POV: Cordelia
Hunger makes conversation honest.
It strips away politeness, leaves only want and refusal. By the time I reach the village at the bottom of the valley, my stomach hurts enough that it feels like a second pulse inside me, sharp and insistent. I stop at the tree line and watch smoke curl from low roofs, listen to voices drift up the slope.
“—tell you, the price went up again—”
“—doesn’t matter, people still need bread—”
I swallow and pull my hood lower.
The warmth stirs beneath my ribs, not frantic, not afraid. Waiting.
I walk in openly.
A man at the well glances up as I pass. His eyes linger a beat too long, then slide away. He frowns, distracted, as if he’s forgotten what he was about to say.
“Hey,” a woman calls from a stall stacked with turnips. “You buying or just staring?”
“Buying,” I say, my voice steady.
She squints at me. “You got coin?”
I reach into my pocket and let the warmth guide my fingers. Somewhere nearby, metal shifts—soft, subtle. A purse lightens in a place no one is watching.
“Yes,” I say.
She snorts. “Then speak up next time.”
I set coins on the counter. Her expression changes immediately.
“Bread’s fresh,” she says, friendlier now. “You traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not safe these days.”
I meet her eyes. “I know.”
She hesitates, then wraps the bread. “Soup kitchen closes at dusk. If you’re still hungry.”
“Thank you.”
She watches me go, unease creeping back into her face, like her instincts are trying to warn her about something her mind can’t name.
Behind a shed, I tear into the bread with shaking hands. Grease coats my fingers. The pain in my stomach eases, replaced by a slow, heavy warmth that has nothing to do with magic.
I laugh softly.
“So that’s how it works,” I murmur to myself.
I don’t leave right away.
I sit and listen to the village breathe. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter. Arguments. All of it layered and fragile. I feel how easily it could tilt. How easily attention bends when nudged.
A man staggers past, muttering. He stops when he sees me.
“You,” he says, pointing. “You lookin’ for work?”
“No.”
He squints. “You look like trouble.”
I tilt my head. “Do I?”
He takes a step closer. “Village doesn’t need strangers like you.”
Anger flickers—quick, clean.
The warmth responds instantly.
A crack splits the ground between us with a sharp report. The man stumbles back, eyes wide.
“I’m leaving,” I say calmly. “You should let me.”
He nods too fast. “Y-yes. Of course.”
I turn away without another word.
Control feels… good.
That realization settles heavier than the bread in my stomach.
After that, I stop pretending survival is accidental.
I move deliberately. I watch patterns. I learn which villages close ranks against outsiders and which are too tired to care. I listen to gossip in taverns, letting voices wash over me.
“...heard about a witch up north…”
“...nonsense, just thieves…”
I smile into my cup and keep quiet.
In one town, a guard stops me at the gate.
“Name?” he asks.
I hesitate only a fraction of a second. “Cordelia.”
He rolls the name around his mouth. “You got papers, Cordelia?”
“No.”
He sighs. “Figures.”
I let the warmth brush against him, just enough.
He rubs his temple. “Just… don’t cause trouble.”
“I won’t,” I say.
It isn’t a lie. Trouble happens on its own.
The first time I enjoy it—truly enjoy it—I am surprised by how quickly the feeling comes.
I am walking a forest road at dusk when footsteps fan out behind me. Three men. Too coordinated to be lost. Too confident to be afraid.
“Well,” one says cheerfully. “What have we here?”
I stop and turn slowly. “I’m passing through.”
“That so?” Another laughs. “You picked a bad road.”
I look at their hands. Knives. Clubs. Expectation.
“Last chance,” I say. “Go back.”
The first one steps closer. “Or what?”
Anger snaps tight, precise.
The warmth surges.
The ground lurches. One man flies backward, hitting a tree hard enough that the breath leaves him in a wet gasp. The others freeze.
“Go,” I repeat.
They don’t argue.
When the forest goes quiet again, I stand very still, my pulse steady, my breath even.
“That was easy,” I say aloud.
The warmth hums in agreement.
I laugh then, sharp and unrestrained, the sound echoing between the trees.
***
Winter hardens everything.
Cold makes people desperate. Desperation makes them careless. I take advantage of it without apology. A purse here. A loaf there. A fire coaxed back to life in exchange for a bed on the floor.
“Don’t like the way she looks,” someone whispers once.
“Don’t start,” another mutters. “Just leave her.”
I don’t look back.
At night, I practice.
I sit by dying fires and speak softly to the flame. “Higher,” I murmur. It stretches upward obediently. “Lower.” It bows.
I smile.
Animals don’t come near anymore. Birds scatter when I step into clearings. I notice it, catalog it, and move on.
Loneliness used to hurt.
Now it feels like space.
One evening, in a village pressed tight against a frozen river, a drunk grabs my wrist.
“Pretty thing like you,” he slurs. “Shouldn’t be alone.”
I look down at his hand. “Let go.”
He laughs.
The warmth snaps outward without conscious thought. His grip loosens as pain shoots through his arm. He stumbles back, pale and shaking.
“What are you?” he whispers.
I lean closer. “Hungry.”
He scrambles away. I watch him go, my expression calm, my heart steady.
Morality feels distant now. Not gone—but flexible, reshaped by necessity and choice. I still know the difference between harm and cruelty. I simply no longer confuse restraint with virtue.
That night, lying beneath a sky sharp with stars, I whisper into the cold, “I won’t be weak again.”
The warmth coils tight and approving beneath my ribs.
Somewhere ahead, knowledge waits. Refinement. Names for what I can already do. I don’t know it yet, but hunger is no longer my greatest teacher.
Power is.
And I am learning quickly.