Chapter 6: The Catacombs of Hunger
The wind howled through the barren cliffs of the Eastern Wastes, where the sun rarely touched the stone and shadows clung to every corner. Ajay and Kael descended into the depths of the forgotten land known only as the Cradle of Blood—a cursed valley lost to maps and men, where the Catacombs of the Black Court slumbered beneath centuries of rot and bone.
There was no sky here, only mist and silence. The entrance was carved into the side of a cliff—an ancient skull-shaped archway large enough for dragons. Symbols of warning glowed faintly along the stone, etched in runes of old vampiric tongue. The stench of decay was thick in the air, but Ajay felt something else—a pull, like the whisper of a hunger deep within his bones.
"This place was once sacred," Kael said, his voice hushed. "The vampires of the Black Court kept our darkest rites here. The Trial of Hunger is not just about resisting thirst. It's about facing the monster we all hide."
Ajay nodded. He understood now—each trial wasn't just a test of power, but of identity. The dragon within him burned hot with purpose, but the vampire side… it whispered differently. It promised things no fire could.
He stepped into the catacombs.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Immediately, the temperature dropped. The air was heavy, thick with ash and old blood. The tunnel twisted like a serpent's belly, lined with crumbling statues and crypts bearing names long forgotten. Ajay's footsteps echoed, unnaturally loud. Every so often, he glimpsed flickers of motion at the edge of his vision—ghostly shadows that vanished when he turned.
And then came the thirst.
It hit him like a wave—dryness in his throat, a burning in his chest. His heartbeat slowed, his senses sharpened. He could hear the heartbeat of a dying rat two chambers away. He could smell old blood in the stone itself. His teeth ached. His fangs began to extend, unbidden.
The hunger was not just physical—it was emotional. It filled his mind with visions: the bullies from college, crying for mercy; Diya's doctors refusing to help unless they were paid more; his uncle's apathy. He saw them all brought low. He saw himself draining them, laughing.
He stumbled forward, gasping. "No," he whispered. "This isn't me."
But the catacombs weren't listening.
The path led him into a grand chamber, circular, with high walls and mirrors placed at every angle. In the center was a table—set with a feast of raw, glistening meat. Blood dripped onto the floor from silver platters. Sitting at the table were versions of himself, a dozen Ajays, all feeding, all laughing. One raised a goblet filled with thick crimson liquid.
"You came hungry," that one said, smiling with blood-stained lips. "So eat."
Ajay turned away. "This is illusion."
"It's you," said another version, tearing a strip of flesh with fangs. "It's always been you. Don't pretend you didn't love it—when you hurt the assassin, when you crushed his ribs and saw the fear in his eyes."
Ajay squeezed his eyes shut. "No."
"You were born to rule the night. Embrace it."
Their voices became one, rising like a chant. "Drink. Feed. Rule."
He dropped to his knees, trembling. The thirst surged. His tongue felt like sand. Every heartbeat in the chamber, every drop of imagined blood—it all screamed for him to give in.
And then a voice—softer, fragile—cut through the din.
It was Diya's voice.
"Ajay... don't become like them."
Ajay's eyes opened. The feasting versions of himself were fading. The scent of blood dimmed. The room began to shake.
He stood slowly, breathing hard. "You want to test my hunger? Fine. I'll show you what I really thirst for."
The chamber cracked open, and a final figure emerged—a vampire, tall, armored, bearing a twisted resemblance to Ajay's father. His face was gaunt, eyes hollow.
"I am what your father could have become," it said, walking toward him. "He resisted the Crimson Order. He refused our gifts. And he died for it."
Ajay didn't speak. His fists clenched. The thing moved fast—slashing at him with a sword made of blood-iron. Ajay dodged, fire coiling in his palm, but he didn't strike yet.
"You came to understand your power, but you still hide from it," the figure snarled. "The dragon gives you strength. The vampire gives you dominion. Without it, you are nothing but a boy in flames."
"I'm not afraid of that power," Ajay said.
"Then prove it."
The figure lunged.
The battle was brutal. Shadows coiled like serpents. Blood magic erupted from the walls. Ajay was thrown across the chamber, slammed into pillars, sliced across the cheek. His blood dripped onto the floor—and the walls fed on it.
But in that moment, something snapped inside him—not rage, not fear—clarity.
He stopped dodging. He stood straight. And as the creature lunged again, Ajay didn't fight.
He opened his arms.
The blade stopped inches from his chest.
"I forgive you," he whispered.
The figure froze.
Ajay's mark glowed again, and the entire chamber began to collapse. The fake vampire screamed, breaking apart into ash and mist. The walls exploded in red light.
Ajay dropped to one knee, gasping.
When he opened his eyes, the hunger was gone.
And in its place—stillness.
He emerged from the catacombs hours later, pale but stronger. Kael watched him closely. "Did you drink?"
Ajay shook his head. "No. I fed on truth."
Kael smiled faintly. "Then you passed."
Ajay looked back at the cave. "The hunger… it's still there. But I'm not afraid of it anymore. It's part of me, but it won't rule me."
Kael nodded. "Now you understand your father. He faced the same hunger, and made the same choice."
Ajay turned toward the horizon. In the distance, thunder rolled over the mountains. The next trial awaited. The Trial of Spirit.
But before they could leave, a raven landed on Kael's shoulder. It dropped a scroll sealed with black wax.
Kael read it and froze.
"What is it?" Ajay asked.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "The Crimson Order has awakened something. A dragon that was never meant to rise. A traitor of the Flameheart Clan."
Ajay's heart sank.
"Who?"
Kael looked up at him grimly.
"Your uncle."