a taste of hunger

Some things are born in fire. Others crawl out of it.

The Four Fourty-Four was waking up the way a house does after a long illness.

Somewhere behind the walls, a pipe gave a tentative knock. A spoon, forgotten in last night’s cup, shifted on its saucer, and dust motes swam through the air like stunned fish, caught in a pale shard of moonlight. The ivy—Lord Stranglewood—on the windowsill stretched slow across the glass, tendrils tracing patterns.

Upstairs, Fenner hadn’t stirred. The kitchenette was a still-life of minor neglect—a cold kettle, an unopened tin of tea, a tea towel draped across the sink.

Orrin stood in the little breakfast nook, one hand wrapped around a mug. His other hand hovered in the air, then slowly settled on the back of the chair beside him—not to steady himself, but simply because it was there. He looked out at the half-wild garden: curled ferns in mourning posture, soil wet and too dark. The petals on the camellia shrubs were bruised where the wind had worried them, drooping like they'd been told a cruel truth and were still deciding what to do with it.

Orrin sighed. He felt how the garden looked.

Used. Picked at. Worn.

He hadn’t really slept. Just drifted in the long dark, replaying fragments of the night before. Grant’s voice had crept in around the edges of his dreams like fog, heavy with what-ifs and never-should-haves. In the end, he’d gotten up and worked through the leftover letters. One, he had replied to. Another, he had burned. The rest still sat quietly on his desk in his bedroom.

Somewhere behind him, something shifted, and by the time he had made out the source of the faint noises, Orrin spotted Little Sir Menace on the kitchen counter, just settling in after poking his lance at a couple of mugs and an assortment of sugar cubes.

However, something seemed a little off with him, too. He wasn’t his usual clanky, insistent self—no sharp footfalls or judgmental tapping. Just silence. And he was holding something.

Orrin hadn’t noticed at first—not until the light caught it wrong and showed the truth of it.

A lock of hair; twisted around one of the clay knight’s tiny hands, dark and curled like a question.

Orrin said nothing and, of course, Little Sir Menace didn’t offer an explanation. He never did. He only tilted his head the smallest degree, like he’d already asked the question Orrin was avoiding and didn’t need the answer anyway.

In the corner of his eye, Orrin noticed Lord Stranglewood moving. It dragged one long tendril in a deliberate arc along the windowpane. Not to follow the moonlight. Not to seek its blue warmth. It was just pressing against it, almost like it was testing the thickness of the glass, mapping its flaws.

“Don’t start,” he murmured. “I didn’t spend all that time talking to Fenner about you just for you to make your great escape a day or two later.”

The ivy curled in the corner, a tendril of it gently tapping the window once before it settled quietly. Orrin turned away.

The mug in his hand was colder than before, and he realized with a wince that he’d shifted his shoulder wrong again. The fabric of his shirt clung slightly at the seam beneath his collarbone—damp, as if the wound had been quietly weeping in his sleepless hours.

Grant’s voice drifted again—not as a memory, but as a feeling and with a louder than necessary thud, Orrin set his mug down, chasing it away. Behind him, Little Sir Menace had taken to rearranging the sugar cubes by some invisible geometry, but that lock of hair remained gripped in one small hand like a claim.

And then —gently— the shop itself sighed. Not loudly. Not with flair. Just a creak in the beams above. A yawning groan in the back.

The lantern over the stairwell down to the shop gave a trembling flicker.

Orrin pressed his palm briefly to the door frame as he passed, as if exchanging weight with it. The wood beneath his hand was cool, and for just a breath, it seemed to pulse. Like a heartbeat. Slow, reluctant.

He paused at the top of the stairs, then descended, one careful step at a time, his shoulder protesting.

On the counter near the grandfather clock, a stack of charms waited to be organized. A jar of bones (cleaned, labeled, irrelevant) had shifted in the night and was no longer sealed.

Orrin pulled on his work coat and briefly looked out the display window, curious where the shop had settled itself today.

From what he could see, the morning was silver and fog-cloaked, the cobblestones sweating, and the alley mouth half-lit and waiting. With a snap of his fingers, Orrin checked one last time on the upstairs: the kitchen counter, to be exact.

Little Sir Menace had begun lining up the sugar cubes into something that looked like a spiral. The lock of hair was gone.

Orrin didn’t wonder where. Just maybe, how. But that was a matter for another time.

