Varkul wasn’t fast, but his sheer presence radiated an oppressive, suffocating power. Each step of his charge sent deep fractures racing across the ground, shaking the very foundation of the warlord’s hall. The weight of his approach was like a crashing avalanche—unstoppable, inevitable. Joran’s pulse pounded in his ears as he backpedaled, his boots skidding against the stone floor. He had to get outside. If he could just make it beyond these walls, beyond this damned fortress, maybe he could escape into the wilds and send word to his father. This place needs to be destroyed.


    A flick of his wrist, a surge of magic—a shimmering barrier of golden energy sprang to life between him and the warlord. Varkul plowed through it without slowing, his massive fist obliterating the barrier as if it were brittle glass. Joran’s breath hitched. He conjured another, then another—each barrier breaking like paper beneath the brute’s relentless charge. Every spell drained more of his strength, leaving his limbs sluggish, his mind fogged with exhaustion. Why was he weakening so fast? It was as if something unseen was siphoning the very life from his body.


    Then he felt it.


    An unnatural pull deep in his core, his magic being leeched away with each shattered shield. Something was wrong. Varkul was only a breath away now. Joran clenched his teeth and thrust out his right hand, gathering every ounce of strength left within him. Frost crackled up his arm, spreading like veins of ice, and in the blink of an eye, he unleashed it—


    A roaring wave of frigid magic exploded forward.


    The blast collided with Varkul’s chest, halting him mid-charge. Frost raced across his torso, climbing up his limbs, creeping toward his face. He staggered, his movements slowing, the raw force of the spell locking his muscles in place. Joran didn’t stop. He poured everything he had into the attack, ignoring the numbing pain seeping into his fingers. The warlord froze solid.


    Joran gasped for breath, his arms dropping to his sides. His whole body ached. His bones felt as if they had been ground to dust. Every heartbeat sent sharp, burning pains through his chest. He had never felt this drained after a mid-level spell. Around the throne room, silence reigned. Warriors watched in wide-eyed awe. The slaves trembled, their gazes darting between Joran and the frozen behemoth. The weight of expectation hung in the air.


    Joran squared his shoulders. He needed to act strong. “Anyone else?!” His voice rang out, defiant, unwavering. “I still have plenty left in me!”


    Then—a crack.


    Joran’s stomach twisted. A single fracture splintered across the ice-covered warlord. Then another. And another. The frozen shell around Varkul began to shatter like fragile crystal. A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered warriors. They weren’t afraid. Joran took a step back. “That’s… that''s not possible…” He swallowed hard, sweat trickling down his brow. That ice shouldn’t be breaking so easily.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    With a deafening boom, the ice exploded outward. Before Joran could react, Varkul’s fist crashed into his gut. The impact was catastrophic. Joran’s entire body lifted off the ground. A visceral shockwave erupted from the sheer force of the punch, sending him hurtling backward. He crashed through the throne room doors.


    The thick iron hinges buckled. Stone cracked, wood splintered, debris rained down as Joran was launched out into the streets of Korr’s Maw. His body tumbled violently down the dirt road, each impact sending fresh spikes of agony through his bones. When he finally came to a stop, his vision blurred. Blood dripped from his lips, splattering onto the dust beneath him.


    Varkul landed with a heavy thud a couple feet away from joran, shaking the earth as he stepped forward. His laugh—deep, guttural, mocking—echoed through the streets, drawing the attention of mercenaries, slavers, warriors, and vagrants alike.


    Joran forced himself to his knees, gasping, trembling. His body screamed for rest, but he dug his fingers into the dirt, forcing himself upright. Varkul tilted his head, regarding him with amusement. "So much for the mighty Dragon Prince of Lothara."


    Joran wiped the blood from his chin. His golden eyes burned with defiance. “These… people,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “The ones you enslave… They still deserve to live free. Not because they’re strong. Not because they can fight. But because they matter.”


    A murmur spread through the crowd. Some of the gathered warriors sneered. Others watched in silence while varkul simply chuckled. "You have strong convictions, little prince." His tone was laced with mockery. "But tell me—" His fist shot forward like a battering ram. Joran barely had time to register it before it crashed into his face. The force sent him slamming into the ground. The earth beneath him cratered, spiderweb fractures rippling outward from the impact. Joran’s head spun from the blow as he rolled onto his back coughing up more blood. Dark spots danced across his vision but he could still make out the warlord as he asked, “how are you going to defend them when you can’t even defend yourself?”


    A massive hand fisted in his hair. Varkul yanked him up, holding him aloft like a ragdoll. Joran groaned in pain, his limbs too weak to fight back. “I’m not going to kill you,” the warlord murmured, his lips curling into a grin. “That’d be too easy.” Joran tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey.


    Varkul leaned in closer. “No, I have something better planned for you.” The warlord hoisted him up higher, allowing the gathered onlookers to see the battered prince. “I’ll throw you into the arena,” he announced, his voice booming across the settlement. “Let’s see how long the Dragon Prince can survive against real warriors.”


    A cheer erupted from the crowd. Joran tried to summon his magic, tried to fight back—but his body refused. It was completely drained of strength. Varkul smirked. “Oh, and don’t worry.” His grip on Joran’s hair tightened, making the prince grunt in pain. “I’ll even let you keep your gear.” The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Varkul’s fist descending towards his face.


    Then...nothing.