Impeccably dressed. Tall. Poised. Arms folded. And furious.

  His gaze swept across the room like a noble surveying battlefield carnage.

  A drunk girl giggled near him. “Whoa. Who invited the CEO?”

  Eryndor ignored her.

  He stepped into the house.

  The chaos fell quiet as his footsteps echoed on the tile. Even the music seemed to lower itself in his presence.

  Valerius grinned, still standing on the kitchen table. “Oh no. Big brother’s home.”

  Eryndor halted at the threshold of the kitchen, his jaw taut. “You orchestrated a gathering—here, in our residence—without consent? With outsiders? In Mother’s absence?”

  Valerius hopped down, still swaying to the beat. “Technically, it’s not a gathering. It’s a celebration. You know—spirit of youth.”

  Eryndor’s head turned. In the aquarium beside the wall was a glowing cube submerged in water—a device he’d spent weeks calibrating.

  He moved swiftly toward it.

  “No…” he whispered, yanking the cube from the tank.

  Its light flickered.

  He turned to Valerius, voice trembling with rage. “Valerius. What have you done?”

  Valerius scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. It was that guy over—”

  Eryndor didn’t let him finish.

  He moved like a panther—crossing the space in a flash, seizing Valerius by the jaw. In a single, fluid motion, he slammed his younger brother against the wall. The plaster cracked under the force. Valerius’s feet were off the ground, pinned midair.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down. Let me explain—”

  “You will be made to answer for this transgression.”

  Valerius gripped Eryndor’s wrist. “Wait—”

  Eryndor shoved.

  CRASH— Valerius flew backward, smashing through the drywall, tumbling like a ragdoll. He hit the far wall hard, then collapsed into a heap of broken plaster and couch stuffing.

  The room erupted.

  Screams. Shouts. The sound of glasses shattering.

  “Okay,” Valerius groaned from the floor. “Maybe I deserved that.”

  Carmen rushed toward him.

  Eryndor raised a hand without looking. “Leave.”

  She froze.

  His emerald eyes flared. “All of you. OUT.”

  The panic became an exodus.

  Teenagers scrambled for the door, grabbing their bags, stumbling over couches and each other. The party dissolved in seconds.

  Valerius rose to his feet, wincing. “Just so you know… I wasn’t drinking.”

  Eryndor advanced, voice ringing with fury. “Have you any conception of what you’ve done? This was my examination—a charge bestowed upon me by Mother herself. I returned to reclaim it, only to discover it submerged in saltwater while interlopers desecrate our parlour!”

  Valerius raised both hands. “It wasn’t me. It was—”

  “Silence. I’ve no interest in your justifications.”

  Valerius scowled. “You can just make another one, right? It’s not a big deal.”

  Eryndor froze.

  “What?”

  Valerius shrugged. “Look, all I’m saying is—”

  WHAM— Eryndor delivered a clean uppercut straight to Valerius’s chin.

  His fist was a hammer. Valerius’s body flew.

  Up—through the ceiling.

  Then again—through another.

  Then crashing through the roof entirely, disappearing into the night.

  A second later, Valerius came crashing down through the broken layers above—ceiling, attic, floor—his body limp, debris trailing him.

  But he never hit the ground.

  Eryndor was standing exactly where he had been. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t adjust.

  He simply struck.

  THUD! A straight punch to the ribs—caught Valerius mid-fall.

  THUD! A second to the chest—timed before the first had even finished reverberating.

  THUD! A third to the shoulder—fluid, exact, brutal.

  Valerius flailed mid-air, spinning helplessly like a rag doll, disoriented from the sheer force—

  And then—

  WHUMP— a punch to the gut sent him flying through a wall.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  He flew across the yard, then straight into the neighbor’s house.

  CRASH!

  The neighbor, an elderly man in a bathrobe, dropped his cup of tea. “WHAT THE HELL?!”

  Valerius rolled across the kitchen floor, past a stunned child holding a cereal bowl. A woman screamed. A cat leapt onto the curtains.

  CRASH! He flew out the other wall—and into the next house.

  A man brushing his teeth stared as Valerius somersaulted through his living room. “Honey, I think one of the Delindor kids just flew through our wall again.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Back in their own yard—

  Valerius stumbled around the side of the house, bruised and pissed. He kicked open the back door and marched through the kitchen.

  Eryndor turned just as—

  BAM! Valerius socked him straight in the jaw.

  Eryndor skidded backward across the tile, his feet carving deep trenches into the floor—stone and ceramic screeching beneath him—before he smashed clean through the dining room wall.

  Valerius stepped forward, panting. “You’re not the only one who’s mad.”

