Noon. The sun came through ash-choked air, turning everything the color of old copper. Yara's feet were bare, boots worn through days ago. The cobblestones were still warm from fires.

  The Horror limped behind her. The Scion walked ahead, each step cracking stone. Between them, they hunted.

  Yara could feel heartbeats through the Gem. Like drums in her chest. People hiding in cellars, behind walls, under debris.

  They hide. Find them. Feed.

  She kicked the first door open. Small room, smoke-filled. A woman crouched by a makeshift stove, stirring something in a dented pot. A man lay on a pallet nearby, feverish, sweating. The woman had draped wet rags across his forehead.

  The woman looked up when the door crashed open. Saw Yara. Saw the Scion filling the doorway behind her.

  She didn't scream. Just slowly set down the spoon and picked up a kitchen knife from the floor beside her. Her hands shook so badly the blade rattled.

  "Please," she said. Voice quiet. Resigned. "He's dying anyway. The fever—it won't break. Just let me stay with him. Let me be here when—"

  The Scion moved forward. The woman stepped between it and the sick man.

  "No. Please. Just a few more hours. That's all I'm asking. Just let me—"

  The Scion's claw came down.

  The woman fell. The knife clattered across the floor.

  The Gem drank.

  Warmth flooded into Yara before she'd even decided. The woman's life pouring out, filling the hollow in Yara's chest. She gasped at the relief of it.

  On the pallet, the man stirred. Opened fever-bright eyes. Saw his wife on the floor, not moving. Saw Yara standing over her.

  "Mara?" His voice was a croak. "Mara, what—"

  He tried to sit up. Too weak. Fell back.

  "What did you do?" He looked at Yara. Not angry. Just broken. "She was—we were going to—" He coughed, body shaking. "She stayed. Everyone else ran but she stayed. Because I couldn't walk. She stayed."

  Yara stood there, the woman's warmth still spreading through her veins.

  "Please." The man reached toward his wife's body with a trembling hand. Couldn't reach her. "Please let me—just let me touch her. One more time. Please."

  The Gem pulsed. Finish it. Feed.

  Yara stepped forward. Crouched beside the pallet.

  The man looked at her. At her glowing palm. Understanding dawned in his eyes.

  "You're going to kill me too."

  "Yes."

  "Can I—" His voice broke. "Can I hold her hand? When you do it?"

  Yara looked at the woman's body. At the man's outstretched hand, shaking with fever and grief. At the pot on the stove—soup, probably. She'd been making soup for a dying man who would never eat it.

  She dragged the woman's body closer. Close enough for him to reach.

  His fingers found hers. Laced through them. Held tight.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  Yara put her hand on his chest.

  He didn't fight. Didn't try to pull away. Just held his wife's hand and closed his eyes.

  She pulled.

  His life came into her like the woman's had. Warm. Filling. Good.

  She stood there afterward, looking at them. The man's hand still holding his dead wife's. The soup still sitting on the stove, steam rising from it in thin curls.

  They'd been married, probably. Had loved each other enough that she stayed when she could have run. Enough that his last request was to hold her hand.

  And Yara had killed them both. Drank their lives like water.

  The Gem purred, satisfied. The hollow in her chest was filled. Strength had returned to her limbs. The constant ache was gone.

  She felt good.

  She'd murdered a dying man and the wife who loved him, and she felt good.

  Yara turned and walked outside. Made it three steps before she doubled over and vomited. Nothing came up but bile and ash-taste. Her whole body shook.

  "I'm a monster," she said out loud. Testing the words. They fit.

  The Horror made a questioning sound behind her.

  "I killed them for nothing," Yara said. Her voice sounded distant in her own ears. "He was dying anyway. She was just—she was just making him soup. And I—"

  She couldn't finish. Pressed her hands to her face. Her palms were still warm from their lives.

  You needed to feed. You fed. This is survival.

  "That wasn't survival. That was murder."

  There is no difference. Not anymore.

  Yara wanted to argue. Couldn't find the words. Because the Gem was right. She'd stopped seeing a difference days ago.

  But this—watching them hold hands, hearing him thank her for letting him die next to his wife—this had broken through the numbness. Made her feel it again. The horror of what she was doing.

  She stood there, breathing hard, the taste of bile in her mouth.

  "No more," she said quietly. "I'm done. I'm not doing this anymore."

  You will feed when the hunger returns. You always do.

  "No. I'll find another way. I'll—"

  A sound cut her off. Crying. Thin and pained. Coming from the building next door.

  A child's voice.

  The Gem stirred. More food. Fresh. Young.

  "No." Yara's jaw clenched. "Absolutely not."

  You need to feed. The child is dying anyway. End its pain. Feed us.

  "I said no!"

  She walked toward the sound anyway. Not to feed. To see if she could help. To do something—anything—that wasn't murder.

