The void was endless shit. No ground, no sky, no real air. Varig floated in something cold and slimy that forced its way into his mouth, nose, eyes. It felt like someone had filled his lungs with frozen mud. Every breath was a fight — the thick mist slid down his throat and stayed there, choking him slowly.

  He didn't know if he was standing or lying down. Didn't know if he still had a body. All he felt was the cold. A cold that didn't come from outside — it came from inside the bones, like the marrow had turned to ice and was cracking apart.

  Then the father appeared.

  He didn't just show up. He formed slowly, shaking, like a warped reflection in dirty water. The grey beard. Broad shoulders. The way he tilted his head when he laughed. It was the father. Almost.

  "It's so cold here, pup…"

  The voice didn't come from outside. It vibrated inside the bones, like someone had shoved fingers into his spine and spoken straight into the marrow. Same hoarse tone. Same warmth that always made him feel safe.

  "I need more. To come back… you need to give me souls."

  Varig wanted to answer. Wanted to scream he'd give anything. But the mouth wouldn't obey. The mist pushed through the teeth, down the throat, strangled the words before they could be born.

  The father's shape reached out a hand. It wasn't comfort. It was a demand.

  "More, Varig. More souls. Or I stay here. Alone. In the cold."

  The pain came out of nowhere.

  The crow-skull necklace burned against his chest. A violent suction exploded in his left shoulder — like an invisible hand had shoved fingers inside him and yanked hard. It wasn't flesh. It was deeper. Varig tried to scream, but the sound stayed trapped in the mist. His whole body arched. Legs kicked at nothing. He felt his own life being torn out, piece by piece, like someone was drinking him from the inside.

  Then the void spat him back.

  Varig woke with a jolt, body slamming hard against scorched wood. The contrast hit like a punch to the gut. The void had no smell. Here the air stank of burned flesh, old blood, wet ash, and swamp rot. He coughed, choked, tasted smoke and iron on his tongue. The crow-skull necklace was still clutched in his right hand, hot, heavy, like it had swallowed something alive.

  His left arm lay stretched out beside him like it didn't belong anymore. He tried to move the fingers.

  Nothing.

  He looked down.

  The skin on his left arm was grey, dead, like cold campfire ash. The flesh had shrunk against the bone, wrinkled and dry, like everything inside had been sucked out. Thick black veins throbbed slowly under the shriveled skin, swollen, disgusting. It looked like the arm of a corpse someone forgot to bury. Varig tried to lift the hand. The whole arm was dead weight, dragging like rotten wood. It didn't respond. It didn't hurt. It just didn't exist anymore.

  Before moving away from his father's body, Varig reached out with his shaking right hand. His fingers touched the crow-skull necklace hanging from Vitor's neck. He yanked hard. The chain snapped with a dry crack. The pendant dropped into his palm, hot, heavy. Varig pressed the necklace to his chest, like it was the last thing left of his father.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  That's when he heard it.

  The sound of teeth grinding bone. A low, wet, hungry grunt.

  The swamp boar was a few meters away, half-hidden among the ruins. Huge, black bristles raised, snout dripping drool and blood. It wasn't hunting. It was eating. Head buried in the chest of one of the dead villagers — tearing meat and ribs with its teeth. The wet crack of breaking bones echoed in the silence. Fresh blood ran down its chin, mixing with the mud.

  Varig froze.

  The terror was so strong he stopped breathing. The boar was busy, chewing with pleasure, eyes half-closed in satisfaction. Varig started backing away slowly, dragging his body backward, trying not to make noise. Every move was agony — the dead left arm scraping the wood, the wounded leg throbbing. He'd barely moved half a meter when his foot hit a loose plank.

  Crack.

  The boar snapped its head up. Blood dripped from the snout. Red eyes locked on Varig instantly.

  And charged.

  Varig screamed.

  The beast came like thunder. Varig rolled to the side at the last second. Tusks tore the wood where he'd been a second before. He tried to crawl backward, but the boar was faster. The snout slammed into his chest, throwing him against a charred pillar. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. Varig punched the snout with his right fist — once, twice, three times — but it was like hitting stone. The boar grunted, lowered its head, and bit into the side of his thigh.

  The pain was white, explosive. Varig felt the teeth sink in, tearing muscle, grinding against bone. He screamed — a high, animal sound. With his good hand he grabbed one ear and pulled with everything he had. The beast shook its head, trying to rip the chunk free. Varig kicked wildly — foot hitting eye, snout, anything. The boar wouldn't let go. It bit deeper. Varig felt the thigh bone crack. Hot blood poured out, soaking the whole leg.

  In pure desperation he opened his mouth and bit the boar's snout hard. He tasted wet fur and blood. The animal squealed, surprised, and shook its head violently, throwing Varig to the side. He landed on his back, the dead left arm smacking the wood. The boar came at him again, tusks dripping, red eyes full of rage and hunger.

  In the moment the beast leaped over him, Varig's dead left arm ended up in the path of the impact.

  The contact was immediate. The boar touched the grey, dead skin of Varig's left arm.

  The power woke.

  The boar froze mid-air. A violent shudder ran through the massive body. The skin started wrinkling right in front of Varig's eyes — first the snout, then the neck, then the chest. The muscles shrank, disappeared, like someone was sucking the life straight from the bones. The red eyes sank into the sockets. The grunt turned into a high, desperate squeal. The boar tried to back away, but the back legs were already dry, bones showing through stretched skin.

  Varig felt the tingling return — hot, almost burning. The grey skin of his left arm took on a sickly rosy shade. The fingers moved. Not much — a weak, painful twitch — but they moved. He managed to close the fist maybe two centimeters before the pain stopped everything. The arm was still heavy, still felt like rotten wood stitched to the shoulder. It still hurt like hot needles running through the black veins throbbing under the shriveled skin. But now he could move it. A little. Enough to stop being total dead weight.

  The wounds from the fight reacted too. The torn thigh stopped gushing blood — the flesh slowly knit together, the skin stretched over the gash, but it still throbbed, still bled a little when he moved the leg. The bruised chest hurt less, but every breath pulled the ribs like someone had jammed a knife between them. It wasn't healing. It was just a delay. A macabre breath that kept him alive for a few more minutes.

  The boar collapsed with a wet snap. Turned into a dry husk, skin stretched over bones, empty eyes staring at nothing.

  Varig stared at the carcass, gasping, chest rising and falling fast. The relief in his arm and wounds was small, almost nothing. The necklace, on the other hand, glowed with a deep green, satisfied, like an animal that just finished eating well and left only scraps for the host.

  He looked at the arm now half-alive. Then at the dried-out boar carcass.

  And he understood.

  That thing inside him — inside the necklace — would never stop being hungry.