The masochists

The night air in Varos was thick with tension. The weight of what Elara had done still clung to her like a second skin, the rush of power ebbing but never truly fading. She walked alongside Rael, her mind racing with the hunger she had just sated. She had felt it—the raw energy of fear, rage, and desperation coursing through her. And she had taken it without hesitation.

But now, a question gnawed at her.

"What happens if I take too much?"

Rael barely glanced at her. "You've already felt it, haven't you? The hunger doesn't stop. The more you take, the more it demands."

Elara frowned. "And if I keep feeding it?"

Rael stopped walking and turned to face her fully. The glow of a distant neon sign painted his features in shades of red and blue. "You'll become something worse than a monster. Something that exists only to consume."

A chill ran through her. "So, there's a limit."

Rael smirked. "Not exactly. The trick is balance. Take too little, and you starve. Take too much, and you lose yourself. You need to learn where the line is before you cross it."

Elara exhaled slowly. "And how do I do that?"

Rael's smirk faded, his expression unreadable. "You fight it."

They arrived at an abandoned district on the outskirts of Varos, a place where buildings stood half-collapsed, and the streets were filled with the whispers of the forgotten. The air here was different—thick with something unseen, something waiting.

Elara shivered. "What is this place?"

Rael stepped forward, his boots crunching against debris. "A graveyard."

Elara tensed. "There aren't any bodies."

"There don't need to be."

The shadows around them shifted unnaturally, and Elara's tattoos pulsed in response. Then, she heard it—a low, guttural whisper that didn't belong to Rael.

A shape moved in the darkness ahead. Then another. And another.

Figures emerged from the shadows, their bodies flickering like distorted reflections. Their eyes—hollow, empty—locked onto Elara.

She felt the pull instantly. The sheer weight of their sorrow, their anger. The whispers in her mind grew louder, urging her to take it all, to feed.

Rael's voice was steady. "These are Wraithborn. Remnants of souls who weren't strong enough to hold onto their existence."

Elara swallowed hard. "What do they want?"

"They don't want anything. They exist to take. If you don't master your hunger, they will."

As if on cue, the nearest wraith lunged.

Elara reacted on instinct, her hands raising as shadows surged forth, lashing at the creature. It let out a piercing screech but didn't fall—it absorbed the attack, growing darker, more defined.

Rael's voice cut through the chaos. "You can't fight them like the living. They don't fear pain. They only know hunger. Outmatch them, or they'll devour you."

Elara gritted her teeth. If she couldn't destroy them, she had to take from them instead.

She closed her eyes, reaching out—not with her hands, but with something deeper. The void between them pulsed, and she pulled.

The wraith convulsed. Its formless body quivered as its energy was ripped away. Elara felt it rush into her, filling the emptiness within.

And for the first time, she realized what Rael had meant.

It wasn't just hunger.

It was power.

The wraith dissolved into nothing, and as Elara opened her eyes, the remaining creatures hesitated.

Rael watched her carefully. "Now you understand."

Elara flexed her fingers, the shadows coiling like living extensions of her will. She didn't just feel stronger.

She was stronger.

And she was ready for more.