《THE DRAGONBORN SAGA: INTO THE UNKNOWN》


 CHAPTER ONE

    Orano was a peaceful realm for thousands of years until one day when the ancient dragons turned upon the continent wishing to become the supreme mythics. Many monsters and humans fell to their onslaught for they had incredible magical power from fire breathing capabilities to being able to become humanoid but still retaining their strength and speed. Kingdoms and clans tried many ways to hold back against the dragon armies but were barely gaining any ground until one day a miraculous species came into the fold who had the power to kill dragons and for that their species were titled dragon slayers. They were few in number, but they made up for it in sheer magical power.


    The war between the dragons and the slayers was fierce until an unknown soldier faced the mighty dragon queen of the west in combat. Their battle was enough to be heard all over the earth from the unknown lands past Lozaria in the east to the iron halls of Darvon to the west. Mountains crumbled and rivers burned from each blow until it all ceased so suddenly that the animals in the entire region held their breath as they waited to see the outcome. Out of the crater that was burrowed into the ground by their fight came both the dragon queen and the soldier whose scales were damaged, and armor burned while they held hands. Something happened in that fight that caused them to fall so deeply in love that they went in enemies and came out lovers. The dragons ceased their hostilities and disappeared as if they had never existed except for the dragon queen who remained in her humanoid form and stayed to marry the soldier who then became the infamous dragon king of Lothara.


    Many years passed and while cities were rebuilt, and the forestry returned the hatred never went away. Mythics and monsters became hated by humankind as they were hunted for their meat and enslaved for their service as they slowly became the lower race. Some species were able to form their own clans and kingdoms so they became powerful enough to fend off any humans who were to try hunting them but there were always still strays which is where lothara came in. it became a large nation under the protection of the dragon king where mythics of every race from orc to mermaid were welcomed into the kingdom as a safe haven and were free to live in peace and harmony alongside humans. By doing this lothara also became one of the most powerful and resourceful kingdoms thanks to stray dwarves, orcs, arachne, and other mythics who came to the kingdom and offered their services but it also led them to become one of the most isolated nations for no human kingdom wanted to offer an alliance and no mythic kingdom wished to stretch out their hands in friendship out of fear of becoming a target.


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    More years passed and the world outside of lothara got darker and meaner, but the kingdom remained all the same under the protection of the dragon king. Nobody attacked the borders of lothara and the royal family ruled for many years without incident until one day. The 10-year-old prince of lothara awoke from a nightmare of a dark creature that tried to consume him. All he could see of it was a solidified shadow with blood red eyes and razor-sharp teeth as white as the moons in the sky. Prince Joran awoke with a start, sitting up from his bed panting heavily and covered with sweat before looking out the clear, glass door to his patio that overlooked the royal gardens to see it was the middle of the night with two moons hanging gracefully in the middle of the sky. He climbed out of bed and left his quarters to search for his mother as he usually would sleep with her and his father whenever he had a nightmare. He opened the king''s chambers to find his father, the dragon king, sleeping soundly with a snore that sounded like a storm, but his mother wasn''t there. He quietly closed the door and moved on down the hall passing a couple guards who just looked at him curiously and some maids who asked him what he was looking for to which he explained he was looking for his mother.


    He was alone in one of the many halls in the castle when suddenly he heard a blood curdling scream coming from his mother''s studies. Joran''s blood began pumping and heart began banging against his chest as he started speeding for the room as he thought to himself, my mother is the queen of the western dragons¡­. There''s no way she can be hurt by anyone¡­. Right? There was another scream and suddenly silence just as the prince came to a stop right outside her studies. "Mother? M-mom are you ok?" he asked softly when he opened the door to see¡­.

 CHAPTER TWO

    The young prince awoke with a start from a nightmare that¡­. Well, he couldn''t remember anything about the nightmare except its existence¡­. He sat there covered in sweat as he attempted to remember the dream when he heard a knock on the door. "Your highness? Are you awake? It¡¯s nearly midday. You¡¯re going to be late for your meeting with the king." Joran eyed the door tiredly and gave a nod as he didn''t realize at first that the person couldn''t see him. "R-right¡­. I must''ve overslept. I''ll be out in a few minutes¡­." he said with a soft voice before he climbed out of bed to look at himself in the mirror. It''s been 15 years since the death of his mother, and he has grown quite well. He stood at 5¡¯9, had short,wavy brown hair that went to his ears, dark brown eyes, smooth white skin that would¡¯ve been flawless if not for the deep scar right over his heart as well as many others all over his upper torso and back from his ¡°secret training¡± with some of the knights. He flexed his skinny yet muscular form a bit before he sighed softly. He''s been training all his life but what''s the point of training when he has nothing to train for since he has been forbidden to leave the palace grounds. He looked down at the amulet that hung from his neck to let out a sigh of contempt for the item. He was forbidden from ever removing it for it was said to be the only thing to hold back the illness that killed his mother. An ancient and deadly illness that supposedly only affects dragons.


