Chapter 7: How Long Can I Pretend to Be Good?
Corven stood up, silent and heavy, approaching the door once more. The cool draft of the evening air seeped through the wooden cracks, brushing against his bloodied face like a whisper of judgment.
He was preparing to hunt.
To test the limits of his cursed body.
To understand the hunger that now clawed at the edges of his sanity.
"To hunt...?" The mother’s voice cracked from behind him, still seated on the floor, her back resting against the wall like a collapsed statue.
"Where are you going...?" she asked again, weaker this time.
Corven paused, hand resting on the crooked handle of the door. His eyes didn’t meet hers—he couldn’t bear to—but his voice answered with low conviction.
"...To hunt. To keep my promise."
There was a pause. Then, quietly, she rose.
Her hands brushed the front of her soot-stained dress, knocking off dirt and ash that clung stubbornly to the fabric, as if even her clothes resisted the idea of moving on.
Wordless, she walked toward the simple drawer tucked beside the room—unassuming, carved from dark cedar, its brass handles dulled by time. She opened it slowly, the wood creaking like a reluctant mourner stirring in grief.
Inside was gear.