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It pains him, but Gurranq sends Darian away.
His ward has served him well, since he and his twin have grown, left Gurranq’s care and gone to do the work of weeding Deathroot, bringing the spoils back to him.
But it cannot continue.
Gurranq has felt the wind change, and the hunger has sharpened within him.
He has never stopped being what was asked of him. For all he has cast off his old name like blood or rainwater shaken from his fur, Death will always live within him, broken edges cutting deep, opening a wound that will never heal, a bottomless pit of need.
Deathroot sates it, for a time. Sates it, and sharpens it. Reminds him, again and again and again, what he was, what he holds. His purpose, his sin, the light to his shadow—
So he sends Darian away. Asks him to send another, any other.
Gurranq will not harm his ward, will not lift a claw against him. But the hunger is deep, and knows nothing but the emptiness, and the walls around it wear thinner every day. He will not continue to see Darian, or his twin, while the possibility exists that he might harm them.
Darian sends a Tarnished.
The Tarnished brings him Deathroot.
Gurranq is sated.
For a time.
The Tarnished brings him Deathroot, and he is sated, and he is sated, and then he is not.
Hunger opens a chasm inside him, the ragged shards of the broken rune cut deep into the empty space of him, he howls and screams and rages and demands more, more, he is so hungry, he is so hollow, there is nothing left but wanting—
The Tarnished beats the sense back into him. Gurranq collapses to the temple floor and shakes.
Apology is not enough, but he offers it all the same.
Perhaps the Tarnished smiles, and perhaps they incline their head to him. Perhaps they speak. He does not know. He does not know.
There is something beside the hunger to him now — there is pain. Deep wounds gouged into his flesh, wherever his armor did not protect him.
He cannot stop shaking.
It has been a long time since he has felt the pain of violence.
The pain of hunger, yes. Sorrow, yes. Fury, yes. But this pain, his own blood spilled—
They came to him, the faceless women. Silent, unknowable. He was blind to them until one lit a torch, while all but one of the rest pinned down his limbs. He could have killed them all, could have torn them apart for the insult, but the last remaining, the ringleader, crouched down and lifted one of Gurranq’s wards into her arms, holding him carefully, but with purpose.
It was Devin. He was awake. He stared at Gurranq with uncomprehending terror.
Gurranq let himself be held down. He did not roar his displeasure. He obeyed.
From amongst their number slunk the Lunar Princess Ranni, in her Carian finery. She offered no apology, no explanation.
The torchlight dipped closer. Ranni drew out a blade, and plunged it in.
He would never forgive himself for screaming. When he screamed, his ward began to cry, and Gurranq could not comfort him. He could only beat his head against the ground and thrash, as Ranni’s fingers pressed into the meat of him and squeezed.
It splintered inside him — Destined Death. It burned her hand, cut her palm. She gasped, squirmed where she was knelt over him, but did not let go.
She withdrew with her prize.
The torch went out.
In the sudden silence, in the dark, bleeding crimson and dark ichor, Gurranq crawled to his ward, pressed his drooling, gasping muzzle to the boy’s face, breathed in the living smell of him. Unharmed — only terrified.
Soon he would know the purpose of the theft. In the moment, he did not. He knew only the pain, the fear, and the very beginnings of the hunger.