The first time Rody ate a pixie, he was only 10.
It had fluttered into his family's meager kitchen, chasing the scent of sugar that wafted from a cracked jar on the counter. Rody, tired and hungry from a long day, had watched it with a mixture of awe and curiosity. The tiny creature sparkled with an otherworldly glow, its wings shimmering like glass in the afternoon sun. When it perched on the edge of the sugar jar, its delicate fingers dipping into the sweetness, Rody had moved without thinking, snatching it up in his hands.
The pixie had been small enough to fit in his palm, its eyes wide with fear as it wriggled in his grasp. Rody hadn't meant to hurt it-he hadn't even known what he was doing. But the scent of the creature, sweet and floral like a summer breeze, had overwhelmed him. His stomach had growled, and before he could stop himself, he brought the pixie to his lips and bit down.
The taste was like nothing he'd ever known. Sweet, impossibly so, like the ripest fruit or the richest honey, and something more-something wild, electric. He could feel it in his veins, pulsing with each bite, each swallow. Magic. Raw, untamed magic, flooding his body and mind.
When it was over, he sat there, breathless, staring at the bloodied remnants of the pixie in his hand. His fingers crackled with energy, sparks dancing at his fingertips. The magic surged through him, intoxicating and overwhelming, and Rody knew, in that moment, that his life had changed forever.
---
By the time he was in his twenties, Rody had made a name for himself. In a world where magic was coveted, feared, and revered, he was seen as a prodigy. A wizard of unparalleled power, capable of casting spells with a flick of his fingers, bending the elements to his will, and enchanting objects with a mere glance. He was known in every major city, hailed by kings and feared by rival sorcerers.
But no one knew his secret.
He wasn't a wizard. Not really. He'd never studied the arcane arts, never learned the ancient languages of magic or memorized the complex incantations that true wizards used. His power came from the pixies-the tiny, fragile creatures he trapped and devoured in secret.
Rody had become an expert at trapping them. Pixies were drawn to sweetness, unable to resist the pull of sugar or honey. All it took was a jar coated in syrup, the lid left slightly open, and they would come, fluttering like moths to a flame. Once inside, their wings would grow heavy, sticky with syrup, and they would fall, helpless, to the bottom of the jar. From there, it was easy. Rody would wait until nightfall, when the world was quiet, and consume them, one by one, feeling their magic surge into him with each bite.
It was almost pathetic how easy it had become. The pixies were so naive, so trusting, never suspecting the danger they were flying into. They were nothing but tools to him now-sources of power, easily caught and just as easily discarded.
But recently, something had changed. The magic wasn't coming as easily as it once had. Each pixie he consumed seemed to grant him less and less power, the surge of magic fading faster than before. He had grown restless, frustrated, his hunger for power driving him to catch more, consume more, yet it was never enough. His spells faltered, his magic waning, and the fear of being discovered gnawed at him.
He needed something stronger. Something more.
---
The night was cold, the wind howling through the cracks in the window as Rody prepared his trap. The jar sat on the sill, gleaming in the moonlight, coated with a thick layer of syrup. He'd made it sweeter than usual tonight, a desperate attempt to lure in something-anything-that might restore his fading power.
He sat in the shadows, watching the window, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Minutes passed, then hours, the night dragging on in silence.
And then, just before dawn, it came.
