The Fire That Eats Last

Korax and Greybeard had been traveling north of the Ghostwood, following one of the old ridge paths that only rangers and worse things remembered. The land rose unevenly there, stone thrusting through soil like knuckles, forcing pine and spruce to grow crooked. Wind carried the scent of new snow and old resin, and the cold had a bite that didn’t hurt at first, only once it had worked its way beneath skin. It was the sort of place Greybeard favored for instruction.

Apollo moved, carrying Korax with steady confidence, the black stallion placing each hoof to feel the bones of the mountain beneath the snow. Frost glazed rocks in treacherous places, but Apollo never slipped.

Greybeard walked ahead, staff tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm into the frozen earth.

They had been drilling since dawn: balance without reins, dismounts under imagined pressure, breath control… All while Greybeard muttered cantrips that made the ground seem to tilt or lurch, turning a simple step into a fall, if Korax moved with panic instead of attention. Korax also practiced repeating warding phrases without forcing, learning to speak basic magic without desperation creeping into his voice.

Greybeard offered praise the way winter offered mercy: rarely, and never by accident.

“The breaks will come later,” he said when Korax asked for one. “If you live long enough to earn them.”

Korax was hungry; he thought of effort without certainty, the familiar gnaw of learning something that might not save him when it mattered.

That was when Korax smelled it.

It was not clean pinewood smoke. Not the savory tang of meat set carefully over flame. This was burned fat and charred grain layered over something sour, as if a meal had been cooked poorly, abandoned, then reheated again in futility. The scent drifted through the trees and in the cold air, clinging to the back of Korax’s throat.

Apollo planted his hooves and tossed his head sharply, ears flattened tight against his skull. His nostrils flared as he snorted. Korax tightened his grip on the halter and followed Apollo’s gaze toward a stone outcrop overlooking a narrow pass. From beneath the rock, a thin ribbon of black smoke curled upward before vanishing into the winter sky.

Greybeard did not slow.

“Leave him,” the wizard said mildly, not turning back. His staff tapped against the freezing ground. “He knows what he’s smelling. And he wishes to stay where he is.”

Korax dismounted with hesitation. Apollo shifted his weight and would not move forward.

“Stay where you can hear us,” Korax murmured, patting Apollo’s neck.

The horse stamped once, agreeing to the terms, and fixed his stare on the outcrop.

Korax caught up with Greybeard, the smell growing stronger with each step.

They rounded the stone outcrop and came upon a camp.

It sat in a shallow bowl of rock and scrub, half-sheltered by the slope. Five fire pits had been dug into the earth, each ringed with blackened stones. Four were cold. One burned low and uneven, flames licking at damp wood as if unsure whether to live or die.

Around the pits lay the wreckage of meals: cracked bones gnawed down, burned vegetables reduced to ash, lumps of bread fused to the ground. Large clay pots scattered, overturned, broken, and scraped clean enough to gleam dully in the firelight.

Korax’s eyes swept the perimeter.

No other tracks led into or out of the camp.

Only wide, dragging circles marked the snow, looping again and again around the pits as if something had paced until it forgot what direction meant.

“Something’s been eating here,” he said quietly.

Greybeard’s eyes remained on the circles. “Let’s hope we aren’t next,” he replied.

Movement stirred beneath the rock.

A shape shifted in the shadows, filling the space under the outcrop. Firelight crawled across broad shoulders and massive arms as the creature leaned forward into view.

It was enormous, broader and taller than any orc Korax had seen. Green skin stretched over a hulking, troll-like frame patched with ragged scraps of fur. Its shoulders hunched inward, like it was trying to make itself smaller than it truly was. Its hands were huge, fingers thick and scarred, the tips blackened by flame.

The creature sniffed loudly.

Korax braced next for tusks, for a roar, for violence. His blade slid free of its sheath with the whisper of steel.

Instead, the creature blinked at them with wide eyes.

“You came back,” it said, voice like gravel dragged across ice. “You brought more?”

Korax froze.

Greybeard stepped forward, calm as always.

“We brought only ourselves,” he said.

The creature’s gaze slid past Greybeard to Korax, then toward where Apollo stood between the trees.

“Horse,” it grumbled.

