Theron Darkmoon's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The dead hunter's mark still burned in Theron's mind. His maker knew he was coming, and his maker was older by centuries. Theron had felt that gap once, the night the elder turned him. A hand had closed on his throat, and Theron had been unable to move. If he walked into that strength now, the elder would drain him dry and leave nothing. He needed power that was not his own. He needed something to close the gap. Deep in the cave, past the boulders, Theron found a fissure in the stone. Cold air leaked from it. He wedged his fingers in and pulled. The rock split, and the dark behind it swallowed his sight for a moment. Inside lay two things, half buried in dust. A sword rested against the wall, its blade cracked and streaked with rust and green rot. Wrappings bound the broken tip. Beside it sat a gauntlet of old metal, etched deep with worn patterns, its jewels dull under grime. Theron had heard tales of relics that held the strength of the dead who forged them. He had never believed them. Now he had no better plan. He lifted the sword first. The grip fit his hand. The weight steadied him, but it was only steel. It would cut a man. It would not match an elder. He set the blade down and reached for the gauntlet. The metal was ice against his skin. He forced his fingers in. Then it seized him. Pain shot up his arm, sharp as the silver cut. The gauntlet clamped tight and would not come off. Something cold poured into him through the metal, filling his chest, his throat, his teeth. Theron dropped to one knee. He heard his own heart, which had been silent for years, thud once, hard. He waited for the pain to end him. It did not. When it faded, he stood. He flexed the gauntleted hand and drove his fist into the cave wall. Stone cracked and fell. He had never been that strong. The relic had given him something, and it had not let go. But the cold in his chest did not settle. It pulled at him, hungry, the way his own hunger pulled. The gauntlet wanted blood, and it wanted more than the hunter had given. Theron felt it reach for the strength in his own veins, testing, patient. He took up the sword with his free hand. He had his weapon now, and he had power to match his maker at last. He also had a second hunger fused to his arm, one he could not feed and could not remove. Theron looked at the metal locked on his hand. He had come to end one hunger by draining the elder. Now he carried two, and only one of them could wait.