(Proofread and partially written by AI for coherence and completeness.)
Kieran awoke to the sharp bite of cold air stinging his lungs. His body shivered violently, skin prickling against the unforgiving chill. He opened his eyes to a sky painted in hues of gray, thick clouds churning like boiling smoke. Around him, the ground was hard, rough, and damp, strewn with the scent of decay and mud.
Disoriented, he tried to recall what had happened. Flashes of pain. A blur of faces twisted in anger and fear. His own screams swallowed by the darkness. He remembered dying. His own blood pooling around him, staining his hands. But this... this was not the afterlife.
He pushed himself up on trembling limbs, his muscles weak and unsteady. His fingers dug into the dirt, nails scraping against stone. The rags draped over his body provided little warmth and less dignity. His stomach twisted with hunger, an ache so deep it felt like his bones were hollow.
"Where... am I?" Kieran whispered, his voice a rasp.
He struggled to his feet, eyes scanning his surroundings. The village around him was nothing more than a collection of crude huts built from wood and mud. Children darted between the hovels, barefoot and filthy. Their laughter was brittle, broken by coughs and cries.
Kieran's gaze locked onto an elderly man hunched over beside a fire, his hands trembling as he stirred a thin, watery soup. Desperation clung to the air like mist, heavy and suffocating.
He stumbled forward, his legs nearly buckling beneath him. "Please... where is this place?" he croaked.
The old man's eyes met his, dull and clouded by age but sharp with suspicion. "You're in Hallow's End, boy. A place where only the forgotten remain." His voice was rough, like stones grinding against one another. "You're lucky to be alive."
"Alive...?" Kieran echoed. His memories were fractured, pieces slipping away like sand through his fingers. "I was... I was killed."
The old man snorted. "You're not the only one who's felt death's touch. This world is cruel, boy. Crueler still to those who have nothing." He gestured toward the village, where skeletal faces peeked from doorways, their eyes dull and hollow. "You're just another mouth to feed."
Kieran swallowed, his throat dry. The hunger gnawing at him grew fiercer. "Is there... food?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Food?" The man laughed, a bitter, mirthless sound. "We scavenge what we can. Hunt when the beasts don't hunt us. If you want to eat, you'll have to earn it."
Kieran's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. Earn it. The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off walls of desperation and anger.
For days, he wandered the village, scavenging scraps, his strength gradually returning. He observed the way others survived—through deceit, barter, or brute force. Kindness was a luxury no one could afford.
But Kieran was no stranger to cruelty. The memory of his death haunted him, sharpening his will. If he had been given a second chance, he would not squander it.
As the days bled into weeks, Kieran learned to endure. He listened to the villagers' bitter complaints, their whispers of distant cities ruled by nobles who cared nothing for their suffering. The disparity was sickening, infuriating.
Kieran's hunger grew beyond food. It became a hunger for power. For revenge. For a life that could never be stolen from him again.
Hallow's End had tried to break him. But instead, it had only reforged him.
In the ashes of his suffering, Kieran made a vow.
He would rise above them all.
He would become the new king.