The sky hung overhead like a lake of fire, swaths of rust, amber, and flame melded together in a terrible mosaic of heat and despair. Yarnus swallowed against the crackling thirst inside himself, fighting back the endless hunger that consumed every part of his being. He was a gaunt, emaciated thing. A shell of the man he once was. His bones were brittle, fragile, and with every step he took, he could feel them pressing against his papery, withered skin.

Yarnus wheezed for breath, his eyes scouring the land like a madman. Cracked, blood stained lips twitched in the corners of his mouth as he spotted the great glittering temple in the distance. For the briefest of moments, he felt clarity return within his mind. He saw with eyes unburdened by hunger, unburdened by horrific, burning need. The Temple of Angiyona was his home. It was his place of worship, his throne, his place to lead the people of Angiyona to greatness. And it was the place where he might finally, at long last, bury the hunger that tortured him so.

The thought of taking another spirit inside of him, of letting its energy fill every fiber, muscle, and bone in his body pulled him back beneath the shroud of madness. It was all he could do to maintain his composure, to stop himself from running with abandon toward the temple, slaughtering anything and everything on his way. There was nothing left but hunger, nothing but irresistible need. It clawed its way through him like a living thing, permeating his skin and sinew to rest in his very bones. It was more a part of him than his memories, or his powers. It was everything to him. Yarnus was that hunger. That, and nothing more.

Yarnus made his way through the streets with surety of purpose. He was, after all, the great Watcher Angiyona was famed for. He had gifted the city his glorious power, and in return they had prospered like no other. It had been he that made them wealthy, he that sustained their crops and animals, and he that fought back the plagues of disease. It was he that fed their spirits and protected them from harm. He was owed everything he had been given; the hordes of cattle whose blood had sustained him for so long, and then, when the cattle was no longer enough, the young, suckling newborns of the concubines, their lives so precious, their blood so pure. He wondered, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, if one baby would be enough to slake the inimitable thirst that plagued him now. How could it be? His hunger was more dire and insistent than ever before.

Clouds of dust trailed his heels as Yarnus wove his way through the city streets, angling evermore toward the temple. Somewhere inside he wondered if his older brother Arvenus had suffered the same fate as him. Was he too buried beneath a hunger so raw it ravaged his very soul? Yarnus knew that he was stronger than his brother, more powerful than Arvenus could ever hope to be. But did that greatness mean greater hunger? Only the Gods could know.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking, the temple loomed ahead. It blotted out the dying sun, casting jagged shadows on the ground, and Yarnus stared at it with an amalgamation of gratitude, envy, and desire. The temple was more beautiful to him in that moment than anything he had ever seen. Its golden carapaces blazed in the sun’s reflected glory, burning bright like the last embers in a pit full of ash and smoke, and he reveled in it. Need quickly stole over his heart, and he stumbled up the steps, his brittle bones creaking and sighing as he climbed for the entrance.

Others were there, men and women together in groups of twos and threes. They stood on the stairs around him, their voices like wind through the leaves as he passed. They were nothing more than shadows to him, ghosts that haunted his vision, each one a whisper of movement and space that was inconsequential to him now. As Yarnus took another step, suddenly his foot slipped, and down he fell onto the stone steps. The strong hands of a shadow gripped him beneath the arm, lifting him back onto his feet, and Yarnus felt a surge of anger and disgust. He pushed the man away with the fury of madness, and somewhere in the Watcher’s mind he registered the man’s wide, terrified eyes as he stepped back away from Yarnus.

The Watcher continued his ascent as those around him stole furtive glances in his direction before fleeing. The sight of it enraged him.

Was he not a humble man? He asked himself within his tortured mind. Had he not given his all to these people? Had he not given them prosperity, happiness and riches? In return, all he had asked for was less than his fair share. He had taken only when he needed to, only supped from the spirits of the newborns when he could survive no longer. And this was how they repaid his benevolence? With gawking and fear. Was he not a man that bled as they did? Did he not deserve more than this? A life without pain and without hunger? Did the Gods not make him divine for a reason?

