I stood at the edge of the Library of Infinite Worlds, and for the first time in hours, no one was trying to kill me. The silence should have been a relief, but it wasn’t; my stomach clenched with a low, hollow ache that had nothing to do with skipped meals and everything to do with the thing coiled inside me. Malikap had said he needed to “moderate a little meeting” (his words, not mine, as if the Tournament of the Gods was merely a tea party requiring someone to keep the children from stabbing each other with dessert forks). He’d told me not to wander and that he’d be back soon. So I was waiting. And starving.

  The marble beneath my boots still shimmered faintly from the golden page’s glow, though the light was dimmer now, as if even it was tired. The air pressed in close—dry and unmoving, the room itself seemingly holding its breath, uncertain what to do next. My ribs ached, not from old bruises, but from the Boon. The Corviana gift curled behind my sternum like a starving beast, gnawing at my insides. What was usually a low-grade itch had intensified hours ago, sharpening into a visceral, painful pull. This wasn't just hunger; it was ravenousness, a gaping void demanding to be filled. My own body urged me forward, not to escape, but to consume. Anything. Everything. The edge of the marble pillar looked strangely appealing, a thought that brought nausea warring with the emptiness.

  I pressed my hand hard against my side, digging my fingers into the space between my ribs as if I could physically restrain the need. “Not now,” I whispered, my voice thin, my mouth dry and tasting faintly of metal.

  A small, singed-looking parchment unfurled near my shoulder, smelling faintly of ozone. The script on it shimmered black. [Why not now? It's a great time to lose control. Ambience is perfect.]

  “Malice,” I warned, my voice low, though the threat felt empty. I was too tired, too drained by the constant gnawing inside me, to muster true anger. I took a shaky step forward, needing to move, to do something other than feel this craving clawing its way up my throat. Overhead, the lights flickered once, then stopped, but the shadows kept moving, long fingers stretching across the stone. My pulse quickened, a frantic beat against the slow, agonizing throb of the Boon.

  And then—he arrived. Not in a flash or a puff of smoke, but bleeding into existence, as if the shadows had held their breath and finally exhaled him into being. One moment I was alone; the next, I wasn’t. Malikap stood before me, the same jagged limbs, bark-split skin, and hollow mouth that had loomed over my bed in Run One. Back then, he hadn't spoken, just pointed before I died. Now, he looked at me.

  My throat constricted, the dryness becoming painful, and I found myself unable to move. It wasn’t just fear, but recognition: that ancient, marrow-deep knowledge warning this is the thing from the stories they stopped telling because it made the children scream.

  “Jamie,” he said, my name in his voice like two swords dragging across a stone floor.

  I didn’t answer, my stomach giving another violent, hungry twist.

  “You wear it well,” he said, gesturing faintly toward my ribs, toward the source of the gnawing agony. “Though I suppose you always would have. You are my fracture.”

  The Boon pulsed, a hot wave of need washing over me, forcing an involuntary step back. Another parchment appeared near the first, this one looking slightly smug, if parchment could manage such an expression. [Oh no. Did he just call you his little cracked teacup? That's adorable.]

  “I’m not yours,” I managed, the words scraping my throat.

  He didn’t respond immediately, tilting his head slowly, deliberately, as if weighing my words and finding them lacking. “You yielded once,” he said finally. “Do you think I forgot?”

  My skin went cold despite the heat coiling in my gut. My fists clenched. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t— The shadows behind him twitched, and the Boon pulsed again, harder, demanding. Malikap smiled. He didn’t move closer, didn't need to. His presence alone exerted a crushing pressure, like a migraine waiting to bloom behind the eyes. The Boon pulsed again, sharper now, the hunger evolving into a tearing sensation, a desperate craving for something elemental and raw. It wasn't food, not even blood like before, but something older, deeper. I clamped my hand harder against my ribs, knuckles white, trying to hold myself together.

  Malikap tilted his head the other way, studying me like a portrait that had aged wrong. “My last daughter,” he said softly. “My little fracture. Look at you. Standing all on your own. How novel.”

  “Don’t,” I said, too quickly, bile rising with the hunger.

  “Don’t what?” he asked, mock confusion lacing his tone. “Claim what is mine? Or marvel at what’s been so... elegantly misplaced?”

