The sound of battle grew sharper with every step. Aloysius crested a ridge and saw it a column of Kharun marauders cutting through a border village like a tide of steel. Smoke curled into the evening sky, carrying the bitter scent of burning grain and fear.
The villagers were barely holding the barricades. Every time one fell, the enemy surged forward, blades flashing in the firelight. Children were being herded into the chapel, the last stronghold before slaughter.
The hunger inside Aloysius stirred.
So fragile, the voice murmured. One sweep of my power and this will be over.
His hand twitched toward his sword. He could already feel it the speed, the crushing force, the way the marauders would be flung aside like straw in a storm. The vision was intoxicating.
But he knew what would follow. The voice wouldn't give him power for free. It would take something. His will. His self. Perhaps pieces of his soul he didn't even know could be carved away.
He gritted his teeth. "Not yet."
Not yet? The voice was almost amused. You think the child in the red cloak will survive without me?
Aloysius's gaze snapped toward the chapel steps. A small figure in red had tripped, scrambling to stand as a marauder advanced, spear raised.
He moved before he realized it his body blurring forward, the wind screaming past his ears. The world became a tunnel, his focus narrowing to the glint of steel above the child's head.
The strike he delivered wasn't entirely his own. His sword sang with unnatural resonance, the blow shattering the marauder's weapon and sending the man tumbling in a spray of dust.
The villagers stared. The voice laughed.
See? That wasn't so hard. Imagine if you stopped resisting.
Aloysius felt it then a faint, black shimmer under his skin, crawling toward his heart. He had used too much. He had let it in.
The child in red ran to the chapel, safe for now. But the hunger had tasted the open air, and it would not be satisfied with scraps for long.
And deep down, Aloysius knew the next time might not be a choice at all.