Korax’s grip tightened on the hilt. Greybeard lifted his staff as a warning.

“No,” the wizard said sharply. “Not that.”

The creature flinched, like the words hurt.

“I’m trying,” it said, words tumbling over one another. “I try fire. Meat. Roots. I watch caravans cook. I listen. I do it right. But it doesn’t work.”

It pressed one huge hand to its chest, another to its belly.

“Still hollow.”

The words echoed strangely under the stone.

“Greybeard,” Korax said quietly. “Is it a troll?”

“Partly,” Greybeard said. “Part orc. Poorly raised.”

The wizard walked closer and sat on a stone at the edge of the lit pit, unbothered by the creature’s size, settling in for a conversation with a storm he’d already measured.

“What is your name?” Greybeard asked.

The creature hesitated, breath rasping.

“Gorrim,” it said at last. “My dam called me that. Before the hunger came.”

“And when did it come?”

Gorrim frowned, brow furrowing. “Always… Just louder now.”

Greybeard nodded.

“Have you been raiding food nearby?” Korax asked.

“I just cook and eat,” Gorrim insisted. “All of it. Then I wait. Then I’m hungry again.”

It looked at the pots, then at Greybeard.

“You have food.”

Greybeard reached into his satchel and produced a small loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it and offered it.

Gorrim accepted the bread with surprising care, thick fingers gentler than they looked, and it ate reverently, as if performing a ritual someone had once shown it.

When it finished, its shoulders slumped, and the air grew heavier.

“Greybeard,” Korax said under his breath. “I think it’s sick.”

Gorrim’s head snapped up.

Fear flashed across its features, raw and sudden.

“Sick? You will kill me?” it asked, and before Korax could answer, the creature grabbed a boulder and hurled it.

The rock tore through the air toward Korax in a blur.

Greybeard struck his staff against the ground.

The stone froze in-flight, shuddering as invisible pressure crushed it inward. With a sharp crack, it split into dust and fell harmlessly, settling at Korax’s feet in slow spirals.

Gorrim stared, trembling. Its throwing arm remained extended, fingers still curled around the memory of violence. Then the arm dropped as if its bones had turned to water. It stared at the powder on the ground and then up at Greybeard with eyes wet, and suddenly young in a way that did not belong on a body that large.

“Enough,” Greybeard said, and did not raise his voice.

The word carried something that pressed against Korax’s chest. Greybeard rarely wasted magic on anyone who could be steered by reason. This was a tone tuned to old authority, to mountains and ancient laws that predated the realms.

Gorrim swallowed audibly. Its eyes went to the tree line.

Korax’s followed.

Apollo stood among the trees as a dark column against pale snow. The stallion’s ears were pinned forward, focused, predatory. His nostrils had steam pouring from them in steady bursts that measured his breath the way Korax had been taught to measure his own.

When Gorrim looked at him, Apollo stamped once and gave a low warning sound from deep in his chest.

Korax felt his stomach tighten. The creature’s hunger had already noticed the shape of strength, the promise of warmth. Korax’s mind supplied what might come next if fear turned into need and need into taking. He silently chanted a protection ward for Apollo.

Greybeard then drew an invisible line into the air between them with his staff, breaking the tension and setting a barrier.

“Sit,” Greybeard said.

Gorrim hesitated, shoulders trembling from rage or shame. Greybeard made a small motion with his staff. The firepit responded by tightening; flames coiled into a single steady braid. Heat rolled outward in a controlled wave, enough to show the creature that Greybeard could shape what it worshiped.

Gorrim’s knees bent. The huge body sank down with care that didn’t match its size. It sat near the pit like a punished hound, hands on thighs, head down.

Greybeard turned to Korax.

“You’re thinking it—stop,” Greybeard said.

Korax’s jaw clenched. “Thinking what?”

“That someone should put it down,” Greybeard replied calmly.

Korax didn’t deny it. He looked at the boulder dust, at the size of Gorrim’s hands, at Apollo waiting like a blade with a heartbeat.

“It’s dangerous,” Korax said. “It threw—”

“It threw because it is afraid,” Greybeard said. “It threw because you drew steel.”

Korax’s eyes narrowed. “It threatened Apollo.”