  The building had partially collapsed. She found the girl under a fallen beam. Maybe eight years old. One leg pinned, crushed at a bad angle. Bone showing through torn skin. Blood pooled beneath her.

  The girl looked up when Yara's shadow crossed her. Eyes bright with pain and something else—hope.

  "Help me," she said. "Please. It hurts so much."

  Yara crouched beside her. Looked at the ruined leg. The girl was dying. Slowly. Painfully.

  Feed. End her suffering. Feed us.

  "No," Yara said. Her hands were still shaking from the couple. From what she'd just done. "Not this one. I'm not killing any more children."

  Then what will you do?

  Yara looked at her hands. At the scar on her palm that glowed faintly green. The same power that had just murdered two people. The same power that blasted and burned and killed.

  "I'll save her," Yara said. "The power has to be good for something besides killing. I'll fix her leg. I'll—"

  You cannot save. Only feed or transform.

  "Then I'll transform her. Like you made the Scion. I can make her whole again. I can—" Her voice cracked. "I have to try. I have to do something good. Please."

  The Gem was silent for a moment.

  Try then. See what happens when you use my power for mercy.

  Yara grabbed the beam and hauled it off. The girl screamed as the weight shifted. Yara put both hands on the crushed leg.

  "I can help you," she said. "I'm going to fix this. Just hold still, okay? It's going to hurt but then you'll be better. I promise."

  The girl nodded, tears streaming down her face. Trusting.

  Yara closed her eyes and pushed the power into the wound.

  The power surged out before Yara could control it. Too fast. Too hot.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The girl's scream cut off into something worse.

  Her leg twisted. Bone cracked and reformed, joints popping into new positions. The knee split into multiple smaller joints that bent the wrong way. The foot flattened, toes spreading and fusing into something like a webbed paddle.

  Skin rippled across the girl's body. Tightening in some places, loosening in others. Her hands spasmed, fingers elongating and splitting at the tips. She had seven fingers on one hand now. Maybe eight. They flexed independently, like each one was learning to move for the first time.

  The sound she made wasn't human. High-pitched and sharp. A cheep, almost. Like a bird or a frightened rodent.

  Her face shifted. Not dramatically—she was still recognizable as a child—but wrong. Her mouth sat lower on her face, narrower. When she tried to speak, the words came out clipped and strange. Her eyes developed a glossy film over them, pupils going unfocused.

  She pushed herself up. Moved wrong. Jerky, stuttering motions. The new joints made her limbs bend at angles that shouldn't work. She half-crawled, half-hopped, using the paddle-foot to push herself forward.

  She looked up at Yara. Reached toward her with too many fingers.

  Made that awful cheeping sound again.

  Yara stumbled backward and vomited. Bile and ash. Her whole body shook.

  "No," she gasped. "No, I was trying to help—I was trying to—"

  The thing that had been a girl chittered. Scuttled sideways into a collapsed building. Not running away. Just... waiting. Like it knew Yara owned it now.

  Yara pressed her hands to her face. "What did I do? What did I—"

  Then she felt it.

  The Gem wasn't hungry anymore.

  She'd fed it with the couple. That should have lasted a few hours at most. But now—after transforming the child—the hollow in her chest was still full. The hunger hadn't returned.

  The Gem purred. Satisfied. Pleased.

  Interesting.

  "What?" Yara's voice cracked. "What's interesting? I just—I just destroyed a child—"

  You transformed. And I fed.

  "That's not—I didn't feed you, I tried to heal—"

  Healing. Feeding. Transforming. The Gem's voice was thoughtful, almost distant. All the same to me. All require life force flowing through my power. All satisfy.

  "That's not the same thing," Yara said. Her voice shook. "Killing them takes everything. This—she's still alive—"

  Yes. Different method. Similar result. A pause. And bound to you.

  Yara looked at the collapsed building where the girl-thing had hidden. "What?"

  She left when you wanted her gone. Felt your horror. Your rejection. So she went.

  Yara's stomach turned. She replayed the moment—the revulsion, the desperate need for the thing to be anywhere but near her. And the girl had scuttled away. Not running. Obeying.

  "She felt what I wanted?"

  She is tied to you. Transformation creates binding. Just as I am bound to you, she is bound to you. Lesser. Simpler. But present.

  "I didn't mean to—"

  Intent does not matter. You reshaped her flesh with my power. The bond formed whether you willed it or not.

  Yara pressed her hands to her face. The first Horror stood nearby, watching. It had always followed her. Always waited for direction. She'd thought that was just... survival instinct. Animal behavior.

  But it wasn't. It was bound to her. Just like the girl.

  "How many?" she whispered. "If I keep doing this, how many can I—"

  Unknown. Find out.