Inside, the temple was quiet. At the far end of the temple stood the statues of the Gods. Their bodies were carved of marble, crafted so lovingly that they seemed almost human. Their faces were soft, yet stern. Their fabrics sheer and gathered about their bodies in adornment rather than shame. How long had he stared at those faces, asking for guidance? How long had he prayed at their feet, longing for them to take his pain?

His staggering footsteps echoed through the chamber as he passed pew after pew, the sound of his robes slithering along the ground behind him like a ragged, gasping breath. Yarnus dragged himself toward the chamber hall that led to his throne, his private quarters used for council and sacrifice. There were others waiting for him there, he knew. The concubines of Angiyona’s noble families had asked for a meeting, and like any good leader he had obliged, but his patience for their insolence was starting to wear thin. Long ago, it had been decided that when the concubines conceived at the hands of their noble men, the lives of their newborns would be forfeited to Yarnus. It was an immense sacrifice to give the life of their newborn blood for his sustenance, yet it was an honor also. A great and terrible honor. And that it would remain.

Yarnus pushed the chamber door aside. There, waiting on either side of the threshold, were members of his guard. They waited for him patiently, hands clasped behind their backs as they watched his approach. None offered him assistance, though Yarnus would not have taken it if it had been offered. Behind them, crowded about his throne, was a group of concubines. Some were heavily pregnant, their faces and bellies swollen and round. Others had hardly begun to show, the only sign of life growing inside them being the unusually loose gowns they wore and the hands placed protectively around the space where their wombs would be.

Yarnus ignored them as he shuffled to the throne, lowering himself onto it with great care. He could feel the strain even that simple act caused him. It was there, in the hammering of his heart and in the rasping of his lungs. It was there in the weakness of his limbs and the rushing of blood inside his ears.

“Good Watcher of Angiyona,” an older concubine clad in the palest of blue fabrics began. “We have asked for an audience with you now, so that we might beg reason of you.”

Yarnus closed his eyes, leaning back into his throne. Her name was Analia, and though she was without child at this very moment, she had given him many babies over the years. It was no surprise to him that she should step forth to represent them all, that she should be their voice. They loved her dearly, the other women, and he had always respected her sacrifice for him.

Yarnus lifted a trembling hand and pressed it against his eyes as she continued to speak.

“Long you have cared for our people,” she continued haltingly, her eyes darting from the women to the guards, and finally back to Yarnus. “There is no amount of gratitude we could give to repay the honor you have bestowed upon us, but we must ask that you spare the lives of our unborn. You have stolen many children from us over the decades, great Watcher, children that have carried our blood. Babies that might have grown to be soldiers, or farmers, or noblemen themselves. They would have become men and women that would have honored you and loved you as we have for so long.

“Instead, they are nothing. Gone. I know you have your needs, but, please,” she begged, her words turning to a whisper as she dropped to her knees at his feet. Analia reached out to touch the dusty hem of his robe, her lip quivering. “You do not know what pain it is to carry a life inside you for so long, to know and love the baby in your belly, and to know that the life you feel will never grow, will never age the way it is meant to. You do not know the pain a mother feels when a child is ripped from her arms and fed upon, to watch the spirit of your baby torn away, to watch your son, your daughter grow limp and lifeless and pale as the light in their eyes dies.”

A sob escaped her throat then, and Yarnus heard the muffled cries of the other concubines as they listened to Analia speak.

“We have all suffered more death and sadness than you could ever know,” she stated, wiping tears from her cheeks. “And we beg of you, please, no more. We do not wish to give our children to you. We deserve to keep them. To love and cherish them as their mothers, the way we were meant to. Your need may be great, Watcher, but our need now is greater.”

Yarnus almost smiled. For all he had given them, for all he had sacrificed and done to make them prosperous and rich, they repaid him with hatred and disgust. Opening his eyes, he glanced from Analia to the other concubines. They stood huddled close together, hands wrapped protectively around each other, turning their bellies away from him, as if that would stop him from taking the lives of their children.

