted his first attempt.
He moved along the side of the barn, his eyes scanning its weathered boards for any sign of weakness, any gap that might offer entry. The barn stood resolute, each nail and beam seemingly designed to keep him out.
Reaching the back of the barn, Zelaes paused, examining the structure with a scrutinizing gaze. The walls were worn, the wood splintered and gray with age, but still, they stood strong.
He placed a hand against the rough surface, feeling the coolness of the wood beneath his fingers. The echoes of the voices had faded, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breaths.
I must find a way in, he thought. As he circled the structure, his eyes locked onto a narrow gap near the back entrance—a door, slightly ajar, hidden in the shadow of the barn's massive frame. Zelaes's heart quickened at the sight, the flicker of hope rekindled.
As Zelaes ventured deeper toward the barn's shadowed exterior, his gaze shifted toward the back door, but before he could take another step, a blur of movement exploded from the shadows—a pair of pale, sinewy arms lunged toward him, striking with the speed of a coiled viper.
Zelaes's weakened body failed to react in time. The force of the impact sent him sprawling backward, his back slamming hard against the unforgiving ground, the wind knocked from his lungs.
Pain flared through him as he hit the ground, the grass beneath him brittle and sharp, digging into his skin like tiny needles. His vision swam, a dizzying whirl of shadows and blurred light.
Panic surged through his veins as his hands instinctively shot up, groping for any semblance of defense against the unknown threat. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a desperate bid for air as he struggled against the weight pinning him down.
As the spinning in his head slowed, Zelaes's eyes focused on the figures above him. His heart stuttered, a jolt of shock and disbelief rippling through him as he realized what had tackled him.
Not one figure, but three—three humans, their faces drawn and eyes wild, but unmistakably alive, with flesh and blood just like his own.
Humans. Actual people.
The first knelt on his chest, pinning him with the weight of their body, while the second held a crude blade to his throat, its edge glinting dangerously close to his skin. The third gripped his legs, fingers digging into his calves with a bruising force.
Zelaes's mind struggled to keep pace with the suddenness of it all, his breath hitching in his throat as the reality of the situation sank in. For months, he had seen nothing but devils and nightmares, the twisted abominations that roamed these lands. But now, here were people—real, living people.
A strange, almost giddy excitement tugged at his heart, an emotion so foreign and sudden that he could hardly make sense of it. The tension drained from his limbs, and before he could even consider resisting, his arms dropped to the ground, surrendering without a fight.
Human people. People with personality and not depraved minds hellbent on murder!
He laid still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes wide as he took in the sight of his captors. Three months—three long, solitary months without seeing another human face—and now here they were, tangible and solid before him.
"Ah! We gotcha now!" A gruff voice broke through his thoughts, a man's voice filled with rough satisfaction.
Zelaes didn't bother struggling. He had no desire to fight them, no will to lash out. They were human, and that was enough.
He waited, motionless, as rough hands yanked him upright, the scrape of rope digging into his wrists, binding his arms tight against his sides. The coarse fibers bit into his skin.
The man who had spoken grinned as he studied Zelaes, his eyes lingering on the slabs of black steel still clutched tightly in his grip. "Nice thing ya got there. Black steel, huh?" he remarked, nodding toward the slabs with an appreciative smirk.
Zelaes's gaze shifted to meet the man's, his storm-gray eyes reflecting the blue fire of the sun that still hung heavy in the sky. His hair, an ashen tangle of unkempt strands, fluttered lightly in the faint breeze.
The man's grin widened as he studied Zelaes's scarred visage, a chuckle bubbling from his throat. "Heheh… you look like a plebeian," he teased, giving Zelaes a light tap on the forehead, a gesture that was both mocking and strangely familiar.
"Get 'im on the carriage!" he barked, his voice snapping back to authority. Zelaes was hauled roughly to his feet, his balance wavering as his captors dragged him toward a massive wooden carriage, its sides worn and splintered from years of hard travel.
The horses that pulled the carriage snorted and stamped as Zelaes was shoved into the back. He stumbled, his knees buckling as he collided with the carriage's hard, unyielding boards, sprawling awkwardly across the backseat.
For a moment, he laid there, struggling to pull himself upright, his limbs were understandably heavy and uncooperative.
As Zelaes settled into a sitting position, he studied the men who had captured him. Their eyes were sharp, but beneath the rough exterior, Zelaes could see the desperation—the same desperate need for survival.
Mercenaries, scavengers, or perhaps just lost souls trying to make it through another day in this hellish landscape—it didn't matter. Everyone here was some kind of scavenger, clawing for scraps in a world that offered nothing but death.
The men spoke among themselves, their voices were low and conspiratorial so he couldn't hear, but Zelaes paid them little mind. He leaned back against the wooden boards, his eyes drifting over the landscape that passed by.
He hadn't felt this sensation—the thrum of life, the pulse of others nearby—in far too long. Even in this dire situation, there was a good feeling in being among humans once more.
But beneath that flicker, he knew his sanity was slipping. The voices he had heard, the nightmares that haunted his sleep, the visions at the edge of his sight—they were all signs of a mind fraying at the edges.
Zelaes closed his eyes, his breath steadying as he forced himself to focus, to collect his scattered thoughts. He knew he had to keep it together, to stay grounded in reality, no matter how tenuous that grasp might be.
He would wait, he decided. Wait until they reached the war camp these men called home. There, he would find answers, or at the very least, a clearer path forward.
He looked low, closing his eyes.