  Eryndor emerged from the dust, wiping his mouth. His lip was split—but his expression was calm.

  Impressed, even.

  Then he rushed forward.

  They collided.

  Fist met fist. Blow met block. The house trembled with the sound of crashing furniture, breaking glass, and thunderous impacts.

  Valerius was fast, unpredictable—but Eryndor was a machine. Every strike was sharper, heavier, smarter.

  Valerius ducked, spun, landed a kick to Eryndor’s side—but it barely moved him.

  Eryndor responded with a backhand that launched Valerius into the staircase.

  CRACK.

  Valerius bounced off it and

  He rose, limping, defiant.

  “I swear I'll beat you today,” he growled.

  Eryndor cracked his neck.

  “Come at me.”

  They charged again.

  And the house—already broken—braced for more.

  Valerius launched forward, wrapping both arms tightly around Eryndor’s neck in a desperate chokehold. He clung to his brother’s back, legs locked around Eryndor’s waist, growling through his teeth as he tried to tighten the grip.

  Eryndor didn’t panic.

  He simply adjusted his footing—then jumped.

  CRASH!

  They burst through the first floor ceiling, wood and dust exploding around them. They rocketed through the upper floor, straight through the roof—and into the sky.

  As they reached the peak of their arc, Valerius shifted.

  He raised a fist and slammed it into Eryndor’s back, sending his older brother plummeting down.

  BOOM.

  Eryndor crashed through what remained of the house, hitting the ground with a thunderous shock that left a crater in the garden.

  Valerius landed on top of him, bouncing off his back, and—without hesitation—kicked Eryndor’s ribs, sending him tumbling through the side of the house.

  One wall.

  Two walls.

  Three.

  Eryndor finally crashed out into the front yard, stopping in a heap.

  Valerius roared and sprinted forward. He leapt into the air, aiming to strike before Eryndor could rise.

  But Eryndor was already moving.

  He sidestepped.

  Caught Valerius by the ankle mid-air.

  WHAM.

  He slammed him into the ground like a hammer—belly-first.

  The earth cracked beneath the impact.

  Valerius screamed, breath knocked clean out of him.

  Eryndor stood above him, calm and winded. He looked down, voice firm and final.

  “You are well aware you cannot best me. That truth weighs on you even now.”

  Valerius, groaning, twisted and lashed out—kicking Eryndor’s leg.

  Eryndor buckled slightly, surprised.

  Then Valerius kicked upward with both feet, catching Eryndor square in the chest and launching him back through the front wall—again.

  More debris rained down. Glass shattered. Somewhere in the wreckage, a family portrait fell facedown.

  And still—they kept going.

  The fight spilled from room to room, yard to hallway, until the entire estate was a splintered warzone of broken furniture, cracked pillars, and upturned foundations.

  Minutes later…

  Silence.

  Both of them sat in what used to be the living room.

  On two half-shattered chairs.

  Side by side.

  Facing the same direction.

  A scorched table stood between them, one leg missing. The house around them was in ruins—walls caved in, smoke drifting through the halls, parts of the ceiling gone entirely.

  Valerius leaned back, his face bruised and bloodied. A thin line of blood ran from his temple, another from his lip. His shirt was shredded, his breath heavy.

  Eryndor, slightly better off, had only bruises and shredded shirt. He was taller, broader, and barely sweating.

  After a long moment, Eryndor reached into his pocket and wordlessly offered Valerius a white handkerchief.

  Valerius took it, wiping the blood from his face.

  Eryndor said, almost gently, “I did caution you—she was a deleterious influence from the outset.”

  Valerius didn’t argue.

  He looked around at the destruction.

  “...What about your project?”

  Eryndor sighed. “You have left me no alternative but to reconstruct it entirely—from inception.”

  Valerius groaned, rubbing his face. “We’re so dead.”

  Then he looked toward the smoking remains of the kitchen counter.

  “Pedro? Are you still there?”

  A flickering light sparked to life from beneath a shattered cabinet. A low, mechanical voice answered.

  > “Your mother will be quite displeased when she arrives.”

  Valerius winced. “At least Pedro still works.”

  And the two brothers sat there, amid the chaos they had caused, like soldiers after battle—bruised, broken, and brothers still.

  ---

  The cannibal withdrew his mouth from Valerius’s shoulder, blood dribbling down his chin in lazy crimson threads. His eyes gleamed with delight as he licked his lips.

  “You truly are a blessing from the gods,” he murmured, dragging a clawed finger across Valerius’s bruised cheek. “Both food... and entertainment.”

  He leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing Valerius’s ear, his voice low and venom-sweet.