  "That's not—I'm not collecting people like—"

  Do it again. The Gem's voice held that same curiosity. I want to see if the binding is consistent. If the transformation always creates it. If you can control it.

  "Control them, you mean."

  Yes.

  From the building came a soft cheep. Not random. Questioning. The girl-thing could feel Yara thinking about her. Could feel the attention even from inside the rubble.

  Yara looked at the collapsed building. "Come out," she said quietly.

  Immediately—before she'd even finished speaking—the girl-thing skittered out. Stopped three feet away. Looking up with those glossy eyes. Waiting.

  "She obeys," Yara said. Not a question.

  She must. You made her. She is yours.

  Yara's throat tightened. "I don't want—"

  You wanted to save her. You did. This is what salvation looks like when filtered through my power.

  "This isn't salvation. This is—"

  Bondage. Yes. But also life. She breathes. She thinks. She feels. And she serves you. The Gem pulsed. Find another dying thing. See if it happens again. See if you can make the binding stronger. Or weaker. Or different.

  "You want me to experiment on people."

  I want to understand what you have discovered. What we can do together.

  Yara looked at the girl-thing. At the first Horror. Both watching her. Both waiting for orders they couldn't refuse.

  She'd wanted to save the child. Instead she'd enslaved her.

  "Go," Yara said to the girl-thing. Her voice came out harsh. "Hide. Stay out of sight. I don't—I can't look at you right now."

  The girl-thing made a small, hurt sound. A cheep that sounded almost like a question.

  "I said go!"

  The creature flinched. Scuttled backward into the rubble, joints clicking. Disappeared into a collapsed shopfront. Gone.

  But not far. Yara could still feel her. A presence at the edge of her awareness, waiting. Obedient.

  "She'll stay there," Yara said. Not a question.

  Until you call her back. Or until she starves. Whichever comes first.

  "What?"

  The bound need purpose. Direction. Without it, they fade. Slowly. The Gem sounded matter-of-fact. Call her back eventually. Or lose her.

  Yara's chest tightened. Another leash. Another cruelty she hadn't meant to create.

  "If I do this again," she said slowly, "someone dying. Someone who'd choose servitude over death."

  Agreed. But choose quickly. I grow curious.

  She stood. The Scion moved beside her. The first Horror fell into step, limping on its broken legs.

  Two bound creatures following one monster. A third hiding in the ruins, waiting to be called.

  And the Gem wanted more.

  For two days, she avoided children, feeding on scavengers and goblins. Still, the hollow inside grew.

  Then she found the boy, hidden in a cistern, half his face a crust of burn.

  She guided the power with both hands. Tried to control it this time. Keep it steady, precise, gentle.

  But the power was impatient. The boy's flesh smoothed, then shifted. Burns closed into skin that crept like wax, covering his cheek and blinding one eye. He clawed at his face, screaming, tearing at the crawling skin with his nails.

  The Scion's paw came down. Heavy. Merciful. The boy stopped moving.

  Yara stared at the small body. "Did it work? Is he—"

  No. Dead. Not transformed. Not bound. Just dead.

  "But the girl survived—"

  She did. This one did not. Try again.

  "Try again?" Yara's voice cracked. "I just killed a child trying to save him and you want me to—"

  Yes. Learn what makes one survive and another fail. Practice.

  She sat in the ruins until dawn, head against stone. Fever burned behind her teeth. Shame sat like iron in her stomach.

  The first Horror—he who had once been a soldier she'd tried to save—came to squat beside her. That odd, rasping sympathy you don't expect from a thing you created. His voice had a crack in it.

  "Stop trying," he rasped. "You make it worse when you care."

  That sentence landed like a rock.

  The Gem thrummed approval under her ribs. She felt the trickle of something like pride from it.

  Vomit rose in her throat for the shame of it.

  She found another child later, the same sun older. Twelve maybe, hopping along on a makeshift crutch. The girl did not run. She stopped and said, blunt and small, "You're the witch. Fix my leg."

  Yara could have said no. Could have turned away. Instead, she knelt and watched the hopeful trust in the girl's face. Felt that old, foolish ache—wanting to be a healer, wanting to take less than she needed.

  She set her hand on the ruined limb. Tried to keep it controlled. Small. Precise.

  It went wrong.

  Tendons reknit, then overgrew. Joints split into too many small knuckles. Skin tightened into ridges that made movement spasm and lurch. The girl's mouth opened on a noise like a sob and a hiss combined. She curled up, tried to crawl away.

  Yara couldn't move. Just watched.

  The Horror stood nearby with something like horrified fascination on his broken face. The Scion's heat pressed against her back.

  The Gem purred. Satisfied.

  Interesting. I fed again.

