Dr. Armitage lowered the receiver, the click echoing the abrupt end of the call. He stared at the device, a perplexed frown deepening the lines around his eyes. Dr. Moreau's voice had shifted, a sudden lightness to it, almost a lilt. Such an unexpected change, given the circumstances. Just hours prior, her tone had been strained, brittle with barely contained anxiety. Now, a faint hum of relief seemed to cling to her final 'Thank you, doctor.' The rapid alteration struck him as peculiar, a discordant note in the grim melody of the Ironwood Hegemony. Kaelan Thorne, a man who had lain inert for two long years, a patient in a protracted vegetative state, had roused from his protracted slumber. It had been a miracle, or at least, an anomaly of medical science. His initial recovery progressed with remarkable speed. Muscles, though atrophied, retained an unusual resilience. His motor nerves, remarkably sensitive, responded to stimuli with an almost primal efficiency. Rehabilitation had been surprisingly smooth, the man moving freely within a mere week. Then, the reversal. The miracle had curdled. For the past twelve days, Thorne had retreated, a prisoner once more to profound sleep. It wasn't the coma, not precisely. This was a different state, a deeper, almost narcotic slumber, as if his very consciousness had become addicted to oblivion. Thorne already presented with significant memory deficits. His doctors had held no illusions of a full recovery from such a severe cranial trauma. Yet, Armitage felt a persistent unease, a prickle of intuition he couldn't quite dismiss. The extensive head injury, he reasoned, must manifest its after-effects in some form beyond mere amnesia or somnolence. A quiet day. The manor's medical wing felt unnervingly still. He approached Thorne’s bed, the heavy velvet drapes muffling the perpetual drizzle outside. Thorne lay utterly motionless, chest rising and falling with a shallow, regular rhythm. "Can you hear me, Kaelan?" Armitage's voice was low, clinical. He gently tapped Thorne's arm, checking for a response. No flicker. No movement. The patient remained deeply unresponsive. "Speak whatever comes to your mind," Armitage prompted, leaning closer. His breath misted faintly on the cool air. "Anything at all." A faint murmur escaped Thorne's lips, almost inaudible. A mere wisp of sound. Armitage strained to hear it, bending lower still. "Se..." A small, weary smile touched Armitage's lips. Progress, however minimal. "Yes, good. Just like that. Try again." Later, the precise words Thorne uttered lingered in the doctor's mind. A phrase whispered countless times during the fleeting moments of hazy consciousness, a plea from the depths of profound neurological disturbance. "Please don't wake up." Armitage walked the empty corridors of the isolated wing, his footsteps echoing softly on the cold flagstones. His fingers found his chin, rubbing thoughtfully as his brow furrowed. Director Varian Thorne, Kaelan’s elder brother, maintained a strict vigilance over his sibling’s care. Varian was, by all accounts, a man of formidable influence within the Ironwood Hegemony. Certainly, Kaelan Thorne would have received superior, cutting-edge treatment at a more advanced facility, perhaps even the Hegemony’s central neurological institute. Director Varian’s insistent order, however, had been to return Kaelan to this sprawling, isolated manor, a place of crumbling grandeur and ancient whispers. The directive had struck Armitage as peculiar, an odd decision for a man of such station. Still, it was not his place to question. He lived a life of relative seclusion here, a glorified caregiver in a distant, forgotten corner of the world. Yet, the remuneration for his services was extraordinarily generous, far too substantial to risk with trivial inquiries or perceived insubordination. "Ah..." A sudden thought struck him. He snapped his fingers softly. "I forgot to mention it to her." The sequelae Kaelan Thorne suffered from extended beyond mere hypersomnia. The condition bore a more specific, insidious name: Klein-Levin Syndrome. Colloquially, it was known as Sleeping Beauty Syndrome. Its manifestations were often dire, far exceeding prolonged periods of sleep. Armitage recalled the textbook symptoms: profound behavioral abnormalities, an uncontrollable, ravenous urge