  I didn’t answer, sensing that the more I spoke, the more he fed off it. Every flicker of doubt, every tremor in my hands seemed to make him brighter, heavier, and disturbingly, the Boon seemed to like it. The hunger lessened fractionally, replaced by a different kind of energy, just as unsettling.

  A longer scroll materialized beside Malice's other notes, hovering insistently. [Let the record show I tried to warn you this guy was a creep. But sure. Let’s stand here and listen to a bark-skinned gaslighter with a death fetish.] Malikap glanced towards the parchment, then dismissed it with disinterest.

  “You don’t belong here,” I said, focusing on the floor tiles, fighting the cramping in my stomach. “This is a library.”

  “Oh Jamie,” Malikap purred, his voice like smoke poured over razors. “Do you think books are immune to gods? Do you think stories are safe from hunger?” He let the question hang before adding, almost cheerfully, “Besides, I had time. Your little pageant hasn’t started yet. The others are bickering. They’ll keep until I return.”

  I flinched.

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  “Ah,” he said, catching my reaction. “You didn’t know. Poor dear. The Tournament of the Gods has already begun. And you, I’m afraid, are already losing.” My breath caught, my grip tightening on the golden page. “Tell me,” he continued, taking a slow, soundless step closer, “does Rod still whisper Blake’s name in his sleep?”

  I snapped my head up, and his smile widened. “Funny, isn’t it? The things people forget when they stop bleeding.” My tongue felt thick and useless; the hunger returned with a vengeance, making the room seem to tilt. “The Librarians,” he mused, as if to himself. “Still calling themselves guardians. Still so smug. So sure they’re protecting something real.” He chuckled, a low, broken-throat sound. “Even Malice is playing the role he was given. Tell me, Jamie—” His eyes flared, twin embers in the shadowed sockets. “—do you enjoy carrying my hunger?”

  The Boon spasmed violently under my skin, sending a jolt through my entire body. I gasped and staggered back, clutching my side as the ravenous emptiness felt like it was trying to claw its way out. He saw it, of course he saw it. Malikap leaned forward, hands folded behind his back, his frame unreadable except for that flicker of molten interest in his gaze. “You’re doing so well,” he said, almost kindly. “So very well.” And I realized, a chill crawling up my neck despite the Boon’s inner heat: He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was trying to cultivate me.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely breathe properly, each inhale shallow against the painful clenching in my chest and stomach. The Boon inside me throbbed, slow and steady now, like a second, predatory heartbeat. Every pulse scraped against my ribs, echoing as if it didn’t belong to me anymore. I clenched my jaw, trying to breathe through the insistent, gnawing demand, but it didn't help; my body felt weak, hollowed out by this unnatural need. Malikap didn’t advance, his voice carrying enough weight to crush stone.

  “There was a time,” he said, “when kings carried my mark like a crown. A thousand years of divine cunning, etched into the bloodlines of empires. But time is cruel to the old gods, Jamie. They forget us. They dilute us. Until the spark burns out.” He paused, watching me with the quiet satisfaction of someone delivering a long-awaited truth. “You,” he continued, “are the last. The last true descendant of my bloodline. The final one to carry even a whisper of my divine spark. My will lingers in you, barely flickering. But it’s still there. And it’s hungry.”

  My legs nearly gave out as the hunger surged, sharp enough to make spots dance in my vision. I’d always known there was power in my blood; the royal line was old, older than the kingdom itself, if the histories were true. Mother used to say our blood ran thick with destiny, while Father laughed, calling destiny an excuse powerful people made for their children. But now, Malikap was rewriting the story. I wasn’t chosen; I was bred, a vessel for residual hunger.

  I shook my head, backing away. “You’re lying. You’re just—twisting things. That’s what you do.”

  He just smiled, offering no denial.

  A nearby parchment rustled, the script looping sarcastically. [This is where you say thank you. Maybe throw in a fruit basket. God-dad just dropped the inheritance bomb and everything.]