A soft laugh escaped him. “You think you understand my need?” he asked, his words a low moan in the stillness. “You think you know what it is to hunger? To burn? You know nothing of what you speak. You are naïve to approach me, and more naïve to think you have a right to demand what you do. Your sacrifice is an honor. The lives of your children honor Angiyona, as do you all, by extension. This is the greatest gift you can give your people, the greatest testament of love for your city. And that is your place. You would all do well to remember that.”

Analia’s body stiffened at his words; her face impassive as he spoke. Her mouth twisted into a grimace, and before she lost all nerve she rose from his feet. Mere inches from his face, she spat at the hem of his robes.

“Angiyona and her people would be better off without you, Watcher,” she hissed.

Through the haze of hunger he felt the bitterness of her words. They stuck him through like a knife in his belly, hot and sharp, and he ached with them.

“This is how you would repay me?” he sneered at them, rising to his feet. The tide of anger swelled within him, and blinded by his abject need, he lashed out at the woman before him. He reached for her, through her skin and marrow, down to the very spirit that dwelled within, and he tore it from her with a flick of his wrist.

Analia swayed on her feet for a moment as the light in her eyes went dim. Then her body crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Even as he breathed her in, Yarnus was not sated. The hunger in him quieted no longer than a moment before it returned to him, as rapacious and desperate as ever. The other concubines screamed at the sight of what he had done, turning their eyes away from him in fear. However, this only irked him further.

“You fear me now?” he asked them, stepping over Analia’s body towards them. “I, who have given you the gift of life? I, who have granted you blessing after blessing? You are nothing without me. Angiyona is nothing without me!”

His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, from the faces of women to the swords of the soldiers. In them, their panic and ire was evident.

“What gives you the right to judge me?” he snarled, reaching for the concubines. Most fled from him, but a daring few remained. They held their chins high, fire not fear in their eyes.

“Our Gods give us the right,” a thin whip of a concubine replied. She hunched forward, arms swept inside her long robes as if ready to charge.

“Your Gods made me!” Yarnus shouted with a laugh. “Your Gods gave me the gifts to grant you prosperity. And I have done so, have I not? I have given you wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Crops that yield more than you could ever eat. Cattle of superior stock. Riches to make a king blush. All this I have given you, yet you sit here and judge me now as if it were your right. I have given you all of myself, and in turn you fear me? You should be grateful!”

In the blink of an eye a flicker of silver glinted in the torchlight as the concubine pulled a knife from beneath the folds of her robe. She darted toward Yarnus, raising her arm high above her head, screaming as she poised to strike. She was quick on her feet, but the Watcher was quicker.

With a sneer, Yarnus raised his arm and balled his fingers into a fist. He drew out the spirit from within the concubine, consuming it with unbridled earnest. The girl folded at the knees, the rest of her body tumbling to the stone floor, cold and lifeless.

Yarnus breathed her spirit in, but the hunger remained. He felt hollow inside, as if a great chasm had opened within himself. A chasm that could never be closed. And, although he was dismayed at the thought, he pushed it aside.

There must be something I can do to satiate this hunger, he thought bitterly. Even if I must consume all of Angiyona to do so.

The Watcher hardly noticed as the guards ushered the rest of the concubines from the room. He gave the still body of the concubine before him another glance, before bending down and grabbing her by the ankle. Slowly, and with much concentration, Yarnus dragged her from the confines of the chamber and out into the temple beyond.

Out in the orange light of the sun, Yarnus stared at the city of Angiyona and at Eranor Lake, and he began to laugh. It was not a laugh filled with humor and warmth. It was hollow, broken, and filled with the madness that consumed him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the men and women screaming around him, their bodies fleeing down the steps away from him, but it mattered little. Dropping the concubine at his feet, he kicked her body down the steps.

Now the rest of the city would repay him for what he had given them, Yarnus thought. He was a Watcher. He had been granted immortality by the Gods. Surely, they would want him to replenish himself? Surely, they would want him to take his fill and be whole once more? What were the lives of a few citizens in the face of a Watcher’s? They were ungrateful, but they would repay the debt they owed him now.

