Halden pressed his back against the cold, charred stone of what was once the Oakhaven bakery. The smell of burnt sugar and old bread hung sickly in the air, mixing with the acrid sting of ash. Six refugees huddled behind him, a small, trembling knot of humanity. A young woman clutched a dirty doll to her chest, her eyes wide and wet. An old man coughed, a dry rasp in his throat, and three children whimpered softly, buried in their mothers' skirts. Outside the crumbling wall, the shouts grew louder, rough voices echoing in the skeletal remains of the village. "Crowe!" one called, a sneering, thick voice. "We know you're in there, old knight! Hand over the soft meat, and maybe we'll let you keep your skin." Halden kept his gaze fixed on the gap in the broken wall, his hand resting on the hilt of Nettlecry. The dark iron felt cold, almost slick, beneath his calloused palm. He hated this. He hated the hollow thrum that began in his bones the moment his fingers closed around the grip, a low vibration that promised power and demanded a price. He looked over his shoulder, meeting the terrified gaze of the woman with the doll. Her lips moved, forming a silent plea. He nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. "Stay low," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Stay behind me, no matter what." A shadow fell across the gap. A bulky man, scarred face, a crude axe slung over his shoulder, peered in. He grinned, teeth yellowed. "Look at this," he sneered, spitting on the ground. "A knight and his flock of sheep. What's one blade against five, eh?" Five. Not as many as he’d feared. Enough, though. More than enough for Nettlecry to feast. Halden pushed off the wall, stepping forward. The hilt felt warm now, a subtle heat spreading through his arm. He drew the blade. Nettlecry slid free with a hiss, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. The steel was unnaturally dark, almost black, absorbing the faint light filtering through the smoke-filled air. It wasn’t shining, it *drank* the light. A faint, greenish glow pulsed along its length, a sickly heartbeat. The refugees gasped, shrinking further back, their fear now tinged with something else – awe, perhaps, or a deep-seated terror of the weapon itself. "You'll not touch them," Halden said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. The words tasted like ash. The marauder leader, the one with the axe, laughed. "Oh, the knight speaks! Brave words. But we've seen your kind before. Swords rust, and men break." He gestured with his axe. "Get him, lads! The faster he falls, the quicker we get to the goods." Three more figures, crude swords and bludgeons in hand, emerged from the smoky gloom. They fanned out, circling, their eyes predatory. Halden adjusted his stance, Nettlecry held steady before him. The blade hummed, a low, hungry growl that only he could feel, resonating through his very soul. He braced himself, not just for the fight, but for the inevitable loss that would follow. The cost was always paid. --- The first marauder charged, a squat man wielding a rusty cleaver. He came on with a guttural roar, predictable and clumsy. Halden met him with a step to the side, Nettlecry a blur of dark steel. The blade bit deep, not with a clang, but with a wet, tearing sound, as if the air itself had ripped. The man dropped, silent. A warmth, vivid and sudden, bloomed in Halden’s chest. The faint echo of Lyra’s laugh, clear as a mountain stream, filled his mind. He saw her, a flash of red ribbon in her dark hair, tossing her head back in carefree amusement. Then, a sudden, sickening chill. The warmth receded, pulling back like a tide, leaving behind a hollow space. The memory, vibrant just a breath ago, became indistinct, muted, like a painting left too long in the sun. The sound faded into a whisper, then nothing. A deep, aching emptiness settled in its place. He ignored it. He had to. The axe-wielder was next, rushing with surprising speed, his weapon arcing down in a heavy chop. Halden parried, the dark steel of Nettlecry deflecting the blow with a jarring impact that still sent a shiver up his arm. He spun, leveraging the force, and drove Nettlecry horizontally. The axe-wielder stumbled, a ragged gash appearing across his ribs. He made a choking sound, a surprised gurgle, and crumpled to the ground. Another memory wavered. Lyra, her small hand in his, tugging him towards a patch of wild bluebells. Her excited chatter, the way she pointed. The image sharpened for a fraction of a second, then dissolved, like smoke carried on the wind. The bluebells became grey, her hand a blurred outline. The specific light of that afternoon, the feeling of her tiny fingers, evaporated. The hollow ache deepened, a gnawing cavity behind his sternum. Two more came, one from each side, trying to flank him. Halden moved with a grim economy of motion, Nettlecry a seamless extension of his will. He blocked a clumsy thrust from a short sword, then pivoted, bringing the dark blade around in a sweeping arc. The steel sang a low, hungry note as it connected, a precise cut that dropped one man instantly. This time, it was a moment of comfort. Lyra, curled up on his lap by the hearth, listening intently to one of his exaggerated tales of knighthood. Her soft, contented sigh. He felt the phantom weight of her head against his chest, the faint scent of woodsmoke and lavender that always clung to her. Then, it was gone. The weight lifted, the scent vanished, leaving only the cold air of the ruined bakery. The sigh became a silent echo, then a phantom. The last uninjured marauder hesitated, his eyes wide, fear warring with greed. His companion, wounded, lay bleeding out nearby, groaning softly. The air pulsed with the green glow of Nettlecry, a faint, rhythmic