  “I wish I could see Lyriana. How lovely it would be to have my way with that exquisite body. Don’t you think so?”

  Then—SMACK—a sharp slap across Valerius’s face.

  “Hey. Wake up.”

  No response.

  The grin faltered. A shadow of concern passed across the man’s bloodstained face. He crouched, pressing his ear against Valerius’s chest.

  Thump... thump...

  Still beating.

  A twisted relief bloomed.

  “No, you’re not dead. Not yet.” He exhaled. “I can’t lose my meal.”

  The cannibal dropped beside the body with a heavy sigh, as if they were old friends resting after a long day.

  “You survive without limbs. You even grow them back...” His laughter returned, a slow, mad ripple. “But what if I took your heart? Would you still regenerate? What if I carved off your head... would that finally stop you?”

  His eyes sparkled. “I would love to find the edge of your seed’s gift. Where does the miracle end?”

  ---

  And so began the routine.

  Days melted into weeks. Weeks dissolved into months. Time no longer moved—it bled.

  To keep his prize alive, the cannibal fed Valerius beast meat—shredded into bite-sized scraps. Valerius couldn’t chew, not after the damage, so he was force-fed like livestock. With no fresh water in this gravity-drenched wasteland, he was given beast blood instead.

  Not out of kindness.

  It was preparation. Fattening. Seasoning.

  ---

  Valerius’s body broke again and again—arms twisted off, legs devoured, chest hollowed.

  And yet, each time, he returned.

  The body rebuilt itself.

  It adapted.

  The first time Valerius stood, it was for a second. Then a minute. Then an hour.

  He tried to flee—crawling, limping, running. But each escape ended the same: caught, beaten, half-eaten, returned to the pit.

  And each time... he grew back stronger.

  ---

  The cannibal felt it.

  Tearing into him wasn’t as easy as before. The skin was firmer. The bones resisted. The blood stung. His jaw would ache where it hadn’t before.

  And Valerius felt it too.

  He didn’t scream as much. He didn’t cry. The pain hadn’t lessened, but he had.

  He had tried summoning Lorde—again and again—but silence was his only answer.

  He had tried reaching for Yelleen, for anything divine—but there was no light in the Rift. No voices. Just gravity. Flesh. And the man who hunted him daily like an immortal butcher fattening a cursed boar.

  ---

  And so, one year passed.

  A year of being eaten.

  A year of failing to die.

  A year of bones broken, memories replayed, rage growing like fire behind tired eyes.

  And through that long, merciless dark…

  Valerius changed.

  He was no longer prey.

  ---

  The first time Valerius tried to escape, he was caught before he could crawl past the bone pit.

  The second time, he made it to the edge of the ravine before his leg was broken in five places and his shoulder chewed open.

  Each attempt ended in screams.

  And more meat for the cannibal.

  But Valerius never stopped.

  He learned instead.

  He learned how the man walked—barefoot, calloused, but with a limp in the right knee.

  He memorized the way he snored when he was truly asleep, and the way he fake-snored to bait him.

  He watched how the man’s left eye drifted out of focus sometimes—blinded from a beast hunt. A vulnerability.

  Time passed. Pain passed. Plans solidified.

  Until one night, beneath the Rift’s dark stars, Valerius lay still. One eye open. One breath at a time.

  The man had fallen asleep after a hunt, full of meat and pride. He didn’t bind Valerius this time.

  He didn’t need to.

  Because he thought Valerius feared him too much to try again.

  And he was right.

  Valerius did fear him.

  But he also hated him.

  So he waited until the snores deepened.

  And moved.

  Quietly, he crept toward the sack of gear the cannibal used to butcher beasts—searching with trembling fingers.

  There.

  A toxin shard, taken from a Rift serpent. Deadly if it enters the bloodstream. Hallucinogenic if only scraped.

  Valerius didn’t try to kill him.

  He just nicked the shard across the man's thigh, careful not to draw too much blood.

  Then he waited.

  Minutes passed.

  Then—the man stirred.

  Groaned.

  Staggered to his feet.

  And began to scream.

  He clawed at the air. At his chest. At shadows only he could see.

  He fell. He laughed. He begged. He tore his own arm open trying to fight invisible monsters.

  Valerius ran.

  He ran without looking back—lungs burning, feet cracking against jagged stone, bones threatening to snap under the Rift’s brutal gravity.

  Behind him, the screams grew stranger. Louder.

  But they did not follow.

  The toxin had done enough.

  It would not kill the man.

  But it would break him for a time.

  And that was all Valerius needed.

  “I hope you rot in hell you fucker,” Valerius growled, breath ragged as he ran.

  To He Continued...