The throne had not always been empty.
It remembered.
Deep beneath the shattered cathedral of bone and obsidian, where no sun had touched for a thousand years, the throne sat in patient silence. Its jagged edges curved like ribs around an invisible heart, and its surface pulsed faintly—as if something inside it still breathed.
Or waited.
A slow drip echoed through the cavern.
Blood. Always blood.
Not fresh. Not warm. Just enough to remind the throne what it had lost.
Eryndor had been walking for three days without rest.
The torch in his hand flickered violently as he stepped deeper into the underworld ruins. The air grew heavier with each breath, thick with something ancient… something watching.
"You should turn back," whispered a voice.
He stopped.
The voice hadn't come from behind him. Nor ahead. It came from within the stone itself—sliding through the cracks like a serpent.
"I didn't come this far to leave," Eryndor muttered, tightening his grip on the blade at his side.
His armor was cracked. His cloak torn. And yet, his eyes burned with something far stronger than fear.
Hunger.
Not for food. Not for power.
For answers.
Legends spoke of the Starved God.
A deity abandoned by its worshippers… or worse—forgotten.
They said it had once ruled over life and death, feasting on devotion. But when faith faded, the god did not die.
It starved.
And in its starvation, it changed.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber.
Eryndor froze.
Before him stood the throne.
Even from a distance, it felt… wrong. The air around it twisted unnaturally, bending light and sound. His torch dimmed, as if unwilling to exist in its presence.
And yet, he stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
The stone beneath his boots felt soft—too soft.
He looked down.
Not stone.
Flesh.
Ancient, dried, stretched across the ground like a forgotten offering.
Eryndor swallowed hard but continued.
"You are late."
The voice was no longer a whisper.
It was everywhere.
It pressed against his skull, filled his lungs, wrapped around his spine.
He dropped to one knee, gasping.
"Who—" he choked.
"You know who."
The throne shifted.
No—not the throne.
Something within it moved.
A shape began to form, rising slowly from the seat. Not fully solid. Not entirely real. A silhouette made of shadows and faint, flickering light.
Eyes opened.
Too many.
"You came seeking truth," the voice said. "But truth… is not what you want."
Eryndor forced himself to stand.
"I came to end you."
For a moment, silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Not loud. Not wild. But hollow. Empty. Endless.
"End me?" the being said. "Child… I ended long ago."
The shadows shifted, revealing glimpses of something far worse.
Bones fused with darkness.
A crown of broken halos.
A chest cavity… empty.
No heart.
Only a void.
"I am what remains when gods are forgotten," it continued. "I am hunger without end."
Eryndor raised his blade.
"I don't care what you are."
The air trembled.
"I care what you've done."
Visions slammed into his mind.
Cities collapsing into dust.
People clawing at their own skin.
Priests screaming as their prayers echoed back… unanswered.
And beneath it all—
The same throne.
Watching.
Waiting.
Feeding.
"You think I caused this?" the Starved God asked softly.
The visions faded.
Eryndor staggered, breathless.
"I didn't," it said. "They did."
A pause.
"They forgot."
The chamber grew colder.
"I was their hope," the god whispered. "Their salvation. Their eternity."
Its many eyes dimmed.
"And when they no longer needed me… they left me to rot."
The shadows tightened.
"And so… I learned to take."
Eryndor charged.
With a roar, he drove his blade forward, aiming straight for the throne.
The moment steel touched shadow—
Everything stopped.
Time froze.
Sound vanished.
Even his heartbeat ceased.
"You cannot kill hunger," the god said.
Eryndor found himself standing… somewhere else.
A vast emptiness stretched endlessly in all directions. No ground. No sky. Only darkness.
And in the distance—
A throne.
Closer now.
Waiting.
"You came here for answers," the voice echoed. "So I will give you one."
The throne pulsed.
"What happens… when a god starves long enough?"
Eryndor tried to move.
He couldn't.
Tried to speak.
Nothing.
The throne whispered:
"It begins to eat."
Pain exploded through his chest.
Eryndor gasped as something invisible tore through him—not flesh, not bone—but something deeper.
Memories.
Hope.
Purpose.
They were being pulled out, devoured piece by piece.
"No—!" he tried to scream.
"You will make a fine offering," the god murmured.
But then—
Something changed.
A flicker.
A resistance.
Deep within Eryndor, something refused to break.
Not strength.
Not courage.
Something simpler.
Something human.
Defiance.
The pull weakened.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
With a roar that shook the void, Eryndor forced his body to move.
His hand closed around the hilt of his blade.
And this time—
He didn't aim for the throne.
He aimed for himself.
Steel pierced his chest.
The pain was immediate. Blinding.
But so was the light.
The void cracked.
The throne trembled.
And for the first time—
The Starved God screamed.
Eryndor fell to his knees, blood pouring from his wound.
But he was smiling.
"You don't get to take everything," he whispered.
The chamber returned.
The throne writhed violently, its form collapsing in on itself.
The god's voice fractured, breaking into a thousand echoes.
"What… have you done?"
Eryndor looked up, eyes fading.
"I gave you… nothing to eat."
Silence fell.
The throne stilled.
The shadows receded.
And for the first time in centuries—
The hunger weakened.
As Eryndor collapsed, the torch beside him flickered back to life.
Its small flame burned steadily.
Defiantly.
And deep within the broken throne…
Something began to die.