  "You're pleased?" Yara's voice came out strangled. "She's suffering and you're—"

  I am trying to understand why this satisfies me. The Gem sounded genuinely curious. Consumption makes sense. I drink their life directly. But this—reshaping them, breaking them, binding them—why does this feed me the same way?

  "I don't care why—"

  I do. The energy flows differently. Not taken from them to me, but through them, through the transformation itself. Like the act of change creates something I can consume. A pause. Once more. Try again. I want to see if—

  "No," Yara whispered. "Not like this."

  You resist. I feel it fighting me. That is why they break so badly. Let me work through you without—

  "I said no!"

  The girl had crawled into a gap between two stalls. Crying. The sound bent and twisted, became something not quite human anymore.

  Yara stood frozen. The girl was suffering. The kind thing—the only kind thing left—would be to end it quickly.

  She opened her mouth to call the Scion.

  The words wouldn't come.

  Instead, she turned away. Walked. Let the girl's crying fade into the city's other sounds.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered to no one.

  You leave her like that?

  "I can't—I can't watch the Scion kill another one. I can't."

  Then she suffers. The Gem didn't sound judgmental. Just matter-of-fact. Transformation without completion. Pain without purpose. You should have finished it.

  "I know."

  Yet you walk away.

  "I know!"

  The Gem hummed thoughtfully. I am satisfied regardless. The transformation fed me even incomplete. Perhaps especially incomplete—more energy spent, less structure formed. Inefficient but effective. A pause. We will experiment more. Find what works. What creates binding versus what creates only pain. What satisfies me most.

  Guilt sat in Yara's throat like slag. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear the Gem out and bury it under stones. Wanted to go back and end the girl's suffering properly.

  Instead, she pressed her palms into the ash until her fingertips hurt. Vomited again. A small, private emptying that left her hollower than before.

  The Gem hummed. Not comfort. Just observation. You learn by doing. You cannot fix without remaking. Three attempts. One survived. One died. One suffers. The pattern will emerge.

  "I don't want a pattern. I want to stop breaking children."

  Then stop trying to save them. Kill them cleanly or transform them completely. Half-measures create only monsters.

  The Horror rasped agreement. The Scion's heat pressed close.

  And somewhere behind them, a twisted girl cried in a gap between stalls, waiting for death or purpose or anything that would end the pain.

  Yara kept walking.

  She looked north once, past the broken roofs and the slick of ash, toward the district where white glass still held against the smoke. For a breath, she let herself imagine wards and sealed rooms and something older than the short, furious bargains she’d been making. The thought tasted like a word she almost knew how to use.

  Then the ledger turned in her hands, and the arithmetic closed: feed...stitch...feed...stitch. The hollow within her did not smooth; it yawned. The cuts beneath the linen prickled; the copper at the back of her mouth came back like a bad taste. Her knees threatened to give.

  She sank down on the rim of a broken well, palms in ash, and the world tilted thin and useless. The city’s distant heartbeat so many small, answerless thumps blurred into one low, grinding noise that felt like the inside of a bell. Despair came like weather: heavy, wet, inevitable. For the first time in hours, she could not imagine another promise to make.

  There is something else, the Gem said, its voice sudden and sharp in the hollow. Below. A pulse. Old. Not the city’s little lights. Deeper.

  The words felt almost obscene in her mouth because they were an answer she had not earned. She tried to push up, and her legs did not like the idea. The world pooled at the edges.

  The Scion shifted beside her. It lowered one massive flank until it formed a warm slope at hip height and leaned, not casually but as if offering a hand. The Horror padded close and pushed its head under her arm with an awkward, human nudge that left a smudged print of soot on her sleeve.

  They helped without words. She pressed a shaking palm to the Scion’s flank, and it warmed her, breath trembling like a bellows. The Horror’s rough nose rubbed the length of her forearm; for a second, the small rhythm she felt there was not the Gem’s taking but the steady thrum of another living presence. The touch steadied more than the rest had.

  “I can’t—” she began, and the sentence died on a dry laugh.

  We go, the Gem said, not quite impatient but edged with the iron of decision. We follow the pulse.

  She wanted to say no, to refuse the compounding cost of another taking. She had promised herself she would not let the city become a machine of her hunger. But the Scion’s flank was warm under her palm, and the Horror’s head was heavy and trusting in her lap, and the Gem named a place that might unpick the cycle.

  She levered herself up, supported by two monstrous bodies and an argument of need. Her ankle wanted to fail; it held with a thin, angry pain. Her legs felt like borrowed beams. She braced on the Scion, set the spear in her hand like a staff, and took a first staggering step toward the north.

  The Scion moved ahead with the slow certainty of a thing that knew its way through ruin; the Horror stayed at her elbow, limping but steady. Ash spiraled down around them as they walked, and the pulse in the air, a new, older rhythm, pulled at the hollow under her ribs like a tide calling a blind thing home.