Iron Hunger

Logan lay still in the narrow backroom of the Hollow's hidden refuge, sweat slicking his face, his breathing shallow and erratic. The stub of his right arm was wrapped tightly in stained cloth, but it couldn't contain the heat radiating from beneath his skin. It wasn't just pain — it was pressure, a kind of internal scream crawling through his veins.

The Ash Plate fragment had fused with the wound hours ago. Since then, it had been burning him alive from the inside out.

Kaela knelt beside him, dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth. Her usual hardened expression was softened by concern, but her voice was firm. "It's either killing him, or changing him."

Across the room, Hark stood against the wall, arms crossed. "Or both."

Kaela shot him a glare. "He made the bond. That takes more guts than half the knights in the Iron Court."

Hark didn't answer. He didn't need to. Everyone in the Hollow had heard Logan's screams.

---

Inside the burning dark of his mind, Logan wandered.

He stood barefoot in a field of ash — a dream, a vision, a hallucination — he couldn't tell anymore. The sky above was ember-red, glowing faintly like coals about to collapse.

And in front of him stood a figure of flame — tall, indistinct, wrapped in shifting smoke. It had no face, but its voice echoed like thunder in a closed tomb.

> "You severed the flesh. But that was only the beginning."

Logan stepped forward, one hand clenched.

> "Who are you?"

The voice ignored the question.

> "The Ash Plate remembers fire. It remembers gods torn down by men who starved for power. And you—Logan of the Starved Flame—what do you hunger for?"

He wanted to say justice. He wanted to say freedom. But the truth tore itself out of his chest before he could stop it.

> "I want them to suffer. The ones who did this. I want to burn them like they burned my home."

The flame-figure tilted its head.

> "Then feed the flame."

---

Logan awoke with a gasp, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. The heat had faded. His skin no longer felt like it was being torn apart from the inside.

Kaela exhaled slowly. "You're alive."

"Barely," he rasped.

He looked down at his bandaged stump — and the glowing mark pulsing just above it. The Ash Plate fragment had embedded itself in the bone. Thin lines of burnt-red light traced up his forearm like living veins.

Something had changed.

He could feel it — not just the power. The presence.

It was awake now. And it was waiting.

---

Later that day, Logan stood in the Hollow's makeshift training pit — a sunken courtyard lined with cracked stone and scorched iron railings. His right arm hung bandaged, but useless. His left hand gripped a dulled blade.

Around him, a few rebels sparred, watched, waited. Word had spread that he'd survived the fusion ritual. Some looked at him like a hero. Others like a curse.

Kaela tossed him a second blade — smaller, curved. "Try your off-hand," she said. "You'll need it."

Logan caught it. Barely.

Hark stepped into the ring with a training spear. "You want to lead people into war? Start by surviving this."

---

They clashed.

Or rather — Logan stumbled, blocked, dodged, got knocked on his back.

Again and again.

Each fall drew more blood than pride.

But he kept getting up.

"Use your weight!" Kaela barked.

"Bend your knees, not your back!" Hark grunted.

Logan ignored them both. Pain blurred the edges of his sight. His muscles ached. His vision swam.

But the fire in his chest wouldn't let him stop.

Not yet.

---

Then it happened.

As Hark lunged with a crushing blow, Logan ducked instinctively. Something shifted in his chest — and the Ash Plate pulsed.

A spark of red light erupted from the stump of his right arm.

It didn't become a hand — but a flare. A momentary shield of ash and fire that absorbed the blow mid-strike and sent a tremor through the spear shaft.

Hark staggered.

Kaela's eyes widened. "He manifested it…"

Logan looked at his arm. The glowing mark flickered like a heartbeat.

The Ash Plate wasn't just a weapon.

It was alive.

---

That night, the Hollow's firepit burned hotter than usual.

Logan sat on the edge, bandages unwrapped. The skin around the Ash Plate was scorched black, but healing. Slowly. Painfully.

Kaela approached, arms folded. "You held your own today."

"I got knocked down ten times."

"Yeah, and got back up eleven. That's what matters." She hesitated. "The flame... it listens to you."

Logan stared into the fire. "It talks to me."

Kaela raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head. "Not in words. In feeling. In heat. When I lose control, it gets stronger. But I'm not sure if it's mine… or if I'm its."

Kaela crouched beside him. "The Iron Court thinks their Plates make them gods. But the truth is—they're leashes. Power like that doesn't come without a price."

Logan looked down at his glowing stump.

"I already paid."

---

Above the slums, deep within the Iron Fortress, Lord Shōren stood silently on the edge of the high ramparts. The capital's towers stretched out like dead fingers beneath him.

A knight knelt behind him.

"My lord. The Starved Flame has survived the bonding ritual."

Shōren didn't move. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Then the real hunger begins."

He turned slowly, Voidplate gleaming like oil under moonlight.

"Send Knight Solen. Let the boy taste what true iron is."

---

End of Chapter 3