    He walked over to the terrace that overlooked the royal gardens where elves, fae, nymphs, and other forest themed mythics tended to the vegetation that came from all the different lands and realms. He took a deep breath at the outside air as he felt one step closer to leaving the palace and fulfilling his dream. He moved back inside and grabbed dress clothing for his meeting with the king. The suit itself looked as if it were made of the finest silk yet despite its appearance it is as tough as steel thanks to the dwarves who worked beneath the palace. He checked himself in the mirror to make sure everything was neat and correct. The suit was a masterpiece of regal craftsmanship, woven with the essence of both royalty and battle. The deep crimson coat, rich as freshly spilled wine, fit snugly across his broad shoulders before flaring into an elegant, floor-length tailcoat lined with intricate gold embroidery. Golden filigree traced arcane patterns along the sleeves and lapels, shimmering like captured sunlight as he moved. The high collar stood stiff and proud, edged with delicate sapphire inlays, mirroring the rich navy-blue waistcoat beneath, which bore gold-threaded sigils of dragons and ancient runes.


    The tailored midnight blue trousers, sleek yet flexible, were reinforced with gold-stitched panels at the knees and thighs, designed to provide both comfort and subtle protection. A golden belt buckle, shaped like a dragon¡¯s eye, secured the waistcoat in place, the gemstone at its center shifting hues between amber and deep cerulean, depending on how the light hit it. His gloves, crafted from enchanted leather, bore the faintest crackle of magic, enhancing dexterity and grip, while his polished black boots, accented with golden filigree, whispered against the floor with every measured step.


    A regal sapphire-blue cape, clasped at the shoulder with an intricately forged golden dragon, draped elegantly down his back, its lining embroidered with celestial symbols that flickered like dying embers when he moved.


    After traveling through the castle with the captain of the royal guard, the 25-year-old entered the throne room and walked down the thick red carpet that held an intricate design of a golden dragon and allowed his eyes to wander over the throne room. He has seen this room many times, but it still took his breath as it was one of his favorite places in his castle because of its majesty as well as the fact that one day it would be his and he would represent the greatness of lothara. Human soldiers with the occasional mythic dressed in armor lined the marble walls on each side of the room. He looked higher to see the crystal windows whose paintings held the story of Lothara from when the dragon wars began, to when his father led an army of dragon slayers and mythics against the scaled fire breathers, to when the dragon king fought and inevitably married his mother. The windows even went as far as to depict the day he was born then ending the line of windows with a crystalized picture of the royal family from when he was five years old. His mother stood a bit shorter than his father at 5 ''5 with bright blue eyes, sunset red hair, and scales visible on her forehead, cheeks, neck, and the back of the hand that rested on his five-year-old self''s shoulder. They could¡¯ve updated the picture so he was older, but the king didn¡¯t want to change it for it was the last picture they had together before the queen died. Joran sighed softly as he stared at the picture until he was lightly nudged by the captain as they got closer to the throne.


    The dragon king of lothara was seated on a marble throne that looked as if it had formed from the floor. The arms, seat, and back were lined with a cushion covering so the seat itself was more comfortable considering it was made of¡­. Well¡­. Marble. To the left of the throne was a smaller throne that somehow was designed to look like it was made of molten rock and probably just as warm considering joran''s mother was cold blooded, so she enjoyed a warm throne to seat on during long meetings. To the right of the king''s throne was the young prince''s which was made of solid oak with leather padding on the back, seat, and arms of it but also the back appeared to be smaller than the king and queen''s thrones.


    Joran approached his father and stopped just a couple feet from the steps that led up to where his father was seated. He placed his hand over his chest and bowed before he spoke, ¡°I apologize for almost being late, father.¡± the king stared at Joran with a straight back and his hands resting on the arms of his throne. The Dragon King was a monument of power, a man who stood as if carved from obsidian and fire, his very presence exuding an aura of undeniable dominance. Standing at nearly seven feet tall, his broad shoulders and heavily muscled frame bore the unmistakable marks of a warrior¡ªnot just a king, but a man who had carved his rule through blood and battle. His chest and arms, thick with corded muscle, carried scars like battle inscriptions, each one a silent testament to wars fought and won, some so deep they looked as if they should have killed him.


    His skin was bronzed, not from leisure, but from years spent beneath the open sky, where sun, blood, and fire had baptized him into legend. The lines of his face were sharp, sculpted from both time and hardship, his features chiseled with the kind of strength that does not fade. A strong jaw, shadowed with a hint of a beard, gave him a perpetual look of feral regality, like a lion in its prime, while his high cheekbones and straight nose carried the proud structure of a man born to command.


    His eyes, however, were his most striking feature¡ªmolten gold, burning with the light of forged steel and dragon¡¯s fire, as if something ancient and eternal still stirred behind them. They were the eyes of a predator, sharp enough to see through lies and weakness, yet carrying the depth of a ruler who had outlived his own legend. When he looked upon a man, he saw his worth before a single word was spoken.


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    His hair, once jet black, had begun to streak with silver, though it did nothing to diminish the sheer vitality in his form. Long enough to be tied back into a warrior¡¯s tail, it still carried the wildness of a beast untamed, a reminder that even as a king, he had never forgotten the battlefield. His hands were massive, calloused from years of gripping steel, fingers thick with brutal strength, yet disturbingly precise when wielding a blade. His presence alone was a challenge, a man who had long since ascended past human limitations, his very movements carrying the undeniable grace of a born warrior-king.when given he apology, The Dragon King didn¡¯t respond immediately. He sat with his hands resting on the arms of the throne, his expression as still and unmoving as carved stone. Finally, his voice rumbled through the hall, low and powerful.