He set to work without thought, the familiar rhythms falling back into place as he moved through the aisles. The dim light of the shop settled in the corners of the wooden shelves, flickering faintly as if the shop itself was gathering its thoughts for the day. A few stray papers fluttered across the counter as he moved past, his fingers brushing the ledger where he had stopped with the current-last entry.

He paused, running his finger down the open page, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder. There was a strange comfort in the clutter, in the disorganized yet carefully curated mess.

As he worked, Orrin caught a glimpse of the payphone booth. Its red paint had chipped a little again but in a way that suited it—the way it caught the faint light like an old wound. The receiver was off the hook, swaying gently as if waiting for a call.

Orrin eyed it, wondering how it felt being in this shop, so fresh yet so old in its own way.

“You need anything, old thing?” Orrin muttered as he passed by, his voice rougher than he intended. The booth rattled in response, an uneasy creak from within, like it was sighing back.

For a long second, nothing happened. The booth stayed quiet, its red frame glinting strangely in the soft light. Then, a faint buzz—almost imperceptible, like a breath caught in a throat. Orrin exhaled sharply, backing away from it. “Alright, then.”

Turning away, he continued his work, setting a few scattered charms straight, wiping down some of the dustier shelves, and waiting for the usual hum of the shop to take over. As he worked away, a subtle quiver ran through the floorboards, a deep, rumbling vibration that almost felt like a pulse beneath his feet. And then the shop shifted again; slow and deliberate.

Orrin froze, eyes flicking to the door.

The old wood, gnarled and worn, creaked faintly. There was a sharp snap as the door frame itself seemed to bend, like something was coaxing the wood into a new form. The top half of the door stretched slightly, as though it was growing taller. The hinges groaned in protest, but the wood responded.

A new door, a sliding one. It didn't open all the way—just enough. And then, with the faintest echo of another shift, the door opened fully. Orrin blinked once, twice. His heart had already begun to stutter in his chest, a familiar but unwelcome thud of anticipation.

A man in a wheelchair rolled comfortably through the wider gap in the door, his presence as unmistakable as the pulse that had preceded it.

Elion.

The moment Elion passed through the shifted door, the shop went still. His wheels made no sound on the wooden floor, but the air bent around him, weighty with something just a breath too sharp to name, and for a second, all he could do was stare.

The man was all edges and soft things—wiry limbs in layered coats, a rust-red hue like dried blood clinging to the fabric. His gloves were old, once meant for protection, now paint-smeared and cut open at the fingers. His right eye was clouded, like spoiled milk, and his left was a vivid goldish-brown; too clear, seeing too much.

Elion smiled. “Your shop is quite different from the ones that are served by your colleagues. Worn; thinned out.”

Orrin’s hand went to the counter, half for balance. “The shop doesn’t sleep properly these days.”

“Neither do you. Or I, for that matter.”

They stood —and sat— in silcence, but only briefly. Next to him on the counter, something rustled and for a moment, Orrin was surprised to spot Little Sir Menace. He had settled himself on a jar of rusted needles and was watching with both interest and caution.

He didn’t ask how he had gotten down here so fast and without him picking up on it. Perhaps, just for today, he merely wasn’t quite up for the job. Too tired, perhaps. Or too meddled with by the events of yesterday.

His eyes drifted to the satchel on the man’s lap, then to the fold in Elion’s coat where a shoulder pin glinted—a scrap of metal, really; warped by heat. His gaze settled on the scars that crept like ivy along Elion’s exposed fingers, spiraling in places they shouldn’t be—not from injury, but from after. As if something had tried to stitch him back together wrong.

Elion saw him looking and smiled. “Friends can be your worst enemies.” He said it lightly. Almost... cheerful. “Want to know what happened? Or has the shop told you by now?”

“No.” Orrin said too quickly. Elion grinned anyway. “Of course you do.” He leaned back in his wheelchair, posture relaxed. He tapped once on the counter, grinning at Little Sir Menace.

“I was good,” Elion said simply. “Too good, apparently.” A soft laugh. “I’m from the forge. The one that works with the living steel. Metal that listens. That learns you. That sings when it’s nearly born.”

He drew a breath through his teeth. The clouded eye twitched.

“They didn’t like how quick I was with it. Some of the others couldn’t even make their steel spark. But mine? Mine shaped itself for me. Didn’t need incantations. Just my will.”