Stumbling down the steps, Yarnus moved with palpable eagerness. He did not hesitate when he reached the bottom. Without a thought, he stretched his hands out to those around him, pulling their spirits free from their boney prisons. Laughter spilled forth out of his lips as he consumed each one, relishing the feeling of strength that flooded him as he did so. He could hear the citizens around him praying, begging the God Teriyas to liberate them, to save them from the monster he had become. It did not faze him. The Gods had made him. It was they who had granted him his power and his insatiable hunger. If he was a monster, he was a monster of their making.

The Watcher strode through the streets, his footsteps becoming more steady and sure with each new life he took. He could feel the hunger within him quieting, the pain of it slowly receding. Turning his gaze back toward the temple, he could feel the last light of the sun on the mottled skin of his face.

He had been foolish to ignore his needs for the sake of these people. For years, he had buried it and hidden the depths of his hunger. He had let himself wither away so that they could live unburdened by his need. He had suffered so that they did not have to, but he could see so clearly, now that the hunger was little more than a distant pang. He had been wrong to ignore the needs the Gods had given him. They wanted him to be strong, wanted him powerful. They had given him a thirst unlike any other because he was unlike any other. And now that his eyes were open to the truth, he would never close them again. He would take his fill, and return to his former glory. He would be divine once more.

Losing himself to the madness at last, Yarnus unleashed the full vigor of his hunger on the people of the city. He raged through the outskirts of Angiyona, angling towards the innermost part of the city, ripping out the spirits of all those around him as he went. With each life he took, Yarnus grew stronger, until the hunger he felt so intensely seemed nothing more than a distant memory. Still, he did not stop. Though the hunger no longer gnawed at his bones, he ached for something that had eluded him for far too long.

Power.

With each spirit he consumed, he grew more powerful. He could feel the force of it thrumming through his veins, flowing in his blood with each pulse of his heart. It lived in every nerve, every fiber of his being, and as it grew stronger, so too did he.

With each inch of ground he took, he left a trail of carnage in his wake. Fallen bodies lay crumpled and sprawled, their limbs jutting and jagged against the earth. The sight of the slaughter filled him with immense satisfaction. They had given their lives in service to him, as he had done for them for so long. They had paid their debts to him, and he was grateful, but the rest of Angiyona still had to pay.

With that singular thought in mind, Yarnus continued to slaughter those that stood in his way. He felt the full reach of his powers as it infiltrated each and every one of his victims. He could feel the life as it left their bodies, could feel the energy being sucked from their marrow. It turned them into emaciated husks, sallow skeletons with skin stretched too tight. Some survived moments more after their spirit was gone. They lay on the ground, moaning, their cries like wind through the reeds - hollow and faint. Then they would spasm and fade into nothing. As he cut a path through the heart of the city, he could hear nothing more than the blood in his ears, and the fervent prayers on his victims’ lips.

Twilight fell around him as Yarnus continued his rampage. When at last he stopped for breath, he stared at the bodies that lay at his feet, the bodies that trailed his every move and crowded the earth. More than half of Angiyona had already paid the price for their insolence, and the Watcher vibrated with their energy. He stood motionless, letting the power thrum in time with his heart. He was too strong to stop now, too formidable to deter.

However, as he stood there, he felt something else. It was soft at first, a gentle rumble beneath his feet. Yet as he waited, eyes lifted toward the horizon, the trembling of the earth grew stronger. Yarnus watched, filled with an abject curiosity. When a division of the Nayil appeared on horseback, their spears brandished high as they raced toward him, he finally understood. Teriyas, God of Creation, led them through the winding streets, and there could be no doubt for Yarnus that they had come for him. His smile was soft, filled with a sad bitterness, yet in the darkness of his mind, he welcomed the challenge.

“Fine then,” he whispered to the dead around him. “Let the Gods challenge their own creation.”

Hooves thundered against the hardened earth as the Nayil drew closer. They flanked their leader on either side as he slowed to a halt. The Watcher’s ears pricked at the sound of screaming, and he noted with some interest that the rest of the citizens flocked toward their God. Teriyas meant to save them, Yarnus thought. To usher them from harm. Yarnus grinned.

