Hunger arrived quietly.
It did not announce itself with pain at first, nor with the weakness Caelum had expected. It came as a hollowing—a subtle drain that made movements feel heavier and decisions take longer. Thoughts slowed, then sharpened uncomfortably, narrowing toward the same recurring question.
*How long can we keep this up?*
The Threshold Fields offered no easy answers.
The pale grass bent beneath their feet, resilient and strangely tasteless when chewed. What roots they'd found earlier had dwindled quickly, their bland nourishment barely enough to take the edge off. Water was still available in shallow basins and cracks in the stone, but even that seemed less plentiful the closer they drew to the Gate.
By the time the group slowed near a shallow depression ringed by broken pillars, the silence between them had grown dense.
No one suggested stopping.
They stopped anyway.
---
Jonah Whitlock crouched near the edge of the depression, examining the remnants of a small, animal-like creature laid out on a flat stone. It was no larger than a fox, its body lean and unfamiliar, skin translucent in places like frosted glass. Its eyes—if they had been eyes—were closed.
It hadn't fought.
That unsettled Caelum more than if it had.
"We found it near the ruins," one of the scouts said quietly. "It didn't run."
Rakesh crossed his arms, eyeing the carcass. "Didn't need to. Look at it. Barely any meat."
"Barely is still something," Jonah replied evenly.
He glanced around, meeting faces one by one. No one spoke. No one volunteered an alternative.
Li Xueyan stood apart from the group, blade still in hand, watching the grass beyond the pillars. Her posture was loose, ready. She hadn't said a word since the creature had been killed.
Aarav swallowed hard, gaze fixed on the ground. "I'll… I'll help," he offered, stepping forward.
Jonah shook his head. "Not you. Your hands—"
"I'm fine," Aarav insisted, though the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. He clenched them into fists. "I can still—"
"Not you," Jonah repeated, firmer this time. "Sit. Eat when it's ready."
Aarav hesitated, then obeyed.
The decision passed without argument.
That, Caelum thought, was new.
---
The meat was divided carefully.
Too carefully.
Each portion was small, barely enough to justify the effort of cooking it over a faint, flickering heat drawn from a Binding one of the climbers still barely understood. The smell—sharp and metallic—made stomachs twist.
Caelum waited until the others had taken their portions before accepting his.
No one commented.
Élise noticed anyway.
"You don't have to—" she began.
"It's fine," Caelum said quietly. "I'm not as hungry."
That was a lie.
But it was an easy one, and the moment passed.
---
The grass beyond the pillars shifted as they ate.
Not wind. Not movement.
It wilted.
Caelum noticed it first—the subtle darkening of the blades nearest where Rakesh sat, hunched over his portion, eating quickly, eyes darting toward the others. The grass there lost its faint sheen, bending lower than the rest as though pressed by invisible weight.
Li noticed a heartbeat later.
Her eyes narrowed.
She said nothing.
---
They did not linger.
Whatever nourishment the creature provided faded quickly, leaving behind a dull ache that felt worse for having been briefly relieved. Jonah rose, brushing his hands clean against his trousers.
"We move," he said. "Slowly. Stay within sight."
Rakesh stood last, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he did, something small clinked softly at his belt.
Caelum's gaze flicked to it.
A wrapped bundle. Food.
Rakesh noticed the look and scowled. "Found it earlier," he said defensively. "Didn't think it mattered."
No one challenged him.
The grass beneath his boots darkened further.
---
They hadn't gone far when the first shout rang out.
A young man—thin, sharp-eyed, his Binding etched faintly along his neck—staggered near the edge of the path, clutching his side. He dropped to one knee, gasping.
"I found more," he said breathlessly. "There's—there's a nest. Creatures like the one we ate. I can hunt them."
Jonah turned. "You're hurt."
The man waved it off. "It's nothing. I can do this."
Before anyone could stop him, he surged forward.
His Binding flared.
Light rippled across his skin, coalescing into a crude, jagged shape around his arms—claws of condensed force. He leapt, faster than before, landing among the tall grass with unnatural speed.
