Chapter 3

Once again, the Hunger called to Marcus, dragging him toward familiar ground. Every step he took brought him closer to losing control again.

Then, in the distance, he saw it—the warehouse in Dren.

And beyond it, the sound of children laughing.

"Please… not the children." His voice was a whisper, a plea to something that no longer listened.

A child’s voice rang out.

"Rocky, come on!"

Marcus knew that voice. Lucas. Rodrick’s son.

He pressed himself against the rough bark of a tree, hoping—praying—that no one had seen him.

But Rocky had.

The dog caught his scent, sniffing the air, his tail wagging as he bounded toward the tree.

Marcus wanted to back away, to disappear into the shadows, but the Hunger wouldn't let him.

Rocky wagged his tale when he seen someone he use to know.

His body moved on its own.

A single motion.

A sickening tear.

And Rocky was no more.

Marcus stared at his hands—soaked in blood, holding the dog in two pieces.

Then came the screams.

"There's a monster in the woods!"

Lucas and the other children saw him. Saw the blood. Saw the carnage.

Marcus turned to flee—but his body wouldn't listen.

His feet dragged him forward.

Back toward Dren.

Back to where the pain began.

He stayed within the tree line, watching for movement. Then he saw it.

His house.

The peach tree that had once grown beside it now stood barren, its branches twisted and lifeless.

Connor had loved peaches.

But the tree had stopped growing the night his family died.

Like everything else.

A blur of motion—Marcus tore the wooden boards from the back door and stepped inside.

Silence.

Cobwebs clung to every surface. Dust choked the air. They had left it untouched.

The people of Dren had covered the furniture, locked the doors, and left the house to rot.

The house welcomed him with silence—but he was not alone.

"Welcome home, love."

Lorna’s voice.

The scent of lavender filled the air.

Marcus turned sharply, searching for her. For any sign of her.

He stepped into the living room.

The crate was gone. The floor had been scrubbed clean—as best as they could.

But Marcus could still see it. Still smell the blood.

The memories flooded back.

His weakness.

His failure to protect his family.

The foolish words he had spoken in the final moments of his life.

His legs gave out, and Marcus fell to his knees, sobbing.

Then, from outside—

"The monster is in the mayor’s old house!"

Marcus’s head snapped up. He had left the door open.

He slammed it shut, grabbing a chair and wedging it under the knob.

Then, a gleam from the fireplace caught his eye.

Connor’s longsword.

It rested on the mantle, untouched by time.

Marcus reached for it, unsheathing the blade. It was exactly as he remembered it. The same craftsmanship. The same weight. The same sharpness.

His wrist turned, testing its balance. It felt like it belonged to him.

Then, a thought struck him.

Why did the blacksmith make Connor a longsword?

He was far too young.

A realization settled over him like a vice.

Tyler planned this.

All of this.

The Darkness inside him stirred.

Black veins crawled down his arm, reaching his hand, the one gripping the sword.

The steel shifted.

The blade dissolved into a swirling green vapor.

Marcus swung it experimentally. The smoke-like form remained, as if the weapon had transformed into something unnatural.

Then, movement outside.

Shadows shifted against the curtained windows.

The townsfolk had surrounded the house.

Marcus ducked under the kitchen table—

His body moved before he understood why.

And then the fear struck him.

A deep, paralyzing fear.

The kind that only a child could feel.

His breath hitched.

His trembling fingers traced the underside of the table.

"This is where Connor hid when Tyler came."

The house groaned around him. Shadows flickered as flames crept along the walls.

Then, her voice.

"This is where I was."

Marcus turned sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

The voice came from a small box nestled between two lanterns—Lorna’s cherished lanterns.

He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the lid.

Inside, a pile of ash.

Next to it, her wedding band.

Marcus’s fingers trembled as he picked up the ring.

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Why didn’t they bury you with it?"

The answer came, hollow and full of sorrow.

"Tyler."

The name alone ignited a fire within him hotter than the flames consuming his home.

His rage billowed like a storm, deep and unrelenting.

Marcus slipped the ring onto his little finger.

Then, the smell of smoke thickened.

The villagers had set the house on fire.

Marcus turned to the window. His only escape.

Through the glass, he saw them—a sea of people.

Torches. Pitchforks. Fear. Hate.

And then—

The Hunger returned.

A blur of movement—Marcus crashed through the window.

The sword in his grasp dissolved, shifting into its green vaporous form.

He landed among them. They barely had time to react.

The closest man didn’t even scream.

Marcus swung the blade. The vapor touched flesh, and where it passed, a path of decay spread.

The man crumbled to the ground, lifeless.

Marcus felt it.

The Hunger was being fed.

This was different. This was not like before—this satiated him.

Someone rushed him with a knife—Marcus moved faster.

One slash, and they fell apart like dried leaves.

Screams tore through the night as the massacre began.

One by one, they died.

None could run.

The elderly. The young.

No one was spared.

Their screams filled the sky.

Their bodies lined the road.

And when the final breath was taken—

The Hunger subsided.

Marcus exhaled sharply, looking down at his hands.

The blade was steel again.

The wedding band was gone.

Then, her voice—filled with despair and fury.

"This one was not Tyler.

This one was you, Marcus.

What you have become eats life, love—any light.

My ring turned to ash like yours.

We would be together as a family if it wasn’t for you.

You killed everyone you loved!!"

The weight of Lorna’s words crushed Marcus.

"You killed everyone you loved."

And she was right.

With nothing left—nothing but the monstrous thing he had become—Marcus turned and left.

He walked away, leaving Dren and the massacre behind.

___________________________________________________________________________________

"Father!"

Melissa’s scream pierced the silence of the dead town.

She collapsed beside her father’s corpse, her tears soaking into his blood-stained clothes.

The streets were littered with the bodies of her people.

Fathers. Mothers. Children.

The town of Dren was gone.

Melissa’s shoulders shook with grief.

Why? Who could do this?

A figure approached, draped in priestly robes.

"Excuse me," the man said gently, "we are preparing the Funeral Rites for your father and the others."

Melissa lifted her head. Through her tear-blurred vision, she saw others in the town—all wearing robes.

Her sorrow hardened into suspicion.

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

The priest pulled back his hood, revealing a young man with dark hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.

"We are hunting the Usher of Annihilation," he said.

Melissa's breath caught.

"The one responsible for this."

His voice was steady, but she could see the grim determination behind it.

"We have a lot to talk about."

The man placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.

"My name is Orion. We are the Faithful Eye."