“And you,” Greybeard said. “Because it does not know how to ask without taking.”

Korax glanced at Gorrim. The creature’s eyes darted between them, trying to follow the meaning of their words like someone listening to a story told in a half-remembered language.

Korax sheathed his blade, choosing peace, even if he didn’t trust it yet.

Greybeard nodded in approval and stepped closer to Gorrim.

Korax kept his distance. He observed the creature’s burned fingertips, scars old and new. Cooking injuries, Korax realized. Not battle wounds. The kind of hurt that came from trying, again and again, to do something you didn’t understand, and being punished for failing.

“What did your dam feed you when you were small?” Greybeard asked.

Gorrim blinked as if the question itself hurt.

“Whatever,” it said. “Whatever she could take. Rabbits. Badgers. Old bread. Sometimes… nothing.”

“And when you grew?” Greybeard pressed.

Gorrim’s throat worked. “She left.”

“Why?” Greybeard asked.

Gorrim’s face contorted. For a moment, Korax expected a roar. Instead, the creature’s voice cracked with pain from long ago.

“She said I was wrong,” Gorrim whispered. “Too big. Too slow. Too—” It searched for the word, mouth working around it. “—hungry.”

The last word came out like a confession.

The camp held its breath. Even the wind seemed to hesitate at the mouth of the undercroft.

Greybeard’s eyes remained steady.

“And then?” he asked.

“Then caravans. Hunters. Rangers. Orc bands. I watched them. I learned fire. I learned pots. I learned you don’t eat raw if you want your belly to stop gnawing.” Its lips pulled back in a grimace. “I learn, and I try. Not enough.” Gorrim’s hands flexed into fists.

“It doesn’t stop,” Gorrim said, its voice rising, frustration spilling like hot grease. “I cook. I wait. I eat until my mouth hurts. I eat until I think I will split open in the snow—”

It pressed hard against its stomach, holding itself together.

“Then hollow,” it sobbed. “Too fast. Like the food falls through me into a hole.”

Korax felt the hairs rise on his arms. A hole. He thought of the Ghostwood where shadows moved wrong. He thought of Greybeard’s lessons; how the world could fray, how things could leak through from other realms, how some hungers were not born in flesh.

Greybeard watched Korax’s expression shift.

“You’re sensing it now,” the wizard said quietly.

Korax’s throat was dry. “This isn’t normal hunger.”

“No,” Greybeard agreed. “Not even for what it is.”

Gorrim’s eyes flicked up, sharp and pleading.

“You can fix it,” it said. Not a request. A belief. “You are a magic human.”

Greybeard sighed, an old, honest, tired sound.

“No,” Greybeard said. “I can’t fix it.”

Gorrim’s face twisted in panic.

“But,” Greybeard continued, “I may be able to name it.”

“Name it?” Gorrim calmed, eyes narrowing.

“Hunger is not only stomach,” he said. “Sometimes it is purpose-starving. Sometimes it is a place that was never safe. A boundary meant to be held.” Greybeard’s voice carried steadily beneath the stone.

He had always spoken of boundaries as if they were spells: invisible rules that, when kept, held the world together. Korax hadn’t always understood why he talked about them like that… Until now, watching something huge and hungry recoil from the possibility of being contained.

Gorrim stared, trying to understand, but its face carried the fear of any word that wasn’t food.

Greybeard stepped to the burning pit. He knelt and held his palm over the flame, close enough for heat to lick his skin. The fire leaned toward him.

They watched carefully.

Greybeard whispered something Korax didn’t quite catch, as if he were reminding the fire of its proper shape.

The flame straightened, widened, and burned steadily.

“This,” Greybeard said, standing now, voice no longer mild, “this fire here. You will keep it lit. Always.”

Gorrim blinked, unsure.

“For light and warmth in the pass,” Greybeard continued, “for any travelers who come.” He paused, then added, “Human. Orc. Warrior. Merchant. Hunter. It does not matter who steps into your circle. You will offer heat. Shelter. A place to breathe where the mountain does not bite them.”

“I… can do fire,” Gorrim said, mouth opening, then closing with a hard swallow.