thrumming against Halden’s palm. He felt the blade’s eagerness, its deep, insatiable hunger. He hated it, the way it twisted his stomach, the way it promised victory at such a terrible cost. But he couldn't stop. Not now. The refugees still huddled behind him, their lives depending on his resolve, and on the blade's dark power. --- The wounded marauder, a thin man with a drooping mustache, scrambled backwards, clawing at the dusty ground. His eyes darted between Halden and the two fallen comrades. A whimper escaped his lips, sounding less like a man and more like a cornered dog. He tried to speak, but only a wet rattle came out. Halden did not move. He stood, Nettlecry still held before him, its green pulse a faint throb in the smoke-filled air. He waited, his chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the deep, internal chill that had settled within him. The emptiness was a physical weight now, pressing down on his lungs, making each breath feel shallow and insufficient. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that more was gone. The specific memories eluded him, just out of reach, but the *feeling* of them, the warmth they once brought, had been scoured away. The axe-wielder coughed, a terrible, wet sound from where he lay in a widening pool of dark blood. The wounded man watched him, then looked back at Halden, terror stark in his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying, and made a desperate, stumbling dash for the broken wall, hoping to escape into the obscuring smoke. It was a futile effort. Halden lunged, a swift, practiced movement born of countless battles. Nettlecry moved without conscious thought, a dark streak in the gloom. The blade found its mark, clean and efficient. The man cried out, a short, sharp gasp, then collapsed, his body hitting the ground with a soft thud. The last of them. Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of distant embers and the soft whimpers of the refugees behind him. Nettlecry vibrated, a deeper, more insistent thrum, then slowly, the greenish glow faded, though the internal vibration did not entirely cease. Halden lowered the blade, his arm feeling heavy, drained. He stood for a long moment amidst the fallen, the bodies of the marauders stark against the grey ash. He felt nothing resembling triumph, only a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. The emptiness within him was vast now, a gaping maw. It was like looking at a treasured tapestry that had been meticulously unpicked, thread by thread, until only the bare, cold warp remained. He turned slowly, ignoring the awed, relieved gasps from the refugees. He walked past them, not meeting their eyes, knowing what they would see there – not a hero, but a man haunted, a vessel slowly being emptied. He moved towards his pack, which he had left tucked into a crevice in the wall. His fingers, trembling noticeably, fumbled with the leather straps. He pulled out the ledger. It was a simple thing, bound in worn leather, its pages filled with his cramped, precise script. Names. Dates. Small details. Memories. His anchor. His last defence against the blade's relentless hunger. He flipped it open, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He went to the page he always checked first, the one he prayed would remain untouched. --- Halden stared down at the page. The worn parchment, usually a comforting canvas for his memories, offered only a stark, mocking blankness. His breath hitched. He ran a thumb over the spot where the words should have been, expecting to feel the faint indentations of his own handwriting. There was nothing. Just the smooth, undisturbed surface of the paper. Lyra. Her name. Her bright, impossible laugh. Her small, strong hand in his. Her excited chatter about bluebells. Her contented sigh by the hearth. All the specific details, the vibrant brushstrokes that painted her image in his mind, were gone. Not merely faded, not just indistinct, but utterly, terrifyingly absent. The page was empty. His grip on Nettlecry, still clutched in his other hand, tightened until his knuckles ached. The blade thrummed, a low, satisfied pulse, a beat that vibrated up his arm and echoed in the hollow cavern of his chest. It felt almost warm now, a sickening warmth that seemed to mock his despair. It had taken them. Every single one. The laughter, the touch, the scent. All of it had been devoured. He remembered writing it. He remembered the precise curve of the 'L' in Lyra, the careful dots over the 'i'. He remembered the small, almost insignificant notation he made next to her name, detailing her love for sweet pastries from the village baker. Now, even the memory of writing those words was gone, replaced by a grey void where specific details should have been. Only the knowledge that *something* about Lyra *should* have been there remained, a phantom limb of memory. The refugees watched him, their relief slowly curdling into apprehension. He could feel their eyes on him, on the dark, silent knight standing amidst the dead, his face a mask of profound, desolate loss. They saw the weapon, no doubt. They saw its sinister glow, even if faint now. They did not understand the true horror of its hunger. His hand shook, making the ledger flutter slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to conjure the image, the sound, anything. But the well was dry. The well was not just empty, it had never been filled. The memories, once so vivid they felt tangible, were now as if they had never existed. Nettlecry gave another soft, satisfied thrum, a deep vibration that felt like a quiet burp from a sated beast. Halden opened his eyes, staring again at the pristine, blank page. His sister's name, the anchor he clung to, was gone.

A Blade's First Bite