to eat (hyperphagia), bouts of intense aggression, and, disturbingly, episodes of excessive sexual desire. "Still," he muttered, adjusting the cuff of his pristine white coat. "He'll be quiet for today, no doubt." It was just a single day. What harm could truly befall them in such a short span? He yawned, a sudden weariness settling upon him. The manor's silence pressed in, comforting in its stillness. --- Humming under her breath, a fragile melody of relief, Dr. Isolde Moreau ascended the grand, creaking staircase. She had, by some improbable stroke of luck, narrowly evaded the sharp fangs of a trap. The cruel awakening, Kaelan's volatile presence, the desperate fabrication of their shared history – all now seemed temporarily suspended, pushed back by the sudden onset of his slumber. Hours had passed since the doctor's diagnosis. The sheer, terrifying audacity of her lie still echoed in her mind, but it was now muffled by the reprieve. She had spent the day feeling miraculously rescued, a condemned woman granted a stay of execution. Reaching the heavy oak door of her allocated room, she paused. Her fingers went to the polished brass plate, entering the intricate cipher that secured it. A strange sense of déjà vu prickled at her, an unsettling premonition. The air in the corridor felt heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. *CRACK!* A jarring sound, dull and deep, resonated from the lower floors. Isolde froze, her hand still hovering over the keypad. *CLANG!* The manor's ancient bell, typically reserved for the arrival of guests or emergencies, began to ring. Not a stately chime, but a frantic, insistent clamor. Midnight approached, the oppressive darkness of the Ironwood Hegemony pressing against the leaded windows. A chilling sight, then, froze her where she stood: a section of the manor’s robust back door, designed to withstand the region’s tempestuous gales, had been violently forced inward. Splinters of ancient oak marred the polished floor. "Where... where did he go?" The question escaped her lips, a terrified whisper. More than thirty minutes passed in a dizzying haze of fear and frantic searching. Isolde moved through the manor's sprawling, unkempt grounds, the sodden earth beneath her expensive boots. Few ancient electric poles, relics of a bygone era, cast dim, flickering halos on the muddy paths. Rain, a perpetual companion in the Ironwood Hegemony, had begun its soft, persistent drumming again. Should she alert Varian Thorne, Kaelan's brother? The formidable 'A,' who, in his twisted game of power, had made Isolde the unwitting 'B.' She rubbed the screen of her small, antiquated communication device repeatedly, the nervous gesture making the glass gleam. No. She couldn't. Director Thorne would seize on any excuse, any perceived failing, to tighten his insidious control over her. He thrived on leverage. Resolving to find him herself, Isolde tied back her long, dark hair, securing it with a simple ribbon. She quickened her pace, the fear lending her a desperate speed. "Kaelan Thorne!" Her voice, usually composed, wavered slightly, a raw edge betraying her fear. The manor's resident hounds, usually slumbering fitfully near the kitchens, erupted in a chorus of frantic barks, disturbed by her shout. Isolde scanned the narrow, winding paths of the overgrown grounds, searching every shadow, every cluster of dense, weeping ferns. Then, she saw it. A profoundly strange trace, disturbing in its implications. It looked like a wide, shallow furrow, left by something heavy, something that had crawled. The path of a monstrous, unseen snake. "He truly is... horrible." The words were a dry, choked laugh, born of pure, disbelieving horror. The absurdity of the situation, the sheer primal terror it invoked, was almost too much to bear. She turned, compelled by a morbid curiosity, to follow the sickening trail. The earth here was wetter, churned. As she drew closer to the source, a faint, unsettling sound reached her ears. A wet, tearing noise, followed by a series of low, guttural grunts. Her heart began to pound, a frantic drum against her ribs, responding to the ominous situation. "Kaelan Thorne! Put that down!" The shout ripped from her throat, sharp with shock and revulsion. He stood near the perimeter fence, half-obscured by the dripping branches of