For a moment, it worked.
The grass parted violently. A shriek—high and piercing—cut through the air as one of the small creatures was torn apart mid-flight. Another fell moments later.
The man laughed, breathless and wild. "See?" he shouted. "I told you—"
The light around his arms flickered.
Then shattered.
The backlash hit him like a physical blow.
He screamed, collapsing forward as the force rebounded inward, tearing through muscle and nerve alike. His arms twisted at unnatural angles, skin bruising instantly, veins standing out stark and dark.
The creatures fled.
Silence crashed down.
---
They reached him too late.
He was alive. Conscious. Sobbing.
"I can't feel them," he whispered, staring at his hands in horror. "I can't—move—"
Élise knelt beside him, hands shaking as she checked for bleeding. "You overdid it," she said softly, though her voice wavered. "Your body—"
"My Binding," he gasped. "It's—wrong. It won't listen."
Samuel Crowe crouched opposite her, expression grim. "It listened," he said. "Once too often."
The man's arms lay limp at his sides.
They would not move again.
---
No one spoke as they helped him up.
He could walk, barely, but every step was a struggle. Jonah assigned two people to support him, his tone measured, controlled.
Inside, something shifted.
Caelum felt it—an alignment slipping, a subtle discord threading through the group. The incident hung over them, heavy and unavoidable.
Power worked.
Power punished.
That truth settled deeper than hunger ever could.
---
They found shelter near a half-buried structure—a collapsed hall whose remaining walls offered some protection from whatever unseen forces watched the plains. No fire this time. No unnecessary movement.
People sat where they fell.
Some stared at their hands.
Others stared at nothing.
Aarav leaned against a cracked pillar, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. The tremor in his hands had returned, worse than before.
"I could've helped," he muttered.
Caelum sat beside him. "You would've made it worse."
Aarav opened his eyes, anger flashing. "How do you know?"
Caelum met his gaze. "Because you'd have tried to carry it all again."
Aarav's jaw tightened. Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped. "I don't know how to stop doing that."
Caelum said nothing.
He didn't have an answer.
---
Li Xueyan ate alone.
She sat on a fallen slab, back straight, gaze outward, chewing methodically on a small portion she'd kept for herself. Her movements were precise, controlled. No waste.
Her eyes flicked, once, toward Rakesh.
Then away.
Groups weaken under pressure, she thought. They make excuses. They tolerate inefficiency.
She wiped her blade clean and sheathed it.
When the time came, she would not hesitate.
---
Élise sat near the injured man, fingers clenched in her lap.
The glass shard at her collarbone pulsed faintly, warm against her skin. She could store this moment—the fear, the consequence, the way his eyes filled with helpless disbelief.
She could save it.
She closed her eyes and turned the shard inward, pressing it gently against her chest until the warmth faded.
*I will not store fear*, she reminded herself.
Not this.
Not yet.
---
Jonah stood apart, watching the group with narrowed eyes.
Hunger changed people. It stripped away politeness, sharpened instincts, revealed fault lines. He catalogued what he saw without judgment.
Rakesh hoarding.
Li isolating.
Aarav breaking himself to protect others.
Caelum—always central, always quiet.
Jonah's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than intended.
Interesting, he thought again.
Very interesting.
---
The grass beyond the shelter shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
Caelum noticed.
He stood slowly, scanning the perimeter. The grass near where Rakesh had passed earlier lay darker still, almost blackened now, as if something had been leeched from it.
The land remembers, Caelum thought.
Or maybe it reacts.
Either way, it was watching.
He felt the Gate's pull again, stronger now, more insistent. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, sharp and unrelenting, but beneath it lay something else—a pressure building toward inevitability.
They could not stay here.
They could not rest long.
Scarcity would drive them forward whether they were ready or not.
As the group settled into uneasy stillness, one truth became impossible to ignore:
The Threshold Fields would not starve them all at once.
It would make them choose.
And the choices, Caelum suspected, would cost more than any of them were prepared to pay.