    ¡°You must always be on time, my son. Especially when addressing a king¡ªwhether he is your father or not.¡±


    Joran straightened, his pulse quickening. He had practiced this speech a thousand times in his mind, yet standing here now, beneath the King¡¯s fiery gaze, his resolve felt fragile. No. This was too important.


    ¡°Father, I requested this official meeting for one reason: we need to do more for the mythics of Orano.¡±


    The Dragon King arched an eyebrow but said nothing, giving Joran permission to continue.


    ¡°Lothara is a beacon of hope,¡± Joran pressed on, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. ¡°We have built a kingdom where humans and mythics live in harmony, where they don¡¯t have to fear slavery or death. Our resources are vast because of them¡ªthe dwarves who forge our weapons, the arachne who weave silk stronger than steel, the druids and nymphs who bless our land with magic.¡±


    He took a breath, willing his words to reach his father. ¡°But it¡¯s not enough anymore. We cannot keep hiding behind our borders while mythics suffer beyond them.¡±


    The King¡¯s golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. ¡°And what do you suggest?¡±


    Joran steeled himself. This was the moment.


    ¡°Alliances.¡±


    A beat of silence. The air itself felt heavier.


    ¡°Alliances?¡± the Dragon King repeated, his voice dangerously neutral.


    Joran nodded. ¡°Yes. We have power, Father, and more importantly, we have the means to offer protection. We should extend our reach¡ªform alliances with mythic clans, kingdoms, and even sympathetic human lords. In return, we exchange resources, aid in times of war, and ensure safe havens for any mythic seeking asylum.¡±


    He hesitated only for a breath before adding, ¡°The only thing they must promise is that they will deny service to slavers and hunters. That they will drive them from their lands. If enough of us unite, the slavers and the Hunter¡¯s Guild will be forced into hiding.¡±


    The King leaned forward now, his fingers tapping once against the throne¡¯s armrest¡ªa gesture that made Joran¡¯s stomach tighten.


    ¡°A noble thought,¡± his father admitted. ¡°But you are thinking like a prince. Not a king.¡±


    Joran¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°And what does that mean?¡±


    The King stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the chamber. The room, already massive, suddenly felt too small.


    ¡°The reason the human kingdoms do not challenge Lothara is because we keep to ourselves. If we begin forming alliances, disrupting their trade¡ªespecially their supply of slaves and mythic goods¡ªwhat do you think will happen?¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll deal with that when it comes,¡± Joran said firmly. ¡°They would have to consider whoever we align with. They would not just be attacking us, but every ally we stand with.¡±


    The Dragon King exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the great stained-glass window that depicted his late wife. Joran saw the flicker of pain there, though his father would never admit it aloud.


    ¡°I suppose I could send a few diplomats to discuss¡ª¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Joran stepped forward; voice stronger than before. ¡°I should be the one to go.¡±


    Silence.


    A dangerous silence.


    The King¡¯s entire body tensed, his golden eyes now burning with barely restrained anger¡ªor was it fear?


    ¡°Joran.¡±


    Joran stood his ground. ¡°I am twenty-five years old, Father. I have trained my whole life. I know politics. I know combat. If you send a diplomat from an isolated kingdom, they will be seen as a mere messenger. But if I go¡­¡± He straightened his back. ¡°If I go, they will see Lothara itself standing before them.¡±


    The Dragon King closed his eyes for a brief moment, then exhaled sharply.


    ¡°No.¡±


    Joran¡¯s chest tightened. ¡°Father¡ª¡±


    ¡°The answer is NO!¡±


    The throne room trembled, the sheer force of the King¡¯s voice cracking the marble beneath his feet.


    Joran stepped back, startled, but he didn¡¯t back down. His father had always been a force of nature, but this¡ªthis was more than just a refusal.


    The Dragon King slowly sat back down, the glow in his eyes dimming, but the weight of his words remained.


    ¡°You are not ready for the outside world, Joran.¡±


    Joran¡¯s fists clenched. ¡°You keep saying that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s true.¡± His father¡¯s voice was calmer now, but no less firm. ¡°You have a kind heart, my son. And that will be your undoing.¡±


    Joran¡¯s chest ached. ¡°So what? You expect me to sit here forever?¡±


    His father watched him carefully. ¡°You do not have a fighter¡¯s spirit.¡±


    Joran felt those words like a slap across the face.


    ¡°I¡¯ve trained all my life¡ª¡±


    ¡°Training is not the same as war. And this world is war.¡± The King¡¯s eyes narrowed, voice turning cold. ¡°You do not understand what it means to take a life. To kill before you are killed. You hesitate. And hesitation gets men like you slaughtered.¡±


    Joran¡¯s breath hitched, but he refused to let himself waver.


    His father sighed, rubbing his temples before adding in a lower voice, ¡°And then there¡¯s your amulet.¡±


    Joran instinctively touched the pendant around his neck, his mind flashing to the stories he had been told since childhood.


