Alright — here's the expanded Chapter
Chapter 3 – Hunger
The hills were endless.
For three days, Nara wandered without direction, her body moving out of instinct rather than purpose. The narrow mountain paths twisted like serpents, sometimes vanishing into thickets, sometimes opening to sheer drops where the world fell away into mist. She had no food, only the half-full waterskin she had carried that morning before the world burned.
By the second day, she had learned to chew bitter roots she found near streambeds, and to strip the bark from certain trees for the watery sap within. Her stomach cramped often, twisting in rebellion, but it kept her moving.
The nights were worse.
When the sun dipped behind the mountains, the cold came fast. It seeped through her thin tunic, biting at her bones until her teeth chattered. She built no fire — the glow would be a beacon to anyone following. Instead, she curled into herself beneath the shelter of roots or boulders, listening to the night.
And always, in the dark, the dreams came.
The voice from the forest returned to her again and again:
"When the heart's desire controls its master… even the devil shivers in fear."
She saw her village burning over and over, but the flames were wrong. They moved like living things, twisting into shapes — the curve of a sword, the eyes of the golden-veiled woman, the faceless helms of the Dark Knights. In these dreams, her hands were stained red, and though she told herself it was the blood of her enemies, she could never be certain.
On the morning of the third day, she came across the remnants of a small camp — charred wood, a broken clay cup, and a piece of dried meat gnawed to the bone. Whoever had been here was gone, but the smell of smoke still lingered.
She crouched low, her ears straining for any sound, her senses sharp from hunger and fear.
That was when she realized it.
Something had changed in her since that night.
The world was… louder. She could hear the tiny scurry of insects under leaves, the faint beat of a bird's wings high above. She could smell water before she saw it, the tang of iron before she even knew there was blood nearby.
And beyond that — faint, but unmistakable — the rhythmic tremor of marching boots.
She froze. The sound was distant, but it was there. She had no doubt it was the Dark Knights.
She told herself to run. To put as much distance as possible between herself and that sound.
But her feet stayed rooted. Her hands clenched into fists.
Because with the fear, there was something else. Something hotter, sharper, almost sweet.
The thought of finding them.
Of making them pay.