“I know,” Greybeard replied. “That is why you burn everything you steal. You are trying to make the fire louder than the hole in you.”

Gorrim was hit with the accuracy of shame and recognition.

Greybeard’s gaze met the creature’s eyes.

“You will learn to cook what you are offered in trade for your shelter,” the wizard said. “But you cook first with or for others. You only eat after your guests are satisfied.”

Gorrim’s hands clenched.

“This is not a punishment,” Greybeard clarified. “This is a boundary.”

“And if I still feel hollow?” Gorrim asked, pressing one hand to its chest.

Greybeard’s eyes sharpened into a look Korax recognized instantly, the look Greybeard wore when teaching something that could kill someone if learned wrong.

“Then you will feel hollow,” Greybeard said, and the words carried like hot iron struck, “but with a purpose.”

Gorrim trembled. For a moment, Korax thought it would reject the idea, that it would lunge, that the camp would become blood and shouting and Greybeard’s staff cracking like thunder.

Instead, Gorrim’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“I can do fire,” the creature repeated, softer. “Fire listens.”

“Good.” Greybeard nodded and struck the butt of his staff against the ground.

A clean, bright spark leapt from it and sailed in an arc, landing in the lit pit.

The flame rose, doubling in warmth and steadiness, casting light into the undercroft that hadn’t been there. The sour stink of reheated failure thinned beneath the clean scent of properly burning wood.

Gorrim stared at the fire as if it had spoken.

Korax felt something in his shoulders unclench, the way a drawn bow relaxes after the arrow is loosed.

Greybeard turned, walking back toward Korax with the certainty of someone who had placed a stone in the right spot to keep a wall from collapsing.

“Come, Korax,” Greybeard said. “We’ve stayed long enough.”

Korax didn’t move immediately.

He looked at the cracked pots, the gnawed bones, the circles in the snow. He looked at the creature’s hands and the way it held itself now: cautiously, afraid the world would take its new task away if it breathed wrong.

“You didn’t exactly fix it,” Korax said.

Greybeard’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“Perhaps not,” the wizard replied. “But neither did we kill it.”

Korax stared at him.

“You think mercy is a quick blade,” Greybeard said. “You’re learning it can be a boundary set.”

To Korax, that was a new truth, and he turned to walk with Greybeard.

Apollo was blowing hard and shifting in the trees, lifting his hooves and setting them down like the ground itself offended him. When Korax approached, the stallion bumped Korax’s shoulder with his head, hard enough to be felt through leather.

“Alright,” he murmured, rubbing Apollo’s neck. “I’m here.”

Apollo’s warmth bled into Korax’s hand, grounding him more firmly than any meditation lesson.

Korax mounted. Apollo took it as permission to breathe right again.

Greybeard resumed walking without hurry.

As they moved back onto the ridge path, Korax looked over his shoulder.

Gorrim was already at work.

It had dragged stones closer and was stacking them carefully, rebuilding the ring around the firepit and making seats. It fed the flame with a measured piece of wood rather than dumping it in a panic. The fire held, contained by attention. Smoke rose in a straight, steady column into the winter sky.

Korax’s stomach growled, sudden and ordinary. He blinked, startled by the simplicity of it. He reached into his pack, pulled out a piece of bread, and ate as Apollo carried him along the ridge. He chewed slowly, tasting grain and salt and faint smoke.

“If it forgets its boundary?” Korax said after a moment. “If its hunger gets louder…?”

“Then we will return,” Greybeard said without looking back. “And we will learn exactly what it was protecting.”

Korax’s brow furrowed. “Protecting?”

Greybeard paused for half a beat, then resumed.

“Nothing that hungry is born alone,” Greybeard said. “And nothing that hollow eats only because it wants to.”

A chill crawled under Korax’s collar.

“Something did this to it,” he said.

Greybeard’s voice was mild. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it was only shaped wrong and left in a world that punishes the wrong-shaped.”

Apollo snorted, and Korax patted his neck.

They rode on.

The ridge path carried them toward the Ghostwood’s shadowed border, where Greybeard’s next lessons awaited.

Behind them, Gorrim’s fire burned.

Not as a feast.

As a duty.

As a boundary.

As a small answer to a hunger that had never been given a name.

Until now.