Malric circled the creature in a slow, deliberate motion, his bony frame concealed by the shadows of the forest. The animal—large and limping—was cornered, its breathing uneven and panicked. Its hoof scrabbled against the ground, futile in its attempt to flee. Malric’s hollow gaze followed every twitch, every flinch of muscle, his mind devoid of empathy. There was no pity in him, only the cold calculation of a predator studying its prey.

The creature’s side heaved with effort, a faint shimmer of vitality clinging to it like a fragile flame. Malric’s hunger gnawed at him, his magical core a flickering ember that demanded fuel. Yet, his instinct for self-preservation urged caution. He studied the beast’s posture, its weakened leg, the rhythm of its movement. This wasn’t an act of desperation; it was survival distilled to its simplest form.

In a single motion, Malric lunged. His skeletal foot lashed out, striking the animal's unsteady leg with a crack. The creature fell heavily, its remaining strength spent as it collapsed onto the forest floor. Before it could struggle, Malric’s heel came down with deliberate force on its ribcage. The air escaped the animal in a final gasp, its resistance fading into stillness. Life drained from its eyes, leaving behind an empty husk.

He stood over the corpse, motionless. There was no triumph in his stance, no satisfaction to mark his first kill. Instead, confusion crept into his thoughts. What now? The thing lay lifeless before him, its energy dissipating into the ether. He felt a faint trickle of magic seeping into his core, but the sensation was fleeting, almost disappointing. Malric’s skeletal hand hovered over the carcass, fingers twitching as if searching for purpose. He had no stomach to fill, no body to sustain. Yet, the act had felt necessary—urgent, even.

His sockets tilted down toward the creature’s shattered frame. The thought was faint at first, like a whisper buried in his mind: Its bones. There was something in the marrow of the creature that spoke to him, a silent promise of potential. Malric’s fingers flexed involuntarily before he pulled himself away. He would need to revisit this idea later, when the forest was not so watchful.

The forest grew quieter as Malric left the site of the kill. Shadows stretched long beneath the pale moonlight, and the trees stood like silent sentinels. His movements, though unhurried, were deliberate. The earth beneath his feet felt lifeless, yet each step seemed to draw him deeper into its embrace. He passed hollowed-out logs and fallen branches, the occasional glint of a cobweb catching the moon’s glow. The air smelled damp and heavy, as though the forest itself carried the weight of time.

Eventually, Malric came upon a clearing where the canopy broke apart to reveal a fractured sky. He settled himself at the base of a gnarled tree, its twisted roots coiling into the earth like frozen serpents. He sank into stillness, his skeletal form melding with the surrounding gloom.

Why had he killed the creature? The question gnawed at him, echoing in the quiet void of his thoughts. He felt no guilt, no remorse—such emotions were alien to his undead existence. But the act itself felt... strange. He had no need for flesh or sustenance, yet his core pulsed with faint satisfaction. Hunger remained, insatiable and gnawing, but this small victory had stoked something deeper: the possibility of growth.

Malric’s sockets turned toward the horizon, where shadows bled into the edges of the world. His thoughts, though unresolved, began to coalesce into purpose. For now, he would move forward, carrying the faint promise of strength with him into the unknown.

Malric’s sockets remained fixed on the path ahead, but his thoughts lingered on the creature he had left behind. That fragile thing, so full of motion and noise, now utterly still. His bony jaw clenched as he replayed the moment of its end—the way it had struggled, the weak spark of vitality fading from its form. For the briefest of moments, he had felt a pulse of satisfaction, fleeting and hollow, but it was enough to reignite something deeper within him: hatred.

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The living flaunted their vitality without care. Their breathing, their warmth, their constant noise—they reveled in what they did not deserve. Malric’s hatred flared like a cold fire in his hollow chest, a seething loathing for everything they embodied. Yet, just as quickly, the flames dampened. He was cautious, ever mindful of his weakness. Anger could not sustain him. No matter how much he despised them, he would not rush blindly toward destruction.

Instead, he walked, his mind a churning void of questions.

Why?

The thought echoed through his skull as he stared at his bony hand, turning it in the dim moonlight. His fingers curled and uncurled, their movements mechanical, purposeless. Why had he killed that creature? He felt no hunger, no true satisfaction from the act. His body demanded nothing from the living, yet something within him had pushed him forward, compelled him to act.

Was it instinct? A cruel imitation of what I once was?

He could not remember what he had been before. There was no past in his mind, only the hollow present and the faint ember of magic that pulsed in his core. His sockets lowered to his rusted blade, the jagged edge catching a sliver of moonlight. The weapon was crude, yet it had felt right in his hand—natural, as though it were an extension of himself. He wondered if it had been part of him before, or if it was simply the tool of an unfamiliar urge.

Malric paused, his gaze lifting to the sky. The stars above were scattered and faint, their light barely piercing the thick canopy of the forest. The vastness of the heavens mocked him, a reminder of his insignificance. He clenched his hand into a fist, the bones clicking together with a hollow sound.

What purpose could I possibly have in this state?

The question dragged him deeper into his thoughts. He tried to find meaning in the act, some justification for the violence. Perhaps the creature had been a test, a small step toward growth. Or perhaps it had been meaningless, a futile gesture of power from something as pitiful as he was.

Malric’s thoughts swayed, teetering between faint hope and bitter despair. He considered the pulse of magic he had felt in the aftermath, weak but undeniable. It had been something—proof, perhaps, that his actions carried weight. For a moment, he let himself believe that killing the creature had mattered, that it was part of some grander design.

But the hope crumbled as quickly as it had formed. The truth was simpler, colder: he was weak, fragile, and bound by limitations he could not yet understand. His magic was meager, his body a collection of brittle bones held together by threads of necrotic energy. The act of killing had changed nothing. He remained as hollow as the moment he had risen.

He looked down at himself again, his sockets tracing the jagged lines of his ribs and the chipped edges of his phalanges. There was no hunger, no physical need to justify what he had done. He was a creature of absence, a hollow parody of life.

Malric exhaled—though no air passed his lips, the soundless motion felt heavy, a release of something intangible. He let his gaze fall back to the earth, the weight of his thoughts pressing him down. For a long moment, he remained still, letting the silence of the forest envelop him.

And then, slowly, he began to accept.

The act of killing, though it felt needless, had revealed something to him: his hatred. That loathing for the living was a truth he could not escape, a core part of his existence. It was a direction, if nothing else—a reason to continue moving forward.

Malric’s sockets turned once more toward the horizon. The night stretched before him, vast and unknowable, but it no longer felt as oppressive. He rose to his feet, his movements deliberate and steady.

If there are answers to be found, they will not come to me here.

His thoughts quieted as he began walking again, each step carrying him further into the forest. His mind settled into a single, silent purpose: to uncover the reason behind his existence, to understand why he had killed, and to grasp the faint threads of power that had stirred within him.

The darkness embraced him, and he welcomed it.