--------------"The fate of the nation is defined by the abyss" - Priest Murarion-----------
The next morning brought no bread.
Jalen woke to the ache of an empty stomach, his ribs rubbing against the thin fabric of his tunic reminding him over and over of hunger. It wasn't new - it was the rhythm of life in the First Ring. But today it gnawed harder, perhaps because the Hole had whispered to him in the night.
Not prey. Never prey.
He hated the words. Hated how they clung to him even now, as if the word prey was crawling beneath his skin.
The alleys stirred with the morning noise. Vendors shouted heartedly, hawking moldy grains and wilted greens. A line of children shuffled past with buckets for the wells. Beyond them, the temple's iron doors yawned wide awake, swallowing supplicants into the shadow.
Jalen wandered, trying to find work - carrying loads, cleaning stalls, anything for a crust. Each time, someone else was chosen. Stronger arms. Fuller bellies. Names that weren't spat in disgust.
By noon, his knees felt weak. He pressed a hand to the stone wall of a fishmonger's shack, steadying himself, the smell of rotten fish churning his stomach. That was when he heard a laughter.
Darrin again.
The butcher's son lounged on a bench, gnawing on a hunk of roast meat, grease dripping down his chin. His friends circled him, jeering as he told some crude story. The pouch of stolen spores still hung at his belt, glowing faintly in the daylight.
Jalen's jaw tightened. His fists curled. He turned away - but Darrin saw him.
"Well, if it isn't the Hollow's pet rat," Darrin called.
His voice still carrying. "Still empty-handed? Thought the priests might've whipped some sense into you yesterday. One lucky bastard you are"
The crowd chuckled. Jalen forced himself to keep walking, but Darrin wasn't done.
"Oi, rat! Come here. I'll pay you a copper to lick the grease off my boots."
More laughter.
Heat flooded Jalen's face. The whispers rose, faint but insistent:
Not prey.
He stopped. Slowly, he turned back.
For a heartbeat, the laughter faltered. Darrin's grin slipped at the look in Jalen's storm-grey eyes. But pride was a cruel master, he stood up, tossing the roast bone aside.
"You want to glare at me, Hollow-rat? Come closer. Let's see if your eyes are sharper than my fists." Darrin chortled.
The circle opened, eager. Where amusement was sparse, blood was good sport in the First Ring.
Jalen's pulse thundered. His mind screamed to run. He was too small, too thin, his body was no match for Darrin's bulk. But beneath the fear, something else burned - a slow, steady heat.
The Hole's voice murmured within him:
The abyss swallows the fat first. The lean endure.
Jalen stepped forward. He ran towards Darrin hoping to land a quick one at the boys nuts. He imagined the brute slumping down clutching his privates.
But often what plays out in the mind does not in reality.
The fight was quick, brutal, and hopeless.
Before Jalen reached him, Darrin's fist caught him across the jaw, sending him sprawling. Stones scraped his cheek. He tried to rise, but a boot drove into his ribs, stealing his breath. Laughter erupted around them.
"Stay down, rat!" Darrin roared, stomping again.
Jalen coughed, copper flooding his mouth. The world blurred - but the whispers grew sharper, louder, filling the edges of his mind:
Endure. Rise. Bite.
And he did.
With a snarl, Jalen lunged low, teeth sinking into Darrin's calf. Flesh tore. Darrin screamed, staggering. The crowd gasped.
Jalen's hands found a shard of broken pottery on the rocky floor. He swung wildly, catching Darrin's wrist, drawing blood. For a moment, the butcher's son's eyes widened in shock.
Then rage overtook him. He slammed his knee into Jalen's chest, knocking the shard away. His fists fell like hammers. Jalen crumpled under the blows, darkness tugging at the edge of his sight.
The crowd's laughter turned uneasy. Beating was common, but Jalen's sudden ferocity unsettled them. He wasn't fighting to save face. He was fighting like something cornered, something far more dangerous.
Guards finally waded in, shoving Darrin back. "Enough! The priests don't want corpses in the street."
Darrin spat on Jalen's crumpled form. "Next time, rat, I will finish it."
The crowd dispersed, muttering. Some glanced back at Jalen with something like fear.
He lay bleeding, gasping, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the Hole's black chasm in the distance.
And the whispers came again, soft and certain:
Yes. That is the taste. Remember it.
Jalen dragged himself home at dusk, every step a knife of pain. His lip was split, his ribs ached, one eye swollen shut. He pressed himself against the hovel wall and slid down, too weak to stand.
He expected despair. Instead, he felt… clarity.
And then he smiled.
For once, he had not simply endured. He had struck back. He had drawn blood. Darrin had left with a wound that would scar.
And though Jalen was broken in body and hungry, the whispers hummed like a lullaby:
Not prey.
He slept with a faint, fevered smile. His spirit unbroken.