Alaric Pulse dragged his dripping hand across the wooden fence, watching the paint bubble and peel. His honeyed acid touch left a dark trail behind him. Inside his cracked, golden skull, something screamed—his old self, trapped and raging. He wanted freedom. He wanted to end everything that breathed. The town of Ashwood spread before him like a feast waiting to rot. The market square would be perfect. Alaric moved through the narrow streets, his clawed feet scraping stone. Every Wednesday, the traders came with their carts and tables. Crowds gathered to buy bread and meat and cloth. He could see it now—the square packed with bodies, all pressed together. His touch would spread through them like wildfire. But first, he needed to trap them, to keep them from running. He stopped at the edge of the square and pressed both hands into the dirt. His acid seeped down, mixing with the earth. The ground turned dark and thick, like honey mixed with blood. The quicksand trap would look solid until someone stepped on it. Then they would sink, calling for help, drawing more people close. Alaric pulled his hands free and watched the surface harden into a false crust. Tomorrow the market would open. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the end. The town guards had blocked off the old plague district with a brick barrier. Alaric needed to test his power on something stronger than wood and dirt. He shuffled toward the barrier, his claws clicking against the cobblestones. The bricks stood twice his height, meant to keep people away from danger. He placed both palms flat against the rough surface. His acid soaked into the mortar first, turning it black. Then the bricks began to crack and melt, steam rising in thick clouds. The structure sagged and crumbled under his touch. Pieces fell away like rotting teeth. Inside his skull, the old Alaric screamed louder, but the hunger drowned him out. Nothing could stop him now. Not walls. Not crowds. Not all of Ashwood. Beyond the ruined barrier lay the Critter Bog, where the moon shone through gaps in the ash-choked sky. Alaric walked into the wasteland until he found what he needed. A hive stood there, built from hardened ash and tar, glowing faintly in the rare moonlight. He pressed his hand against its surface and felt it pulse with dark energy. The bees inside were already dead, their bodies transformed into carriers of his acid. He would use this place to grow his power, to breed more death. From here, his touch would spread across Ashwood like a plague. The old Alaric inside screamed and beat against his prison, but the hunger was stronger. Soon, everything would burn and melt and end.