Regardless of whether the training sessions were useful or not, Rassa still ventured out every night, usually much later than normal and without his father's company. Sometimes it was to practice, other times to hunt, but the most common thing that Rassa loved to do more than anything else, was run.

Rassa could spend hours moving across the north-eastern landscape of Arkia with nothing to bar his way. He had practically mapped the entire thing to memory, and it was during one of these occasions that he discovered the pleasures of the Varkevia Night Market.

After all, if a ten-kilometre sprint took him barely three minutes, nearly 600 kilometres was easy for Rassa to cover in a little over 3 hours. Usually the journey took at least 6 days via horse or carriage, on foot, longer. The path itself was pretty straight, and ran down the western border of the Greenvale forest which split Arkia from the Eastern Coast of the Continent. Of course, to avoid being seen, Rassa hadn't taken the main path, hence it taking him over three hours. If he'd gone straight, Rassa estimated he could have gotten to Varkevia in under that time. Considering the weight he could carry with him…oh how merchants would be jealous of his transportation abilities.

Despite his poor attire of a cotton shirt, trousers, boots, and a jacket with his hood, Rassa realised quite quickly that his pale skin drew attention. His dark hair and eyes were also a topic of discussion, as he realised by listening in on the various conversations in the market. While not on the coast nor the border of Arkia, Varkevia had quite a few peoples who had migrated north from Lovolon, the southern country of the continent whose people boasted fairer hair colours and more vibrant eyes. Rassa hadn't been exposed much to the multitude of eye colours that the people here boasted. The only person who differed greatly in appearance in Cordon was his father, with his golden hair and blue eyes. Many knew that he didn't originate from Cordon, and had simply assumed he'd just migrated further north than the rest of his people. It was strange being on the flip side of that coin.

After some consideration, Rassa elected it would be better if he wasn't stared at so extensively, and he pulled up his hood and continued on his way.

The market was filled with all manner of goods. Clothing, jewellery, baskets, pins, candles, and all manner of food, whether freshly cooked or freshly grown. Rassa marvelled at its splendour, and even paused in the central square where a minstrel band played merrily for the crowd that gathered. It was walking past one such Vendor that Rassa was forcefully drawn in.

"Hey! Boy, come over and try these brand-new honey cakes! They're all the rage in the capital!" the Vendor bragged.

By the capital, they always meant the Empire's capital. The capitals of the separate countries had long since been outgrown by trade cities, or in the case of Arkia, dissolved altogether after a particularly revolutionary people had refused to hand over their rule to the Emperor and his line. Varkevia was the largest city in the east of the empire, but it was not the largest city in Arkia. That honour fell to Bluebell Hallow, a city in western Arkia that had become famous for its fighting arena. They say a warrior in the Hallow can turn blood into gold with a single fight. Of course, only if they were skilled enough.

Rassa followed the Vendor and looked over to where he indicated. The flower shaped cakes were small, but glazed over the top, and Rassa looked up at the Vendor, "I have no money".

The Vendor seemed disappointed, "What about your parents? Surely one of them is around?"

As if expecting them to appear from the crowd, the Vendor looked up and down the street then back at Rassa.

"Sorry," Rassa shrugged with a small smile.

"Ah, probably for the best," the Vendor sighed in disappoint, turning away from Rassa, he continued in a tone clearly not meant for Rassa's ears, "These things are addicting their so sweet and such sweet things are best had in moderation. A little every day".

As the Vendor went to draw another customer in, Rassa couldn't help but feel something inside him click into place.

A little every day? Why hadn't he thought of that? Three years of taking lives to survive, and it had never occurred to him that he didn't have to wait until he was hungry to eat. In a village where eating to a minimal degree, and only when the body demanded it, was the norm.

As the realisation dawned on Rassa, a sense of excitement filled him. But also a sense of hesitation. Hunger, unlike before his change, was a true and unavoidable concept with real and devastating consequences. Over the years he had thought he had learned to somewhat control the urge that now drove him, however, he had never had to stop himself in the middle of feeding before. As he left the city and made way for Greenvale as fast as he could push himself, he couldn't help the questions that came to him. Would he be able to stop? Could he control his hunger? Could he lead a life without the death that had plagued it since his change?