  I ignored it, my pulse too loud, thoughts racing. My skin felt tight, stretched thin over the gnawing void inside. The hunger wasn't just in my stomach; it felt like it was in my bones, in my blood. I was a container, a conduit, a vessel for a god’s leftovers, a vessel with cracks and an insatiable appetite. The Boon pulsed again, harder, almost ecstatic. My throat was painfully dry, the metallic taste sharp and coppery. I wanted to bite down on something hard, just to feel the resistance. Rod, Blake, the Librarians, Malice, my parents – had any of them known? Was this why Rod evaded my questions about the Boon, why Blake was so careful around it? Was Mother’s obsession with legacy just guilt in disguise? I pressed a hand to my mouth, swallowing hard against the twin waves of nausea and craving.

  “You don’t get to twist my memories,” I said through my teeth. “You don’t get to rewrite my family.”

  Malikap’s grin didn’t falter. “Jamie, I’m not rewriting anything. I’m merely reminding you of the original draft.”

  The air thinned around me, making it hard to stand against the physical weight of the hunger pressing down, urging me to curl up on the cold floor. I slammed my eyes shut. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up—”

  A quick, sharp note on a scrap of parchment flashed beside my head. [Wasn’t me that time, princess.]

  He was right. It wasn’t Malice. It was me. My resentment, my doubts – they were feeding it. The Boon liked this, liked the pain, the betrayal. It fed on the turmoil, momentarily quieting the raw physical hunger, replacing it with something sharper, darker. And in some deep, terrible place inside, exhausted by the constant gnawing need, surrender seemed almost peaceful. I wanted to burn it all down: the palace, the Librarians, Rod, everyone who lied. But I didn’t move, didn’t scream. I stood there, teeth clenched so hard my jaw hurt, trembling slightly, trying to keep breathing. I had to, because if I didn’t, the Boon would take over, fueled by this raw, aching emptiness, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get myself back.

  Malikap watched me in silence, pleased. “I see you,” he said at last. “You’re almost ready.” And then—he was gone, fading into dust like a nightmare deciding to be polite.

  The room didn’t feel lighter. If anything, it felt heavier, the silence amplifying the furious growling of my stomach and the insistent thrumming behind my ribs. It was as if something inside me, hungry and waiting, had stayed behind.

  After a beat, a crisp, clean parchment drifted into view, hovering where Malikap had stood. [So... that was casual. God of Betrayal reveals he’s your creepy grandpa, gaslights your entire bloodline, and peaces out without so much as a hug. Classy.]

  I didn’t respond. My chest ached, my skin felt clammy, and my fingers trembled. The hunger returned, worse than before, a hollow agony spinning my head. The Boon no longer just throbbed; it purred, a low, guttural vibration of satisfaction from the emotional feast. But beneath the purr, the physical craving remained, vast and unsatisfied.

  I stayed frozen long after he was gone, not because I thought he might return, but because a terrible part of me hoped he would. Not for answers or safety, but for clarity, for direction. At least with him here, I knew what to fear. Now, all I had was silence and this gnawing, unbearable hunger. Reaching for the wall, fingers brushing cold marble, I felt my legs tremble, weak from the constant internal drain. I took a breath like swallowing glass and fought a wave of dizziness, forcing myself to stand straighter. The Boon thrummed, sated on turmoil but still demanding physical sustenance, a constant, aching reminder of the void inside – an appetizer consumed, impatiently waiting for the main course. Deep inside, I couldn't deny the truth: some of the darkness, some of the hunger, had come from me.

  A final parchment hovered before me, dripping sarcasm. [Oh yes, clearly. Healthy glow, even skin tone, small case of existential dread—you’re thriving.]

  I didn’t look at it. My stomach cramped again, hard, and I pressed my hand against it, leaning slightly against the wall. My reflection shimmered in the faint glow of the golden page I still held—pale skin, cracked lips, eyes wild and hungry, no longer looking like mine. Not since the last floor, not since Chancydia, not since Rod. The page itself felt heavier, not cursed, just burdened, as if bracing for what was coming. I tucked it away carefully and straightened my shoulders again, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the desperate hollowness in my core.

  “I’m fine,” I said aloud, the words tasting like ash.

  I took one step forward, then another. The hallway stretched ahead, all polished floors and watchful shadows. The Boon throbbed once more, a low, insistent pulse promising that this hunger wouldn't fade. It would only grow.