(Proofread and partially written by AI for coherence and completeness.)
Days blended into one another like the endless gray of the sky above. Kieran moved through the village of Hallow's End as if in a fever dream, his body weak, his mind still struggling to piece together the fragments of his past. Hunger gnawed at him constantly, a dull pain that dulled his thoughts and frayed his patience.
The villagers avoided him. Some cast wary glances as they passed, their faces creased with suspicion and exhaustion. Others acted as if he were invisible, a phantom too insignificant to acknowledge. It was clear that everyone here was fighting their own battles—against hunger, disease, or the unforgiving cold.
Kieran's first few days were spent scavenging like an animal. He picked through discarded scraps of food, the rotten and the stale, things others had deemed inedible. The taste of mold and bitterness clung to his tongue, but he swallowed it down, driven by the primal need to survive.
He learned to make himself small, to hide when the stronger villagers prowled the outskirts, searching for the weak to bully or rob. Strength ruled here—strength and cunning. Kieran possessed little of the former but an abundance of the latter.
On the fifth day, he found himself drawn back to the fire where the old man sat, stirring his watery soup with the same tired, rhythmic motions. Kieran had stolen scraps from others, crept into huts in the dead of night to scavenge morsels left unattended. Yet, he was still starving.
"You're still here," the old man rasped, his eyes not lifting from the pot.
"I have nowhere else to go," Kieran replied, his voice cracked from thirst and disuse.
"Hmph. Same as the rest of us." The old man finally glanced up, his gaze appraising and cold. "Yet, you're still alive. That's something."
"I'm not looking for pity," Kieran snapped, his desperation bleeding into anger.
"Good. Because no one here will give it."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Kieran wanted to turn away, to seek something—anything—that would ease the hunger burning within him. But he remained rooted to the spot, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.
"What do you want, boy?" the old man asked, his voice slow and gravelly.
"I want to understand. Why this place... why everyone just accepts living like this," Kieran said, his frustration spilling over. "The nobles, the ones with power—they leave you all to rot."
The old man's gaze sharpened. "And you think you're the first to notice? That your anger is unique?" His lips twisted into a sneer. "You're just another starving wretch. Complaining changes nothing. The world is broken and always has been."
"Then why do you stay here?"
"Because leaving takes strength. Strength we don't have."
Kieran clenched his fists tighter. Weakness. The word echoed in his mind like a taunt. He could feel it pressing down on him, suffocating him with every breath.
"If you want to live, you need to learn the rules of this place," the old man continued. "You want food? You work for it. You want shelter? You fight for it. Kindness is just a prettier word for weakness."
Kieran absorbed the words, his chest tightening. He had already seen the truth of them. The villagers looked out for themselves. Families huddled together, guarding what little they possessed with feral intensity. And he... he was alone.
The old man tossed something toward Kieran's feet. A shriveled root, bruised and half-rotten. "Eat that, if you're desperate enough."
Kieran eyed the root, his stomach twisting with disgust. But hunger was a merciless force. He snatched it from the ground and bit into it, the taste of earth and decay clinging to his tongue.
"That's your lesson for today," the old man said, his voice a low rumble. "The strong devour the weak. And everyone here is weak."
Kieran turned away without another word, the root clutched tightly in his hand. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts, his resentment deepening with every passing moment.
For days, he drifted through Hallow's End, observing, learning. The village was like a festering wound, its people infected with hopelessness. And yet, Kieran couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more. Something beyond this miserable existence.
He began to test his limits. Stealing food from those who had more, hiding his tracks, evading the fists of those who caught him. It was a life of desperation, but also of discovery.
One night, as the wind howled through the crooked huts and the stars hung like distant specks of frost, Kieran sat alone near the outskirts of the village. His gaze was fixed on the dim lights of a far-off city, their glow shimmering like an impossible dream.
"The strong devour the weak," he murmured to himself. "But if that's the only rule... then I'll become stronger than anyone."
From that night on, Kieran's path became clearer. His bitterness was no longer a wound, but a blade—sharp, deadly, and honed by his own resolve.
The fire within him had been lit. And it would only grow fiercer.