    The illness. The one that had killed his mother.


    His father¡¯s voice softened just slightly. ¡°If you lose that amulet¡­ the same sickness that took your mother will take you too.¡±


    Joran¡¯s stomach churned, a bitter mix of frustration and helplessness building in his throat. ¡°Then let me go with an armed escort. Let me prove myself.¡±


    The King¡¯s eyes hardened once more. ¡°My decision is final.¡±


    Joran¡¯s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He stared at his father, feeling the weight of the walls around him, the invisible chains that had bound him his whole life.


    Finally, he bowed. ¡°As you wish¡­ my King.¡±


    Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the throne room.

 CHAPTER THREE

    "THIS IS BULLSHIT!" Joran yelled as he slammed a book closed. The young prince had decided to go to the library hoping that reading would calm his nerves but sadly that wouldn¡¯t be the case. He panted softly as he stared at the title of the book, "mythic culture by Dorian lamaar." He sighed softly and snapped his fingers causing the book to fly back to its spot on the shelf. "Father won''t let me go anywhere because of his overdramatic paranoia..." Joran¡¯s body tensed with his anger causing him to wince softly as a flare of pain went up his side. He lifted up his shirt to look at the deep bruise left on him by a group of knights. These knights bullied and tormented him relentlessly. They have stated if he spoke of what they did then they would make his life even more of a hell, so he kept quiet about what was going on behind the scenes. His entire upper body was covered in bruises and scars from the knight''s abuse except for a deep scar over his heart which his father claims is from an assassination attempt when he was very young. The prince didn¡¯t know why the group of knights went out of their way to bring harm to him, but he did notice that they would collect his blood and tears. Anytime he asked them why they did they would give him an extra beating, so he inevitably stopped.


    Joran sighed softly and tucked his shirt back in. "I need to get out of here... I want to see the realm, but my damn father believes I''m not capable of taking care of myself or is just too afraid to let me out of this castle.¡± he sat down in a plush chair and thought hard about what to do until finally he decided he was leaving one way or another. He hurried out of the library ignoring any greetings made by the staff. He made it to his room and grabbed a small sack with a golden colored strand. The sack was a magic bag capable of carrying a large number of items as well as preserving food and drink. He began stuffing books of all types along with folded up clothing into the bag. He looked down at his clothing and snapped his fingers causing the clothes to slowly morph and change until he was wearing a whole new set of clothing. Joran pulled his brown cloak tighter around his shoulders as the evening breeze swept through the streets, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant hearth fires. The cloak was made of sturdy, weathered wool, the kind worn by travelers and mercenaries, lined with faded but durable leather at the edges to prevent fraying. The hood was deep, capable of shadowing his face when needed, while the fabric itself was heavy enough to keep out the chill but light enough not to hinder movement.


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    Beneath the cloak, he wore a simple but well-fitted tunic, dyed in deep forest green, the kind that blended easily into both city crowds and woodland shadows. The laced-up neckline sat comfortably at his collarbone, allowing breathability, while the rolled-up sleeves revealed the firm definition of his forearms¡ªtrained, but not bulky. His worn leather belt, strapped around his waist, bore several small pouches filled with essentials¡ªcoin, a whetstone, and a small vial of healing tonic tucked discreetly behind the buckle.


    His dark brown trousers, reinforced with stitched panels at the knees, showed the signs of wear from travel and training. Though simple, they were well-made, allowing for ease of movement. His boots, scuffed but sturdy, were crafted from blackened leather, laced high up his calves, meant for long journeys rather than nobility. He looked down at his right hand and turned it over, so he was looking at the back. He focused his magic into his hand causing it to glow until a small emblem formed showing the symbol of a ferocious red dragon with its wings spread out and a bit of flame sprouting from its mouth. The emblem was the personal symbol of joran¡¯s nobility. It would confirm any claim he makes to the throne when addressing kings, queens, or anyone of the like. He stared at it for a moment then allowed it to fade away before taking a breath. Tonight¡­ tonight is the night Joran leaves the palace.

 CHAPTER FOUR

    That night, draped in his cloak and armed with a standard short sword he kept in his room for practice, Joran snuck through the torchlit halls of the castle using magic to avoid the guards and staff. He made a quick stop at the kitchen which was abandoned to grab as much food as he could and stuff it into his magic pouch. He was close to the exit when he dispersed a spell keeping him invisible when suddenly he heard a gruff voice. "Going somewhere?" Joran froze and turned to see Eitri, his oldest and closest friend. Anyone taking a glance at him would just see him as a blacksmith, but Eitri was not just a blacksmith¡ªhe was a legend, a master of the forge, a dwarf whose very name was whispered with reverence by those who wielded the finest weapons in all of Orano. Even among the great Dwarven smiths who live in the iron halls of Darvon beneath the mountains to the west, few could match his skill in forging steel, weaving magic into metal, and crafting weapons that could shape the course of history.