Orrin felt the room tilt, just slightly.

“It scared them. Me —in this wheelchair— making steel move like breath, while they fumbled with books and gloves and biting wards.” His hand rested on his satchel. Just the fingertips.

“So they decided to slow me down.”

A pause.

Elion unwrapped the scarf from his neck and peeled his collar aside. The scars there weren’t clean. They were grown. Metallic threads twining like veins beneath the skin. As if someone had poured the steel into him like mercury, and let it harden around bone and blood.

“They rigged the heart forge. Melted the containment. I was inside, and when the steel came alive —really alive— it wanted a heart. It didn’t care that mine wasn’t offered.”

There was another pause. Shorter. Just enough to catch how Elion’s smile split.

“I remember the way it tasted,” he said, eyes glittering. “The hunger, you know. Like metal and marrow. Like I was being chewed slowly by my own future. Somewhere in the forge, pieces of it still hum my name. And I intend to return.”

Orrin turned away for a moment. The bones in the jar behind him had begun to chatter, ever so faintly. Elion’s voice was gentler then.

“You said in your letter that unfinished paths are still valid. And I hope that’s true, because I’ve tried every other door. And I’m getting tired of it.”

The words made Orrin still. It wasn’t spoken with accusation. Just weight. Like pressing a thumb into a bruise.

“I did,” Orrin said, remembering how the ink on Elion’s letter had been smudged. Like someone had been crying while writing it.

“I’m not here to fix what happened,” Elion said. “This—” he gestured at the wheelchair, then at himself, “—this isn’t about that. This can’t be fixed. There’s no spell to make me walk. And I don’t need it. I’m fine the way I am. Fine enough for them to fear me, you know.” He grinned then. “And by the gods, they will.”

He looked up at Orrin, and there it was: the shadow behind his smile, the ache beneath the clarity. The joy that wasn’t in defiance of pain, but born alongside it.

“I’m here for the bottle that hums. The one that keeps twitching.”

Orrin knew what Elion was referring to, but wished he didn’t. He swallowed once, then twice, forcing his throat to relax. “It’s not a fix, neither a cure. I already told you.”

Elion grinned. “Good. I don’t need fixing. I don’t need a cure. I need fuel.”

On the shelf behind the counter, the bottle in question pulsed, glass veined with something darker than smoke. Not swirling—but beating. Like a trapped heartbeat; one that was nothing short on resentful.

Elion’s gaze found it instantly.

Orrin hesitated for just a second. Then reached for it.

The moment his fingers touched the glass, the wound at his shoulder flared—sharp and red, nerves lit like wires pulled too tight. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull back.

“It’s not safe,” he said, but the words came out quieter than he meant them to.

Elion wheeled around the counter, every motion deliberate, controlled. He stopped just before Orrin, one gloved hand raised—palm up, steady. Orrin looked at it. Then at the bottle. And then—though he didn’t mean to—at Elion’s face.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Orrin saw it then—not Grant, exactly, but something of him. In the way Elion held his jaw. In the wound behind the hunger. In the ache that comes from having been shaped by something violent and choosing not to be destroyed.

For a flicker of a moment, Grant’s voice came back to him. Clear, and cruel in how simple it had been.

Orrin’s fingers clenched on the bottle. He didn’t want to remember. But it was in his marrow now, same as the pain. Same as the hum.

He placed the bottle in Elion’s outstretched palm.

And the moment Elion touched it, it stilled. Elion looked down at it. His mouth moved once, as if testing the shape of a thank-you, but he didn’t speak it. Didn’t need to.

The faintest clink echoed through the small space of the shop. Little Sir Menace had stepped forward, stiff-limbed and solemn. He didn’t bristle as usually. Didn’t charge or puff out his little cracked chest. Instead, he lifted his tiny lance, not like a warning, but a salute. One knight to another.

Orrin’s throat ached again. But not from the wound.

Elion met the gesture with a nod, slow and reverent. Then turned the bottle in his hand. Not to drink —not yet— but to feel the weight. The hum of it against his gloved skin.

“They were scared of me,” he said softly. “And I’ll prove them right.”

And he was smiling again, but not at Orrin.

At something far away. At a forge that still remembered him. At blades half-born, waiting in the dark.

Orrin said nothing, but inside his chest, something cracked. Just faintly. Merely enough to let the cold in.