It had only been four days since he had fed previously, so his hunger was present, though only to the extent where he felt a little peckish. Deciding to test his theory in an area he knew, Rassa waited until he was closer to the village before he hunted.

He found a large stag, and didn't hesitate to lock his sights on it, directly bringing it down to the ground and locking its kicking limbs in place. The process was easy, practiced, graceful in nature now. He extended his fangs, a process that had once been painful was now second nature, then leaned forward, and sunk the needle-like protrusions into the stag's neck.

It had taken Rassa some time to practice cleanliness when drinking blood. The first several times the blood easily spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin and neck, staining his clothing. Eventually, Rassa learned to take smaller mouthfuls so that he could swallow more easily. It was almost embarrassing, and had there been others apart from his father who could have gotten past the fact that Rassa was drinking blood, then perhaps he would have been more self-conscious. After all, learning to swallow with your mouth wide open and at various angles was not exactly easy. He had learned eventually though. With the added effect of his fangs producing a toxin that immobilised his prey, it made learning cleanliness while eating that much easier. After all, a prey that wasn't struggling so hard tended not to bleed so profusely. Unfortunately, he seemed to have only intermittent control over the toxin. Most of the time it injected itself without any need for him to do anything, other times, especially when dealing with larger animals, it seemed to take longer to have it take effect. It was frustrating that Rassa couldn't work out what triggered this toxin of his to work, nor work effectively. But, now was not the time to focus on that.

Like every time Rassa began to drink blood, the overwhelming need for more encompassed him, the hunger a gluttonous presence that fought to take and take until there was nothing left. Forcing control over his instincts, Rassa sucked and swallowed in smaller amounts, paying attention to his appetite. While is mind told him to continue, his body told him it was enough.

It was as he'd theorised, the Stag was still alive. Terrified judging from it's rapid heartbeat, but alive. Rassa couldn't help the joy that spread through him. He didn't have to kill! He began to pull back from the Stag's neck, but his instincts again fought against him. They urged him to continue, to complete the kill.

Feed. Feed. FEED!

Rassa closed his eyes, the instincts within him screaming against his humanitarian mindset.

No. Enough.

FEED.

ENOUGH.

His instincts recoiled like a playful dog realising it had bitten it's master too hard. The submission was unexpected, but not unwelcome, he pulled back, retracting his fangs as he pulled way. Just as he did so, he felt another instinct come forth. This one did not seem as powerful as the hunger, but still very much present. With this new instinct came the urge to lick over the wound he had made on the Stag. Rassa frowned in disgust, denying the need. When had skin and fur become menu items as well? These instincts just kept getting weirder. Turning away, Rassa ran towards the lake to clean up. After all, the Stag would be able to move shortly, and despite Rassa's speed, he didn't want to be around when it did happen to become mobile again.

***

The following morning, as Rassa accompanied his father to the fields, he spoke of his discovery in a low voice. His dad was thrilled for him, and encouraged Rassa to keep experimenting with this theory and to keep training in submitting his instincts. Rassa nodded seriously. After all, this was the first time in three years that he saw an end to the killing. Regardless of whether they were just animals or not, Rassa did not like taking life. He had come to see it as a necessity for blood, but that didn't mean he was comfortable with it. Especially when, in his worst moments of hunger, his fangs would ache for the blood of those he loved. Be it friends, family or any random individual, nobody was safe from Rassa's hunger, and he had worked incredibly hard to ensure their safety. It was likely they would never know what he suffered. When his body ached so terribly he struggled to move even a muscle. When his throat burned like a branding iron yet there was no relief to be found. No relief, bar from that which was sitting just beneath the surface of every individual's skin. There had been nights where he'd almost succumbed, only to have his father direct him to the woods like a sheepdog with its flock. Thankfully, those days seemed a distant memory now.

It was not until that afternoon when the hunters returned with the body of stag with fang marks on its neck that Rassa realised his mistake.