    Though short in stature, standing at barely four and a half feet, Eitri''s presence was anything but small. His barrel-like chest and thick, sinewy arms, sculpted from centuries of hammering steel, gave him a powerful, immovable aura, as if he himself were carved from the same indestructible metal he shaped daily. His hands, calloused and blackened with soot, bore arcane scars¡ªremnants of years spent channeling raw magical energy into his creations, binding runes and enchantments into the very soul of the weapons he forged.


    His beard, long and wild, was the color of aged steel, streaked with soot and cinders from a lifetime spent in the heat of the forge. It was thickly braided, adorned with small rings of mithril, trinkets he had collected from the battles and wars of a bygone age. His eyes, sharp as the edge of a freshly tempered blade, gleamed like polished amber, forever carrying the firelight of his forge within them.


    Though his attire was often simple¡ªa thick leather apron, reinforced with dwarven chainmail beneath¡ªEitri never looked unprepared for a fight. A massive smithing hammer always hung from his back, and at his belt, a collection of throwing axes, daggers, and chisels¡ªnot just tools of a craftsman, but weapons that had seen battle.


    Eitri was not just a blacksmith of war, but a warrior of it, having fought alongside the Dragon King himself during the Dragon War, standing shoulder to shoulder with the mythics and dragon slayers as they battled against the ancient dragons of the west. He had seen fire rain from the skies, had forged weapons in the heart of burning battlefields, and had watched as his closest friends fell while wielding the very swords he had given them.


    Despite the war having long since ended, Eitri never put down his hammer. He remained in Lothara, the Royal Smith of the Dragon King, crafting weapons, armor, and enchanted relics for the kingdom''s warriors. Though he rarely spoke of his past with the king, it was well known that he was one of the few men alive who could speak to the Dragon King as an equal, their bond forged in blood, fire, and brotherhood.


    Now, in the present, Joran was like a son to him, and though he never said it outright, his protectiveness over the young prince was as fierce as his hammer strokes. Whenever Joran needed guidance, a weapon, or simply a firm hand to knock sense into him, Eitri was there. Despite how close they were, Joran never had the heart to tell Eitri about the situation between him and some of the knights. He was always afraid they would find out and take the dwarf out of the picture as they had threatened to do with anyone he might want to talk to and then bring more harm upon him.


    ¡°I have to do this, Eitri. I love my father, but he will keep me locked up in this castle for the gods know how long. I want to make a difference as soon as possible and if that means sneaking out and going against his wishes then so be it.¡± Eitri stared at the prince as he stroked his beard with an expression of stone. ¡°Eitri¡­ we¡¯ve known each other for as long as i can remember¡­. I haven¡¯t seen the city outside the palace walls. The only faces I know are the staff and knights who serve the crown. You also know that a diplomat won¡¯t get the same respect as if I were to go instead.¡± There was a moment of silence as Joran gave Eitri a determined look. ¡°Also, nothing will stop me from attempting to leave. You can stop me, or you can alert the guards, but I will inevitably find a way out of here¡­.¡±


    Eitri was silent for what felt like the longest minute before placing his hands on his hips as he sighed. ¡°You are a stubborn boy¡­ one could almost say you¡¯re as stubborn as a dwarf¡­¡± he snapped his fingers causing a small portal to open. ¡°I always knew this day would come and you¡¯re right. You would inevitably find a way to leave so I might as well make sure you have the proper equipment. I can¡¯t give you much because of how last minute this is but I still have a couple items ready to be given to you so you will still be given the best." The first item he pulls out is a sword of decent length and holds it out to Joran. ¡°This blade is called vermillion fang. It is made from the same material as your fathers blade rendering it near indestructible." Joran knew just how dangerous this sword was upon learning of the material it was made from. The dragon king¡¯s sword is a powerful blade used during the great dragon war and was capable of cutting through dragon scales. It is said that Eitri worked in a forge for an entire week to make the blade for the dragon king and now Joran was holding a copy of it. ¡°The weapon can only be wielded by you or anyone you give permission to. Anyone else will find it as difficult as lifting a mountain. The blade is sharp but if you channel your magical energy into it then it can cut through the toughest armor, the hardest scales, and even the most powerful protection spells depending on how much you channel into it. Just be careful, eh?" They both knew how powerful joran could make that blade considering his mixed blood enhances his magic and he has studied magic for a great deal of his life since he can''t access the natural abilities of a dragon or a dragon slayer.


    After joran removed the practice sword and placed the blade in his sheathe, Eitiri then reached into the portal and pulled out the next item which happened to be a deep brown cloak, almost indistinguishable from a common traveler¡¯s garb¡ªuntil Eitri conjured a small flame and shined the light across its surface, revealing faint silver runes woven into the fabric. ¡°I made this cloak with the help of some skilled elves and arachne. It will magically dampen the sound of your footsteps and your own scent so it will be difficult for anyone to track you. The cloak is also capable of camouflage in dimly lit or completely dark areas which will allow you to blend in. I''ve also enchanted it to resist low level tracking magic as well as defend you from arrows or knives in case someone tries to attack you from behind. One final enchantment I added is that it is temperature resistant so no matter how hot or cold things might get, the cloak will protect you.¡± Joran nodded and removed his current cloak before placing Eitri around his shoulders, finding the cloak comfortable and soft due to the arachne silk.


