The Hunger

How long has it been since manna fell from the heavens? Onora has lost count of the days. But it has been long enough for the hunger to return.

The streets of Inghariad, once teeming with wealth and prosperity, now sit hollow and cursed, their golden cobblestones chipped and stained with blight. Onora moves like a ghost through the shadows, her feet light enough to make the barest whisper. Even the slightest touch placed too firmly, too carelessly, will betray her. There is no room for mistakes on foraging days. She knows this all too well.

Tightening the strap of her satchel more snugly against her chest, she creeps along the crumbling wall of what was once a shop full of glittering baubles and beauty. She’s walked along this path often enough to move without hesitation, her feet making their own way through the remnants of the shattered storefront. Every shard, every broken piece of this damned city—she knows it by heart. And the knowing is her salvation.

In the early days, there were those who still believed the gods meant to only test, not curse. They talked of proving their loyalty, that something must be done to show the gods their unwavering devotion. Statues were erected, shrines built. The bolder and more plated with gold, the better. Throngs of people gathered in rapt worship and repentance. Inghariad was the most blameless city, the most genuine in their bright infatuation. And yet, the city still crumbled. Spires fell before their very eyes, crashing down on congregations where they stood with pleading arms held high.

In the end, it wasn’t their repentance the gods wanted for themselves. It was their blood.

Onora had always been doubtful of the gods’ intentions, though she did well to hide it. There had been some subtle feeling in her gut for as long as she could remember, even back when the manna still fell freely and generously from the sky. Though the daily sustenance, soft and creamy as clouds and sweeter than honey, was the very reason for their city’s health and prosperity, she had suspected. Even the most beautiful things came with a price. She had only eaten enough to sustain herself, nothing more. Her doubt had made her an outcast, someone to in turn be doubted and scrutinized. Who declined the generosity of such loving gods? When people questioned her distrust and labeled it as ungratefulness, she would only smile, lips tight against her clenched teeth.

Distrust came too naturally to her. Had since the day she was born, really, when her mother was cast from the sky for her infidelity. Though she hadn’t known her mother long, she remembered the blade-sharp look in her stormy eyes as she held her face toward the heavens and cursed the very god that had loved her. A child remembers these things. And especially a child as cursed as Onora. Even as she fed her the tiniest bites of the blessed manna, her mother had made sure Onora knew that such sweetness was never meant for the likes of her.

Even now, Onora can taste the butterfly softness of manna on her tongue. She sucks her teeth as she wends her way through the desecrated city, her eyes quick and darting as she assesses how far the blight has spread. Thick, gurgling patches of the tar-like substance creep from the shadows, with dark, hairy tendrils that tentatively reach toward her as she passes. She eyes the offending patches with dry derision. She’d known after the manna ceased to fall that something darker, with purer intent, would follow in its stead. She’s often wondered if it tastes as sweet.

The tinkling sound of glass breaking pierces the air. Onora stills, her left hand resting on the comforting feel of the dagger strapped to her hip. She turns, slowly.

A Gilded One stands about ten feet away. Its red-rimmed eyes latch onto her like a leech, the hunger palpable in its swollen pupils. Its full lips pull back into a smile, golden teeth flashing in the morning sun.

While the city is skeletal, rotting from its very core, the Ones that sleep in its broken bones are healthy and glowing with vitality. Just as beautiful as the days when they supped on the sustenance provided to them. “Such generous gods!” they’d always said. “What a blessed life we live!” And now, as with every time Onora sees one of them creep from the shadows, she feels her lips quirk at the irony.

“Can you taste the sweetness still?” she asks, twirling her blade with deft fingers.

The Gilded One watches, silent. Gorgeous and patient, the only sign of its hunger is the throbbing need in its dilated pupils. Not one to drag out suffering, Onora catches her dagger in midair and presses it to the crook of her elbow, just so. Blood trickles. She hears the quick intake of breath from the One before her, sees it take an excited step closer.

Quick as a whip, she skids her foot through the nearest patch of blight and kicks the tar into the Gilded One’s eyes. It keens in pain tinged with betrayal. Claws at its lovely face in desperation, its skin already burning from the acidic bite of the blight. Onora sidles closer, twirling her dagger as she lets out a sharp laugh. She pays no mind to the thin line of blood that’s streaming down her right arm. In this moment, the full heat of her attention lies on the writhing, whimpering thing at her feet. She kneels beside it, tracing her pinky along one of its arms, the skin warm and golden beneath her touch. It flinches from her, its breath quick with fear.

“You should have known that beauty comes with a price,” she says. “The gods themselves told me so.”

And she slips her blade along the taut line of its throat. Golden blood, gleaming and plentiful as manna, bubbles to the surface. She lowers her head and drinks.