Awakened in a Realm of Magic and Blood

Hunger Has a Schedule

The silence that followed Eli’s last words lingered like dust in the air.

Andrew was still thinking about the caravan, about tests and gates and cracks in cages, when a sharp, unmistakable sound cut through his thoughts.

Grrr.

His stomach twisted violently, the ache sudden and humiliating. Andrew stiffened, one hand pressing instinctively against his abdomen. The hunger hit harder than before, as if his body had finally decided to remind him of its priorities.

Eli blinked, then burst out laughing.

“Oh no,” he said, pointing. “Don’t tell me you forgot about that too.”

Andrew shot him a flat look. “My body seems determined to remember everything I don’t.”

Eli wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, well, your body’s right. It’s almost dinner time.”

“Dinner?” Andrew repeated skeptically.

Eli was already standing. “If you want to call it that.”

Andrew pushed himself up, moving slower this time. His muscles protested, stiff and sore from the earlier fight, and the hunger only made it worse. “What happens if we miss it?”

Eli gave him a look that answered the question far better than words.

“We starve,” he said simply. “Or we wait until tomorrow and hope we’re luckier then.”

Andrew frowned. “That’s it? No leftovers?”

Eli snorted. “You really are new.”

Without another word, Eli turned and bolted out of the hut.

“Hey—!” Andrew started, then swore under his breath and followed.

The path through Ashwake House was uneven and narrow, littered with debris and worn smooth by countless feet. Eli ran like someone who had done this a hundred times, weaving through gaps and ducking around corners without slowing.

Andrew struggled to keep up.

His lungs burned, his legs ached, and every step sent a dull throb through his ribs. The hunger made him lightheaded, but he forced himself forward, teeth clenched, refusing to fall behind.

“Do you always—run—everywhere?” Andrew panted.

“Only—when—food’s involved!” Eli shouted back.

They rounded a corner, and Eli finally slowed, hands dropping to his knees as he caught his breath. Andrew stumbled to a stop beside him, bent over, breathing hard.

“Why,” Andrew managed, “is food… limited?”

Eli straightened, expression turning serious. “Because Ashwake doesn’t feed itself.”

Andrew looked at him.

“Most of our food comes from the capital,” Eli explained. “Supplies sent down for ‘charity.’”

Andrew’s lips curled faintly. “Let me guess. Charity loses weight on the way here.”

Eli nodded. “The small sects in Blackmere City skim most of it off the top. They take the best portions, leave scraps, and call it mercy.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened.

“That’s why dinner’s a race,” Eli continued. “If you’re late, the pot’s empty. Doesn’t matter if you’re a kid or sick or bleeding.”

Andrew exhaled slowly. “Efficient.”

“Cruel,” Eli corrected.

They resumed walking, slower now, until the sound of voices reached them. A low murmur, layered with impatience and fatigue.

They turned the final corner—and Andrew stopped.

About fifty people stood in line.

Boys. Girls. Some barely taller than his shoulder, others already carrying the sharp edges of adulthood. All of them thin. All of them wearing rags similar to his own.

Some leaned against the wall, conserving energy. Others stared blankly ahead. A few whispered quietly among themselves.

Andrew felt something twist in his chest.

For the first time since waking in this world, pity rose unbidden.

Then he looked down at himself.

The frayed sleeves. The dirt-stained fabric. The faint smell he had tried to ignore.

He let out a quiet sigh.

I’m one of them.

They joined the line near the middle.

Up ahead, the smell of thin stew drifted through the air, barely enough to tease the senses. Andrew’s stomach growled again, louder this time.

Eli glanced at him. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

Eli shrugged. “It fills the hole. That’s about it.”

The line shuffled forward slowly.

Andrew observed everything. The way people avoided eye contact. The tension when someone tried to cut in. The relief on faces near the front, mixed with fear that the pot might run dry before their turn.

“This place,” Andrew murmured, “runs on desperation.”

Eli glanced at him. “You’re catching on fast.”

The boy in front of Eli turned around. He was thin, sharp-eyed, with hair tied back messily.

“Oh,” he said. “Eli. You’re still alive.”

“Disappointed?” Eli asked lightly.

The boy smirked. “A little.”

Andrew watched quietly as Eli leaned closer. “Hey. Quick question.”

The boy’s expression shifted. “Depends.”

“Caravan,” Eli said softly. “Any truth to it?”

The boy hesitated, eyes flicking around. Then he leaned in as well.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s real.”

Andrew’s attention sharpened instantly.

“When?” Eli asked.

“Soon,” the boy replied. “A few days, maybe a week. Word is, they’re looking for anything useful. Anyone who stands out.”

Eli swallowed. “That’s dangerous.”

The boy snorted. “Everything here is.”

The line moved again.

Andrew stared ahead, mind racing.

A caravan. A test. A chance.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but something else burned deeper now—anticipation.

For the first time since waking in this broken body, the world had offered him a direction.

And Andrew intended to take it.