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    The master blacksmith then pulled out two items:  A sturdy leather belt reinforced with mithril plating. Various small rune-etched pouches hang from it, seemingly too small to be useful¡ªuntil opened and a small, black gemstone, polished to a mirror-like sheen, embedded within a silver monocle frame that can be clipped onto Joran¡¯s belt when not in use. ¡°The first item is called the everforge belt. A relic from my personal workshop, the Everforge Belt was originally created for dwarven master smiths who traveled across Orano, allowing them to maintain weapons on the battlefield.  One of the pouches contains a tiny dwarven forge that allows you to repair weapons and armor instantly by placing them inside. The belt can hold up to 10 weapons, potions, or magical trinkets, keeping them weightless and accessible with a simple command.  If you store a blade, it stays sharp and pristine, never dulling or rusting. Whenever you pull the weapon out it will be as if it were freshly made and twice as strong.¡± he smiled then gestured to the other item. ¡°This is the voidglass eye. Once per day,you can use the eye to briefly see into the soul of another, detecting their true intentions, hidden emotions, or suppressed memories. I want you to have this to make it a bit easier for you to know who to trust out there but only use it when you believe it is necessary.¡±


    Eitri then pulls out a final item before closing the portal. It was a dagger sheathed in its hilt with leather wrapped around a silver hilt. Eitri seemed uneasy about handing over this particular weapon as Joran attached the belt and eye. Eitri didn¡¯t know about the knights, but he knew the truth behind the amulet and the amulet played a key part. He handed the amulet over to joran and said, ¡°this dagger isn¡¯t for combat nor is it for you. I hope you will find allies on your quest and when you find someone you trust I want you to give them this dagger as a symbol of that trust. Promise me you will not unsheathe this dagger, nor will you use it.¡± Joran stared at the dagger curiously then looked at eitri. He considered using the eye, but he couldn¡¯t violate his friend''s trust like that, so he nodded his head. ¡°I swear I will not use this blade, nor will I unsheathe it.¡± he bowed his head and said, ¡°thank you for your gifts eitri. I''m sure they will provide me with great assistance in my endeavors.¡± Eitri gave a gruff nod and Joran turned to walk out the door only to spin around and hug the dwarf tightly with tears in his eyes. Eitri was startled for a moment before hugging him back. They held the hug for a minute before eitri pushed him away. ¡°N-now get the fuck out of here before i change my mind.¡± Joran smiled slightly then went out the door as he pulled the hood of his cloak up.


    The capital of Lothara, a grand and ancient city built upon the foundation of mythic and human cooperation, stretched before Joran as he slipped through the castle¡¯s shadowed corridors and into the open night. The city, known as Drakhalis, was a testament to the realm¡¯s unique harmony¡ªa place where craftsmanship, magic, and architecture blended into a breathtaking fusion of human ingenuity and mythic heritage.


    Beneath the twin moons of Orano, Drakhalis shimmered with a quiet, ethereal glow. The city was divided into districts, each illuminated by different sources of light, creating a breathtaking tapestry of color. Unlike other capitals where fire and torches dominated the streets, Drakhalis pulsed with arcane lanterns, glowing crystals, and bioluminescent flora cultivated by the fae and druids of the realm. The streets were bathed in hues of soft gold, deep indigo, and shimmering emerald, giving the city an almost dreamlike quality in the dead of night.


    The castle, perched at the highest point of the city, loomed behind Joran, its ivory spires and onyx towers stretching toward the heavens like the skeletal remains of a long-forgotten dragon. The banners of the royal family, depicting a crimson dragon intertwined with a golden sword, fluttered in the cool night breeze, whispering their silent farewells to the prince who now walked away from their protection. As Joran descended into the city, he made sure to keep his face shadowed with his hood. While he didn¡¯t think anyone would recognize him due to how rare it is he has been seen by the public he would rather play it safe until he left the capital. A part of him wanted to explore the city but he knew he had to cover as much ground as possible before morning came.


    Below the castle, the Grand Market District was still alive despite the late hour. Merchant stalls lined the cobbled streets, manned by mythics and humans alike. Arachne silk weavers spun their shimmering threads under enchanted lamps, while dwarven blacksmiths showcased newly forged blades that still radiated heat from their magical forges. Street performers, illuminated by floating will-o''-the-wisps, played enchanted instruments that filled the air with haunting melodies, their notes carried by the wind like whispers of forgotten stories.


    Beyond the marketplace, the Nymian Canals, named after the nymphs who maintained them, reflected the lights of the city in their still waters. Magical lilies glowed softly on the surface, their petals shifting between shades of blue and violet. Gondolas, piloted by cloaked figures, drifted silently through the water, ferrying passengers to the hidden corners of the city. The canals were one of the most romanticized parts of Drakhalis, a place where secrets were shared in hushed tones, and spies bartered for information as easily as merchants sold their wares.


    The further Joran traveled from the heart of the city, the quieter it became. He passed through the Ivory Ward, the noble district, where tall manors and palatial estates stood in near silence. Here, the only lights came from floating orbs that hovered above the gated entrances, pulsating gently like fireflies in the dark. The homes of the elite were as much fortresses as they were luxurious abodes, their facades adorned with intricate carvings depicting historical battles, celestial myths, and ancient dragon sigils.


