A Ruin of Hunger

Chapter 1 - Tracks on the Waara Rau

The golden grass sea of Waara Rau stretched endlessly beneath the early morning sun, bending in rolling tides that whispered secrets only the Elders could understand. Cormag moved through it like an arrow — eyes sharp, bow in hand. His lean, toned muscles flexed with each stride, honed from years of hunting and roaming the plains. Taller than most of his tribe, he carried himself with quiet authority, tempered by skill, curiosity, and the dangerous overconfidence that often pushed him farther than caution would allow.
He was searching for his next kill — one he would share with his father before the great Convening.

The plains were alive around him. Striders grazed in distant herds, their wheat-patterned hides shimmering in the slanting light, nearly invisible when the breeze bent the grasses just so. Overhead, small flocks of Bigugwi wheeled gracefully, their enormous wings casting long shadows across the plains. Once, these gentle giants had borne sky riders, guardians of the tribes. Generations later, they flew only in small, skittish flocks.

But Cormag’s attention was elsewhere.
For weeks, the tribes had reported attacks — herds slaughtered, hunters vanished, strange tracks left behind. No one agreed on the creature’s nature. Some whispered of demons. Others of dragons from the northern mountains, though no dragon had crossed the river kingdoms in countless generations. And there was never any scorched earth left behind. Whatever it was, it killed silently.

The Elders of all nine nomadic tribes were converging at the river bend to discuss how to face this threat. Cormag’s father, raised by the Chief Elder himself, would attend. Cormag had been chosen recently to join the Recanters, the tribe’s keepers of history — a high honor, and one he struggled still to fully accept.

He crested a rise near the bend of the Riovannian, the great river that split Waara Rau in half — and froze. Deep claws marred the earth, unlike any predator known to their plains. Rauklaw, the saber-toothed lions, prowled these hills, but these prints were far larger, far deeper — greedy gouges that sank into the earth like fangs. They tore straight down the hillside toward his kalinga.

And at the bottom, he found his father.
Fallen. Bloodied. Torn apart by the unseen beast. Grief and rage warred within Cormag, but resolve rose above them both. The Convening could wait. The Elders could wait. This creature had taken his father — and Cormag would hunt it down.

Hours of pursuit led him into deeper grass where the terrain began to change. Dense groves of twisted oaks and silver-leafed birches rose from the plains, unnatural in their symmetry. He knew from stories to avoid such forests — ancient, haunted places where the long-lost elves had once built their strongholds. Elven magic was old, primal, and dangerous. Hunters who followed prey into these woods seldom returned.

But grief drowned instinct.
Cormag pressed on.

He pushed through fallen limbs and overgrown brush, twisted roots gnawing at the forest floor, until — at the heart of a clearing — he stood before pale stone spirals and archways, etched with shimmering, alien patterns.

Elven ruins. Untouched for centuries. Every fiber of him screamed to turn back. Yet the tracks led inside.

If the creature was cornered, this was his moment — his chance to avenge his father, to prove his worth to the Elders, to his tribe, and to himself. And as he approached, another force seemed to beckon him inward. His weary legs moved almost on their own as he stepped through the vine-clad arches.

At the center of the ruin was a pedestal.
And upon it, a belt unlike anything crafted by mortal hands. Fine linked silver, delicate as silk, radiating an inverted light that gave it an almost black sheen, as if each link was swallowing the sun around it. The buckle was tarnished gold, jagged and harsh in contrast to the intricate band. Set with a pulsing blood-red onyx stone — alive with an ancient, patient presence.

A hum whispered through his chest.
Then a voice curled around his mind like smoke:

“You have found me… hungry, aren’t you? Strength, power, knowledge… all I offer. You only have to take me.”

Cormag’s fingers hovered over the stone. Curiosity, desire, and ambition surged inside him. Visions of power flickered at the edges of his mind — strength beyond any hunter, knowledge of all the Recanters.

But then he remembered the stories:
His father by firelight.
His Elder’s warnings.

The Grand Recanter’s tale of the elves who sealed away the Faie — beings of hunger and deception — saving their ancestors from an all-consuming darkness. This voice felt like those stories.
Sweet. Seductive. Deceitful.

He drew a deep breath and stepped back.
And then he felt it — the predator’s gaze.
From the tree line, gleaming eyes watched him. Muscles coiled. A tail flicked. Teeth glinted in the dying sun. The creature had led him here. Tracked him as surely as he tracked it.
Cormag straightened, bow raised, heart steady.

He had resisted the temptation. Now he would face the beast. The wind whispered across the ruins, carrying a promise of violence.

And the predator waited.