As the last of the stragglers made their way to the safety of the God’s waiting embrace, the Nayil began their advance once again. Yarnus waited patiently, his smile never once wavering. They were many, the Nayil. They were brave, and they were skilled. Undoubtedly, they would challenge him and would certainly bring him to the brink of death, but they would not defeat him. Of that, Yarnus was certain.

The first of the Nayil threw his spear when they were hardly more than twenty paces from the Watcher. Yarnus stepped easily to the side, letting the tip bury itself in the dirt next to him. As the other Nayil readied their spears, Yarnus dropped to his knees. His powers were not only meant for taking lives; they were made for so much more. Perhaps the Nayil had forgotten that truth. Perhaps it was time for the Watcher to remind them.

The sharp crack of breaking stone split the air as Yarnus reached his hands into the dirt and let the power flow through him to the buildings beyond. They crumpled and broke apart in a cascade, jagged bits of stone flying through the air like shrapnel as the Nayil rode past. Those among them that rode closest to the buildings were struck by large bits of stone. They fell from their horses and careened to the dirt, left to contend with broken bones as the rest of the Nayil rode on.

Yarnus watched as the Nayil came for him, their determination unrelenting. He smiled. It had been eons since he had faced a true foe, not since the days he spent bickering and fighting with his brother Arvenus. Rising from the ground, he faced his enemy with something akin to excitement.

“Come on, then,” he whispered as the Nayil drew near. “Let us finish this.”

The Watcher and the Nayil fought a fierce battle. The Nayil were expert warriors, but even they could not withstand the power that Yarnus now commanded. He dodged their attacks and felled them with ease, destroying the city around them as they went. The Nayil redoubled their efforts, grouping and regrouping after each assault the Watcher aimed at them, but still he cut their numbers in half again and again. Finally, there were no more than a handful of the Nayil division left, and though Yarnus was badly bruised and depleted, he knew victory was in his hands.

“You were meant for so much more than this, Yarnus.”

The Watcher stiffened at the words. From behind the thin line of Nayil, Teriyas appeared. The God was beautiful to behold and terrible in his anger.

“I am what your divine kind made me,” the Watcher replied simply. “The Gods gave me this power. They gave me this need. How am I to blame for your mistakes?”

“Yours is a simple view,” the God chastised, stepping past his warriors. “It is a view clouded by weak rationalization. You were meant to be our hands on earth. You were meant to bring good to this world. You seem to think that the men and women of Angiyona were made to serve you. They were never made to serve you. You were made to serve them.”

“I did serve them!” Yarnus spat, ignoring the ache in his left side and the blood that ran freely from a deep wound in his shoulder. “I gave them everything they could have ever wanted! They suffer because they lack gratitude for the blessings I have given them.”

“You have given them nothing!” Teriyas thundered. “Everything you gave was bestowed to them by the Gods. You were nothing more than a pair of hands, hands with which we could do our work. But you failed to see your role. You came to think of yourself as something great, something above all else around you. But you are wrong, Watcher. You are not above them. And now you must pay for what you have done here.”

Yarnus turned his eyes to the remains of the city. There was little left, beyond the crumbling mortar and shards of stone, splintered timber and pools of blood.

“You have proven to me that creating the Watchers was a mistake,” the God whispered with great sadness. “And now I have no choice but to kill them all.”

Yarnus sucked in a breath as the force of the God’s enormous spear split him from shoulder to hip. He stumbled backward, the weight of the blow dropping him to his knees. He landed in the dirt of the lake’s shore, and as he fell back, the blood flowed forth from his body into the water. The lake began to glow red in the light of the rising moon. Firstly just around him, but then farther away also, as far as he could see.

The Watcher drew in a shuddering breath as the reality of his imminent death chased away the remaining madness inside of him. He thought of his life, of his childhood. He thought of his brother Arvenus, and of the years they had wasted in a needless feud. A feud that led him to Angiyona, a feud that led him to the madness that possessed him and brought him nothing but death.

“It should not have been so, brother,” Yarnus choked out. Blood trickled from his lips and dripped into the waters surrounding his face as he took his last, stuttering breath.