He lowered the corpse gently to the ground, chest heaving now, breath shaking despite his effort to stay silent. His hands trembled—not from fear. From need.
He dragged the body deeper into the shadows, away from the open path, and crouched over it. The smell made his mouth flood with saliva. Meat. Warm and right in front of him.
"I'm sorry…," he whispered, gritting his teeth and convulsing slightly backing away as if he himself were filthy, then he shook his head and gritted his teeth, closing his eyes.
Then he tore in.
He ate with no grace, no fire, no mercy—just survival.
If he was too slow, maybe something saw him or smells the blood. Fire? It was to bright, he would be seen and smelled, everything.
Teeth ripping flesh, hands slick with blood. He ignored the taste, the texture, the fact that it was still warm.
It was just like in his slum memories, food were survival for another day. Every bite eased the burning in his stomach, grounding him back into his body.
When he finally stopped, he leaned back against the tree, chest rising and falling hard.
Above him, the moon slipped behind leaves.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, something howled.
"First meal," he murmured. Taking the goblins deggar and climbing on a tree some meters away.
It was an thick old one, with braid branches and was full with green and moss, it was perfect for an hideout. So he lay inside the dark fork of two giant branches, his weapons on his stomach with a firm grip, and tried to close his eyes.
But his heart needed a lot of time to beat more calm, for him to relax. Alone in the depth of the most dangerous land he knew, on an old tree in a dark forest. No cloth and no real weapon.
His body shuddered, and Sam tried to close the eyes just to listen to the music of the forest. His stomach making loud sounds.
„Did I eat too much and to fast?" did Sam mumble, after the ache got stronger by the minute.
Then the pain twisted suddenly—sharp and deep.
Sam clenched his teeth, curling slightly in the fork of the tree as his stomach cramped hard enough to steal his breath. A cold sweat broke out across his skin. His hands tightened around the dagger until his knuckles went white.
"Ghh… damn it…" he hissed under his breath.
His belly churned, muscles spasming as if his body itself was rejecting what he had forced down. Heat flared, then nausea, then a hollow burning that crawled up his chest.
Poison? Parasites?
Or is it just the raw monster meat.
His breath came short and shallow. For a moment, fear crept in—not of the forest, not of monsters, but of dying here like this, alone in a tree, because he had been too desperate to think.
Then, Something shifted.
A strange sensation rippled through his abdomen, spreading outward like threads tightening and loosening at the same time. His muscles twitched. His organs felt… busy.
Sam froze.
Sam sucked in a sharp breath.
"So… should I thank Henry now," he whispered hoarsely, feeling his regeneration work.
The pain didn't vanish—but it changed. The sharp cramps dulled into a deep, aching pressure. His stomach still protested, but it was no longer trying to kill him for his mistake.
He swallowed thickly, leaning his head back against the bark.
"…doesn't matter," he murmured. "Because I can't be picky what to eat."
Minutes passed. Then more.
His heartbeat slowly settled. The forest noises crept back into focus—leaves rustling, insects humming, something heavy moving far away. Too far to worry about. For now.
Sam adjusted his grip on the goblin's dagger, testing its balance. It was primitive, just an broken piece of wood and a sharp piece of rock, put together. But it had weight and was deadly.
Exhaustion finally dragged him down, deeper than fear or pain. Curled in the moss-covered branches, naked and scarred, with blood still dried on his hands, mud over his whole body, Sam closed his eyes.
…
Henry was seven the first time his father forgot he was in the room.
The chamber smelled of iron, sweat, and cheap perfume—thick enough to cling to the tapestries. Henry sat on the floor near the wall, knees pulled to his chest, carving lines into a scrap of wood with a dull knife. He was quiet. He had learned early that quiet meant invisible - and that meant no pain.
The door slammed open.
Laughter spilled in first—rough, drunk, victorious—followed by heavy boots and two adventurers dragged inside like prizes. One man, one woman. Both scarred. Both armed. Both looking very carefully at the ground.
Lord Tarakan shoved them forward.
"Payment's on the table," he said, already pouring wine. "You know the rules."
The woman hesitated.
Just a second. Barely visible.
That was enough.
Lord Tarakan backhanded her so hard she hit the stone and didn't get up right away. The man lunged—but stopped mid-step.
„Wise decision…!" lord Tarakan said pulling the woman up, „you know what happens when an ant like you kills the great me?"
Henry's breath caught.
His father didn't even look angry. Just bored.
"I don't pay you for disobedience," he said calmly. "Or dignity."
Henry watched everything. He always did. The way power moved. The way fear folded people inward, how things get rewarded if they follow the lords orders. The way the rich and strong didn't shout—they decided.
Then the adventurer took the money, looked apologetic to the woman with teary eyes, still in the grib of Tarakan, and left the room. He just saw how, the lord licked his lips, and his blurry eyes fell on the rising and falling chest of his prey.
Later—much later—when the adventurer were gone and the servants cleaned the aftermath, Henry approached the table.
He stood very straight.
"I can be helpful too," he said quickly. "If I train, I mean….if you teach me…I mean… If you want."
Lord Tarakan looked at him then.
Really looked.
His gaze slid over Henry like dirt on a boot.
"You?" he scoffed. "If you wouldn't be..." he gestured with his hands over Henry and then knotted his shirt tighter, „like this…so weak and disgusting. Your mother, this slut wouldn't have left."
The words hit harder than any slap.
Henry opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I'll be better! I won't be like my mother" he said. "I promise."
His father laughed. Loud. Cruel.
"You?," he said. "You look Like prey."
He leaned down, close enough that Henry smelled wine on his breath.
"Don't try to be nice, boy. I hate nice people!" he slammed his fist in Henry's face and spit, „ Show me! Be useful—or be the rat you are."