    At last, Joran reached the Outer Ring, the district closest to the city¡¯s fortified walls. Here, the architecture was simpler, homes built from sturdy stone and enchanted wood reinforced by the hands of both mythics and humans. The streets were wider, but the air was heavier, filled with the scent of burning firewood and salt from the distant river that fed into the city''s reservoirs.


    Beyond the walls, the Howling Woods stretched into the darkness¡ªa vast expanse of wilderness where nature reigned unchecked. Joran paused at the final gate, the city¡¯s last threshold before the unknown. Two massive statues of dragons, carved from black obsidian, stood as silent sentinels, their eyes burning with embedded rubies that flickered like real fire in the moonlight.


    As he took one final glance at Drakhalis, he knew this would be the last time he saw his home¡ªat least, as a prince. The capital stood before him in all its breathtaking, magical splendor, a beacon of what mythics and humans could achieve together. And yet, for all its beauty, it was also a cage¡ªone he had finally broken free from.


    Pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he stepped past the gates and into the unknown.

 CHAPTER FIVE

    The sun was now rising over the capital city of Lothara signaling a new day. Businesses opened, guards and soldiers swapped shifts, morning workers began their day, and the staff in the castle started their morning duties. A satyr maid walked down the hall towards joran¡¯s bedroom with her hooves clopping against the floor. She was carrying a tray of breakfast for the prince to start his day with and a smile on her face as she saw interacting with the shy prince as the highlight of her day. She passed some guards who were marching in the opposite direction and gave them a nod before stopping outside joran¡¯s room. She gave the door a light knock while balancing the tray on her free hand. ¡°Prince joran? I have breakfast for you." There was a long moment of silence which caused her to be confused. Usually, the prince was awake due to his intense nightmares causing him to be right at the door waiting for her. ¡°Prince joran? Are you well?¡± more silence. ¡°I-i¡¯m coming in just to make sure you¡¯re ok.¡± She slowly opened the door and walked inside to find the bed empty. ¡°Prince joran?¡± She placed the tray of food on the bed and hurried to the bathroom to find it empty as well. She began to become even more concerned. The entire time she has worked here Joran wouldn¡¯t leave his room until he got breakfast.  He was shy but she could tell he enjoyed interacting with people when he could, and nobody could blame him considering how lonely he is.


    She left the room and began checking anywhere he could be from the training room to the library only to find him nowhere. She moved through the entire castle in minutes due to her goat half making her faster and more agile than the average human. Whenever she passed anyone, she would alert them that she couldn¡¯t find the prince causing them to also begin searching. The entire castle was searched with no sign of the prince being found and thus they had to alert the king.


    The king was looking at a portrait of his wife hanging on the wall within his chambers while the morning sun shone through the window when there was a knock at his door. ¡°Enter.¡± he said with a soft and deep tone as he rose to his feet. He turned to see the satyr maid enter nervously as he closed his nightly robe over his battle-scarred chest.


    ¡°Ah. sara. Is something the matter? I believe I requested to be left alone until near noon unless it concerned¡­¡± he saw how Sara tensed as he was about to mention joran. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°Your¡­ your highness¡­. We have searched every inch of the castle and¡­ and we can¡¯t find the young prince¡­¡± the king was quiet and while his face was expressionless, he could feel something he hadn¡¯t felt in many years: fear.


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    ¡°Have the royal mages and the beastmen of the castle go to his room. They might be able to discern when he left and how far he may have gotten with their magic and his scent. I also want you to go to the relic room and fetch the dagger.¡± the satyre nodded and sped off to do just that. The king stood there then turned to look at the queen''s picture with a sad sigh. ¡°My love¡­¡± His voice, so often a force of sheer command, was now but a whisper in the heavy silence. ¡°¡­Our brave but foolish boy has left the palace.¡±


    The weight of those words settled over him like a shadow stretching across the room. His fingers twitched, fingers pressing faintly against his palms. He did not look away from the mural, but his expression hardened, shifting from grief to something else. Something darker. ¡°And with him¡­¡± he murmured, voice lowering, ¡°¡­he has introduced a threat greater than anything Orano has faced.¡±


    His golden eyes darkened, their glow dimming beneath the weight of the knowledge he alone carried along with everyone else in the castle. The world feared many things¡ªslavers, warlords, kings who sought conquest. But the Dragon King feared something far worse, something that had no name, something that had already awoken once before.


    The darkness inside Joran.


    The thing that had seized his son the night his mother had died. The force that had consumed him, turned him into something beyond control, beyond reason. Joran had no memory of it, but the Dragon King did. He had witnessed it firsthand. The screams, the scent of burning flesh, the shattered bodies left in its wake. The boy had been barely more than a child, but even then, the sheer force of that presence had shaken the very foundations of the castle.


    The king inhaled slowly, deeply, willing the tension in his chest to subside. He turned away from the mural, back toward the great window, his eyes trailing over the shifting lights of the city below. Dawn was beginning to creep over the mountains in the distance, a pale light stretching its fingers through the darkness. Morning would soon arrive, and with it, the search for the prince would begin in full. But in his heart, the Dragon King already knew¡ªthey would not find him within the city walls. Too much time had passed. Joran was already beyond drakhalis, beyond the reach of his father¡¯s protection.