“It’s not gentle.” Orrin warned again, watching Elion unlatch the bottle. “It remembers pain the way metal remembers fire.”

Elion grinned, wider this time, his thumb tracing the bottle’s label. “Good.” He said, his voice almost like the cackle of fire. “So do I.”

With that, he uncorked the bottle with a soft hiss and drank.

The effect wasn’t immediate. Not like lightning.

It was slower. Hungrier.

Orrin braced his hand on the counter.

The bottle pulsed once —then went still, the hum silenced like a choked cry. The kind prey makes when it knows that’s it.

Elion said nothing at first. Just let the silence draw out. His head tipped slightly, eyes half-lidded as something traveled through him. Then he gave a small shrug.

“They said I should wait,” he murmured, voice distant. “Should temper myself. Said I burned too hot.”

He rolled his neck, and beneath the rust-colored coat, something shifted. The skin along his collarbone tightened visibly, as if retreating from the inside. And then—

Ridges rose.

Dark vines of metal pressed against the skin, not implanted but grown, twisting through old scars like ivy up a ruin. They pulsed faintly, reacting to breath, to memory. Orrin couldn't look away.

The curve of Elion’s spine arched in increments, not fluidly—but like it had been unspooled and had to map itself again. One vertebra. Then another. Then three at once. Each shift sounded like nails settling into wood—tac, tac, tac.

And Orrin could feel it—the taste of forge smoke, the heat of metal in his sinuses, the scent of burning hair and extinguished spells. Not flashbacks. Not visions. But memory as metal.

Elion’s fingers tensed, gloved leather creaking, the sharp point of his focus landing somewhere deep inside himself.

“It didn’t kill me,” he said, his voice now clear again. “Just paused me.”

Orrin’s mouth was dry. The wound at his shoulder had gone cold. Elion set the empty bottle down on the counter with a soft clink.

It didn’t twitch this time. Its purpose was fulfilled.

Elion rolled his shoulders again.

Pop. Pop. Click. Small, soft metallic sounds — like old floorboards under weight, like the beginning of a storm inside a machine. No sparks flew, but Orrin could taste iron in the air, taste the possibility of sparks and storms.

Elion smiled. “I’m resuming now.”

And Orrin believed him, because of the force radiating off him—that unbearable, raw drive of someone no longer slowed by anyone’s comfort.

This wasn’t revenge. This was return.

Orrin shivered.

And somewhere behind him, Little Sir Menace tightened his grip on his lance and tilted his head —just a fraction— as though recognizing something only knights could name.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The tension had ebbed, but it left a silence that wasn’t silence—like the inside of a bell just after it’s rung. Orrin could feel it vibrating through his ribs. Not a spell or power. Just presence. Then, without fanfare, Elion reached into his satchel. His hand emerged with something wrapped in cloth.

Carefully, he unfolded it.

A feather.

Forged, not plucked. Metal dark as storm-soaked slate, with a gleam of oil. Its barbs had been hammered thin as whispers, and veins flickered along the quill—some visible, others vanishing the moment you looked too close.

Elion laid it on the counter like an offering.

“From the old forge,” he said softly, his hand lingering just beside it. “I carry what’s left of it. But this feather’s for you.”

His eyes met Orrin’s—one clouded, the other too clear.

“A reminder,” he continued, voice low but sure. “That even unfinished things can fly.”

Orrin didn’t answer right away. He couldn't. His throat was caught on something not quite sorrow and not quite awe. Little Sir Menace stepped closer now, lifting his lance again—not in salute, but as if standing guard beside Orrin. As if he understood what had just been gifted.

Elion gave a small nod, the sort reserved for farewells that weren’t goodbyes. “I’ll be back,” he said, as if it was fact, not promise.

Orrin gave the smallest smile and Elion turned then, the wheels of his chair whispering across the wooden floor. The door, still in its widened, sliding state, breathed open at his approach—not a creak this time, but a sigh, like the shop itself knew something sacred had passed through.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the fogsilver morning.

Orrin stood for a moment, staring after him. Then, slowly, he reached out and picked up the feather. It was heavier than it looked. Warm, somehow. Like it remembered the forge too.

He turned and placed it carefully on the shelf.

And somewhere deep in his ribs, the crack widened, as if the shop had just accepted an oath he couldn’t take back.

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