The porridge was cold.

Elias woke to the smell of burnt sugar. It clung to his tongue. Thick. Sweet. Rotting.

He sat up. The bed frame groaned.

Outside, the fog lay heavy on the town of Blackwood. It swallowed the rooftops. It swallowed the spires. It swallowed the world.

Only the window remained. A square of grey light.

He looked at his hands. They shook. The tremor was constant. A vibration in the bone.

"Morning," he whispered.

No one answered.

The room was empty. But the air was thick with presence. A heavy, suffocating weight.

He swung his legs off the bed. His feet touched the cold floorboards. He stood. The joints popped. Stiff. Old.

He was a knight. Or had been. The title felt like a coat that no longer fit. Too large. Too heavy. The steel had rusted. The glory had faded.

Now there was only the hunger.

He walked to the table. A bowl sat there. Porridge. The color of wet ash.

He lifted the spoon. His hand moved on its own. The spoon dipped into the sludge.

He did not want to eat. But the body demanded. The body always demanded.

He took a bite. It tasted of iron. Of old blood.

He chewed. Swallowed. The taste lingered.

A knock at the door.

Sharp. Insistent.

Elias did not move. He stared at the bowl. The surface rippled. His reflection stared back. Distorted. Broken.

Knock again.

"Open up," a voice said.

It was Thomas. Thomas Bradshaw. The lieutenant. Or what was left of him.

Elias set the spoon down. The metal scraped against ceramic. A high, thin shriek.

He walked to the door. His steps were slow. Deliberate. Each movement a battle against the gravity of the house.

He opened the door.

Thomas stood in the hallway. He was tall. Lean. His face was pale, drained of color. His eyes were wide. Frantic.

"Get dressed," Thomas said.

"Why?" Elias asked.

"We have to leave."

"Where?"

"Nowhere. Everywhere. Away from here."

Elias looked past him. The hallway was dark. Shadows pooled in the corners. They seemed to breathe.

"I am not going anywhere," Elias said.

"You must." Thomas stepped forward. He grabbed Elias’s arm. His grip was tight. Painful. "They are coming."

"Who?"

"You know who."

Elias pulled back. "I know nothing."

Thomas’s face crumpled. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. It lived in the lines of his jaw. In the tremor of his lips.

"Elias. Please. Look at your hands."

Elias looked down.

The skin was grey. Veins stood out like black roots. The nails were long. Yellow. They looked like claws.

He shook his head. "It is a dream."

"It is real." Thomas’s voice was a whisper. "The porridge. Did you eat it?"

Elias felt the taste again. The iron. The blood.

He swallowed. "Yes."

"It is poison."

"Poison?"

"Not to kill you. To change you."

Elias laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "I am already changed. I am already broken."

Thomas shook his head. "Not like this. Not this way. You are becoming it."

"Becoming what?"

"The hunger. The void. The thing in the walls."

Elias felt a chill. A coldness that started in the stomach and spread outward. To the limbs. To the heart.

He looked at Thomas. His friend. His ally. His brother in arms.

"Who is putting it in the food?" Elias asked.

Thomas did not answer.

"Who, Thomas?"

"Her."

Elias blinked. "Who?"

"Margaret."

The name hit him like a physical blow.

Margaret. His wife.

She had been dead for three days. Buried in the crypt beneath the church. He had held the shovel. He had felt the weight of the earth.

"She is dead," Elias said.

"She is not dead." Thomas’s eyes were wet. "She is hungry."

Elias stepped back. He hit the doorframe. The wood creaked.

"No," he said. "No."

"She knows what you are," Thomas said. "She knows what you have become. She feeds you. She keeps you here. She wants you to finish."

"Finish what?"

"Becoming her."

Elias stared at Thomas. The words hung in the air. Heavy. Suffocating.

He thought of Margaret. Her smile. Her hands. The way she used to stir the pot. The way she used to hum.

He thought of the porridge. The coldness. The sweetness.

He looked at the bowl on the table.

It was empty now. But the smell remained.

He looked at his hands. The veins were darker. The nails were longer.

He felt a pull. A magnetic force. Toward the table. Toward the bowl.

"Run," Thomas said.

Elias did not move.

"Elias!" Thomas screamed.

Elias turned. He looked at Thomas. He saw the fear. He saw the love. He saw the mirror.

He saw himself in Thomas’s eyes.

He was not Elias. He was the hunger.

He raised his hand.

Thomas flinched.

Elias lowered his hand.

"I cannot run," Elias said. His voice was different. Deeper. Rougher. "I am the walls."

Thomas stepped back. He raised a dagger. His hand shook.

"I am sorry," Thomas whispered. "I am sorry, brother."

Elias closed his eyes.

He did not care about the dagger. He did not care about Thomas.

He cared about the taste.

He walked to the table. He sat down.

The bowl was empty. But he lifted it to his lips.

He drank the air.

The air tasted of iron.

He smiled.

The fog outside thickened. It pressed against the window. It scratched at the glass.

Thomas stood in the doorway. The dagger trembled.

Elias looked up. His eyes were black.

"Stay," Elias said.

Thomas dropped the dagger. It clattered on the floor.

He ran.

Elias listened to the footsteps fade.

He was alone.

He picked up the spoon.

He dipped it into the empty bowl.

He found nothing.

But he chewed.

He chewed the air.

He chewed the silence.

He chewed the fear.

It was sweet.

It was salty.

It was home.

The door opened.

Softly.

A figure entered.

Tall. Thin.

Wearing white.

Elias did not look up.

He knew who it was.

He knew what it wanted.

"Sit," the figure said.

The voice was soft. Gentle. Like a lullaby.

Elias stood.

He walked to the window.

The fog was gone.

The sun was rising.

It was bright. Blinding.

He looked out.

The town was quiet.

The people were walking.

They did not see him.

They did not see the shadow behind him.

He turned back.

The figure was gone.

Only the bowl remained.

It was full again.

Porridge.

Steaming.

Elias sat down.

He lifted the spoon.

He took a bite.

It tasted of life.

It tasted of death.

It tasted of everything.

He chewed.

He swallowed.

He waited.

The hunger returned.

Stronger.

Deeper.

He looked at his hands.

They were human again.

Or so it seemed.

The veins were pale. The nails were short.

But the tremor remained.

The vibration in the bone.

He closed his eyes.

He listened.

To the heartbeat.

His own.

And the other heartbeat.

The one behind the walls.

The one in the floor.

The one in the air.

It was waiting.

It was patient.

It was hungry.

Elias opened his eyes.

He looked at the bowl.

He lifted the spoon.

He did not eat.

He held the spoon up.

The light caught the metal.

It sparkled.

It was a mirror.

He saw his face.

Not his face.

The face beneath.

The face that waited.

He smiled.

It was a small smile.

A quiet smile.

A smile of acceptance.

He lowered the spoon.

He put it in the bowl.

He left it there.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The world was waiting.

The sun was high.

The air was cold.

He stepped out.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

He knew what was behind him.

He knew what was inside him.

He walked into the light.

The light swallowed him.

He was gone.

Only the shadow remained.

It stretched.

It lengthened.

It reached for the door.

It reached for the bowl.

It reached for the hunger.

The hunger was satisfied.

For now.

The porridge cooled.

The steam rose.

The room was empty.

The silence was loud.

The silence was hungry.