Silence did not last.
It never did in places like this.
The torch flickered.
Once.Twice.
Then violently.
As if something unseen had just exhaled.
Eryndor lay motionless at the foot of the throne, his blood pooling beneath him in a dark, spreading halo. His chest rose only faintly—barely enough to call it life.
The wound should have killed him.
It almost had.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound returned.
But this time…
It wasn't coming from the ceiling.
The blood on the ground began to move.
At first, it trembled—like disturbed water. Then slowly… deliberately… it crept back toward the throne.
Against gravity.
Against death.
The air grew tight.
Heavy.
Watching.
From the shattered ribs of the throne, a faint pulse emerged.
Weak.
Faint.
But alive.
"No…"
The voice was barely a whisper now.
Broken.
Fragmented.
But it was there.
A shadow twitched within the hollow seat.
Then another.
Eryndor's fingers moved.
Just slightly.
A twitch of life clawing its way back from the edge.
His lips parted, a shallow breath dragging into his lungs like broken glass.
The torch dimmed again.
Not from lack of air.
But from presence.
"You… gave me nothing…"
The Starved God's voice trembled, as if trying to remember how to exist.
"…so I learned… to take what remains."
The blood reached the throne.
And vanished into it.
The effect was immediate.
The shadows surged.
Not violently like before—but slowly, intelligently.
Adapting.
Evolving.
The throne was no longer feeding on faith.
It had found something else.
Eryndor's eyes snapped open.
He gasped sharply, his body arching as pain exploded through him again.
But this pain was different.
It wasn't leaving him.
It was staying.
His veins darkened.
Thin lines of shadow crept beneath his skin, spreading like cracks through glass.
His heartbeat—once fading—returned with force.
Too strong.
Too loud.
Too wrong.
"Do you feel it?" the voice whispered.
Not from the throne.
From within him.
Eryndor's hand shot to his chest.
His wound—
Gone.
No blood. No tear. No scar.
Just smooth, unbroken skin.
"No…" he whispered.
"You denied me your soul," the god said softly."So I took your body instead."
The chamber shifted.
The throne was changing.
No longer broken.
No longer dying.
It was empty.
Because it no longer needed to sit.
Eryndor staggered to his feet.
His movements felt… delayed. Like his body was remembering how to obey him.
Or deciding whether to.
"What did you do to me?" he growled.
A pause.
Then—
A quiet answer.
"I survived."
The shadows around him pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Not separate.
Not distant.
Connected.
"You thought starvation made me weak," the voice continued."But hunger… adapts."
Eryndor clenched his fists.
The darkness beneath his skin reacted instantly—coiling, responding.
Listening.
A horrifying realization settled in.
The throne wasn't behind him anymore.
It was him.
"You are no longer an offering," the Starved God whispered."You are the vessel."
"No."
Eryndor's voice was sharper now.
Stronger.
Fighting.
"I will not carry you."
The chamber trembled.
For a moment—
Resistance.
The shadows faltered.
A flicker of control returned to Eryndor's body.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
"I chose death over you once," he said through clenched teeth."I'll do it again."
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
But not the same as before.
This time…
It came from his own mouth.
"You misunderstand," the god said.
Eryndor froze.
Because his lips…
Were moving on their own.
"You don't need to choose."
His reflection shimmered in a pool of dark liquid at his feet.
But it wasn't him.
Too many eyes.
Too much shadow.
"You already belong to me."
The torch went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
And in that darkness—
Eryndor screamed.
But the scream…
Was not entirely his.
Far above, beyond the ruins, beyond the world that had long forgotten—
Something ancient stirred.
Not in the throne.
Not in the depths.
But in the hearts of those who still believed in nothing.
The hunger had changed.
It no longer waited in silence.
It had begun to walk.