Hunger of Shadows

Isadora:

The hunger comes first.

It gnaws low in my stomach, a hollow ache that sharpens with every step I take across the creaking floorboards of my room. I press my hand to my middle, but the sound—an audible growl—betrays me.

The knock is soft but certain. I know before I open the door who it is.

Rhett stands there, dark and solid, filling the frame like he was carved to block out the world. His eyes flash gold when they find me, and his nostrils flare—wolf instincts catching on my weakness. He doesn’t speak, not at first, just searches my face with that steady intensity of his, until finally his lips curl.

“Your stomach’s louder than my boots, little doe.”

Heat floods my cheeks. I scowl, but it’s weak. “You could have pretended not to hear.”

“Not my style.” He leans one shoulder to the doorframe, smug, but his gaze never softens. “Come on. Lunch. You're starved.”

I should resist. The thought of the dining hall, of all the eyes—whispers, stares, judgments—it makes my chest tighten. But when Rhett reaches out a hand, I take it. The warmth of his palm against mine is grounding, as though his touch alone can tether me to the earth.

The corridor smells of dust and wax, but also faintly of him—pine smoke and iron. He doesn’t let go of my hand, even when we step out into the wider passageways. Even when students pass, eyes following, murmurs rising. He just keeps walking, head high, daring anyone to breathe wrong in our direction.

By the time we reach the heavy doors of the cafeteria, my nerves are raw. I can hear the hum inside, the scrape of chairs, the rise and fall of voices.

“Rhett—”

“I’ve got you,” he cuts in, sharp and certain.

And then we’re through.

The hall stills. Or maybe that’s only in my mind, the silence pressing against my eardrums. A hundred faces. A hundred unspoken questions. My throat tightens.

Rhett doesn’t falter. His hand never leaves mine as he threads through the sea of long tables—not toward the far, safe corners where I’ve hidden before, but straight to the High Table.

My pulse stutters. The High Table—raised, set apart, a stage where every look burns sharper. The royals’ place. Not mine.

Yet as we draw closer, I see them.

The others.

Silas already sits there, angled slightly from the rest, his profile carved of marble, shadows coiling faintly at his boots. His eyes are distant, haunted, like he’s listening to voices no one else can hear.

Kai is next, golden head bent over his cup. He looks—tired. Hollowed out in a way glamour can’t mask. His glow is dimmer, his shoulders hunched, as though even light can be a burden.

Lucian leans back in his chair, a picture of carelessness—buttons undone, long fingers tapping against the stem of his glass. But when his gaze lifts and finds me, I see it. The hunger. The longing for life itself. As though he’s balanced at the edge of ruin, and I am the only thing pulling him back.

I almost stumble.

The sight of them—changed, marked—because of me. Because I touched them.

Strong. Untouchable. Until me.

The realization is a stone dropping into water, sending ripples of dread through my chest.

I sink into the seat Rhett guides me toward, directly in the middle. Trapped, cradled, surrounded. Rhett settles to my left, solid, a living wall. Silas sits silent beside him, shadows flickering faintly against his cuffs. On my right, Kai straightens, forcing a half-smile, as if to reassure me, though his eyes betray exhaustion. Lucian watches me openly, gaze dark and unyielding, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows every secret my body keeps.

The plate is already waiting for me. Arranged. Chosen. Perfected.

My fingers hover above it, trembling.

The weight of them presses in on me. The way they look at me. Haunted, feral, worn, longing. Their edges cut into me from every side, until I can hardly breathe.

And it hits me all at once.

What I have done.

To them.

To myself.

My lungs tighten. My vision warps at the edges. My body sways.

“Isadora—” Rhett’s voice sharp, alarmed.

The floor tilts. The candlelight smears. I can’t hear the scrape of chairs or the shouts as the boys rise—only the rush of blood in my ears.

And then darkness swallows me whole.

The visions come jagged.

Fire first—rolling, consuming, tearing through carved stone halls. Banners burn. Glass shatters into showers of color that slice across the floor.

The Academy is screaming.

Beneath the flames, something stirs. The earth shudders, cracking wide to reveal a rift—black, endless, hungry. A wound in the ground, bleeding shadow.

Figures emerge from the haze. Four of them. Not the boys. Older. Regal, terrible. The Founders.

Their eyes are hollow stars. Their mouths open, chanting words I can’t understand.

One turns toward me. A woman crowned in thorns, her hand outstretched, dripping ash.

“Devourer,” she whispers. Her voice is the groan of shifting earth. “Tamer of the High.”

My body jerks. My chest seizes.

And then—pain. A searing in my veins, as though fire and shadow and blood all course through me at once, dragging me toward the rift.

I scream—silent in the vision, but raw in my skull.

Light breaks the nightmare.

My lashes flutter. Breath stabs back into my lungs, ragged, desperate. I’m not on the ground. I’m cradled. Arms around me, steady and unyielding. A scent of sweat, leather, earth—Rhett.

My head rests against his chest, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum beneath my cheek. His arms cage me, fierce, protective. I hear him growl at someone—I don’t know who.

“Back up. Give her space.”

My eyes flicker, heavy, searching. Shapes blur—Silas’s shadows curled like anxious beasts at the edge of the table. Kai’s glow, pale, trembling, his jaw clenched hard. Lucian leaning forward, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen, as though he’d rip the world apart to drag me back.

“I’m—” My voice cracks, thin as a reed. “I’m fine.”

The lie tastes bitter.

Rhett’s arms tighten, as if to hold me together when I can’t.

But deep inside, beneath the terror, the guilt, the ache—something darker coils. A pull I can’t escape. The memory of fire. The hunger of the rift. The Founders’ hollow gaze.

And their word—burning through me like a brand.

Devourer.