a gnarled yew tree. In the meagre light filtering through the clouds, Kaelan Thorne was already engaged in his macabre feast. He gnawed at raw flesh, tearing at it with a primal intensity. His eyes, when they briefly caught a reflection of light, seemed utterly blank, devoid of recognition. The muscles of his jaw worked rhythmically, a grotesque mastication. A low groan rumbled from his throat. He spat a piece of sinew and flesh from his mouth, the sickening sound almost causing Isolde to vomit. She pressed a hand to her mouth, restraining the urge, forcing herself to maintain a clinical composure. On the ground, near his muddied boots, lay the mangled remains of a rooster, its neck brutally broken. Its feathers, once vibrant, were now stained dark. Her hands trembled, a barely suppressed tremor. She was terrified of this man. He stood there, nonchalantly, as if nothing untoward had occurred, crimson smeared across his lips and chin. The sight was a stark, brutal contrast to the composed, if volatile, man she had encountered earlier. This, she knew, must be another facet of his strange condition. The doctor had spoken of hypersomnia, but this... this was something more monstrous. A complete lack of awareness, a terrifying disconnect from reality. He was simply out of touch, driven by an unknown, primal urge. "It must be difficult for you to move right now," Isolde managed, forcing a soothing tone into her voice. She stepped cautiously closer, maintaining a safe distance. "Why did you come out?" Isolde's mind raced, a whirlwind of strategy. She needed to gauge his mood, to understand the extent of his present lucidity, if any. Her fabricated past, her desperate claim of being his wife, hung precariously in the balance. Every word, every gesture, had to be meticulously chosen. "Let’s go back inside. You shouldn’t be out here." Kaelan Thorne abruptly threw the half-eaten fowl aside. It landed with a wet thud in the damp leaves. His head lifted slowly, his gaze, heavy and unreadable, settling upon Isolde. A chill snaked down her spine, making her skin prickle. He stood in the deepest shadows, where the sparse moonlight couldn't penetrate, an ominous, towering figure. He seemed taller, broader than she remembered, an illusion perhaps created by the darkness and her fear. He was easily two heads taller than her, his frame formidable even beneath the grime. He began to move, not walking precisely, but a slow, deliberate crawl forward, dragging himself through the mud and leaves. His sleeves, his trousers, his chest – all were covered in the clinging, dark earth. A sudden gust of wind swept through the ancient yew trees, rustling their needles, and Kaelan Thorne's soiled clothes fluttered. For a brief, terrifying instant, the movement revealed the powerful, well-toned silhouette of his body beneath. Isolde's breath caught in her throat. Her mind, momentarily dazed by the sheer, primal sight, conjured a distant memory. The 'Dragon Blood' tree, she recalled, from a forgotten botanical text – an ancient, alien species, its bark scarred, its veins secreting a vivid, blood-red sap. A strange, macabre association, but undeniably fitting for the blood-splattered figure before her. Two years prior, she had first encountered Kaelan Thorne's name, if not the man himself, in his medical reports. A month ago, he had stirred from his coma, his initial awakening a storm of confusion and suppressed rage. He had always been described, even in the clinical records, as possessing an intense, almost visceral vitality. Now, here he stood, once again, splattered with a fresh, horrifying crimson. "Kaelan Thorne..." Her voice was barely a whisper, a desperate attempt to ground him, to ground herself. "Name..." The word was a guttural rumble, torn from his throat. "What?" Isolde blinked, her mind scrambling. "What's your name?" His cold, unnerving gaze bored into her. It was impossible to decipher his thoughts, to penetrate the unsettling blankness in his eyes. *Think, Isolde*, she urged herself. *Think*. Her carefully constructed lie, her only shield, suddenly felt flimsy, transparent. She was at a complete loss, no answer forming on her lips. Her own name, the one she had so glibly offered hours ago, now seemed to mock her, a dangerous, impossible declaration.

Chapter 10: The Somnambulist's Hunger