The Hanging Heart

The hungering tree stands tall on the hill beyond the village.

It is a beautiful but dangerous, almost malicious thing. It rises high, trunk white as snow, leaves a mix of gold and crimson. No one dares to approach it, not anymore - too many lost their minds to its vicious pull, but none can resist casting a quick glance, admiring its vibrancy against the dead sky or even coveting the shimmering heart hanging from its lower branches.

You most of all.

In a world where people wear their glimmering hearts, sources of power and magic, in bracelets and in chains around their necks, you have none. Your chest is empty like theirs, but you have no heart to call your our own. You don’t know - or don’t remember - why, which isn’t surprising; the last years are foggy for many, since the war of the angels ended and the world, shattered and hurting, started healing.

For a heartless being like you, nothing is as tempting as the hanging heart on the branches of the hungering tree.

But claiming it as your own might be even more dangerous than you thought. something watches from amidst the tree’s leaves and some villagers might know more than they let on - about you, about the tree, and about the war that ravaged the world.

You might get more than you bargained for.