    His hand tightened at his side. His voice, when it came again, was quieter than before, but no less firm. ¡°He has a great heart. But no killer instinct.¡± His brow furrowed, a shadow passing over his face. ¡°He tries to see the good in everyone¡­ and yet, he carries darkness in his own.¡±


    His eyes flickered with something unreadable¡ªan emotion caught between sorrow and unspoken dread. ¡°He has stepped into a world he does not understand,¡± he whispered. Then, after a long, heavy pause, his voice dropped lower, filled with something dangerously close to mourning. ¡°May the gods help me bring him home¡­ before it¡¯s too late.¡±

 CHAPTER SIX

    Deep beneath the palace, the royal forge roared with life. The ringing of hammers, the hiss of molten metal, and the rhythmic bellow of the furnaces filled the vast underground chamber. The dwarves of Lothara, the best the kingdom had to offer, worked tirelessly, not for war¡ªLothara had none¡ªbut for progress, creation, and the expansion of their craft. They shaped weapons, armor, and intricate constructs of magic and steel, indulging in their own innovations whenever the King¡¯s decree left them to their own devices.


    Through the towering iron doors, a tiefling attendant descended the spiraling staircase, his red eyes scanning the forge. He moved with careful purpose, his tail flicking in irritation as he wove past rune-forged anvils and dwarves grumbling over half-finished projects. He wasn''t here for them. He sought one dwarf in particular.


    At the far end of the forge, Eitri stood before an anvil, hammering into a half-finished shield. With every strike, golden light surged from his fingertips into the hammer¡¯s head, branding the metal with runes that flared and settled into the surface like whispers of power. The shield trembled under the enchantment, absorbing it, reforging its very essence under the master blacksmith¡¯s will.


    The tiefling cleared his throat between hammer swings.


    Eitri paused, tilting his head, the glare of his goggles catching the forge¡¯s light. ¡°You¡¯ve got a hell of a way of interrupting a craftsman at work.¡± His voice was a gruff rumble, still half-focused on the shield before him.


    ¡°The Dragon King summons you to the throne room,¡± the tiefling replied evenly. ¡°I am to escort you.¡±


    Eitri exhaled sharply, then lifted the hammer for one final strike. The shield flared with radiant energy, then dimmed, settling into its final form. ¡°You¡¯re lucky I was just finishing,¡± he muttered, pulling off his goggles and shoving them onto his belt. He didn''t need to ask why the King was calling him. He already knew. Without another word, he followed the tiefling through the iron doors.


    The dragon king was seated in his throne when the door was opened by the tiefling allowing Eitri to enter the throne room before closing it behind the dwarf leaving the king and blacksmith alone. The room was filled with tense silence as the two old friends stared at each other until Eitri began to approach as he said, ¡°So what was so important that I had to be torn from my work? You couldn¡¯t come and visit me at my work, so I have to visit you in yours?¡± the king said nothing and just stared with those expressionless and golden eyes. ¡°Oh what? The silent treatment? I thought you were too mature for that. What next? Gonna make faces? Be a man and speak up!¡± The dwarf was attempting to banter as they normally did when nobody was around but instead the king rose and pulled out a dagger that looked similar to the one that was given to joran except it was out of its sheath to reveal the perfect looking blade. Eitri stopped walking and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why would you pull that out of the relic room? I was led to believe it wasn¡¯t to be touched unless needed.¡±


    This seemed to earn a response out of the dragon king as he said, ¡°as was i¡­ which is why i was shocked to find out the last mercy-¡± he spun the named dagger, so he was now holding it by the blade itself then squeezed until the blade cracked then shattered beneath his fingers. ¡°-Was a fake.¡± Eitri immediately lost all sign of camaraderie, and his gaze became serious. ¡°Aye¡­ it appears it is.¡± his gaze met the dragon king¡¯s as they stared at each other in another moment of tense silence until the king said, ¡°as i''m sure you are aware only a few have access to the relic room but there is only one who can make a duplicate so close in comparison that one could think it was the real thing. I can tell the difference because the magical aura is different¡­ weaker¡­. Younger¡­¡± he dropped the shards on the ground as the room grew cold, but Eitri kept his gaze without a hint of fear. ¡°Are you going to get to what you¡¯re implying erun-¡± in a fit of sudden rage the dragon king ripped his throne out of the floor with one hand and tossed it aside. The force of his throw sent the throne through 2 walls before crashing out into the middle of one of the training yards within the castle walls. The guards gathered around the pile of rubble confused when they heard the king yell, ¡°DO YOU THINK IT IS WISE TO REFER TO ME BY MY TRUE NAME RIGHT NOW??!!!¡± This gave the knights the right idea to go about their business and not to eavesdrop.


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    Eitri looked at the hole in the wall with a raised eyebrow and with a tap of the hammer hanging from his belt, magic flowed from his hand and out to the outer wall then the inner wall slowly repairing both until they were good as new. ¡°Real smooth your highness¡­¡± he turned his attention back to the king who was now looming over him. The king held a calm expression, but you could feel the anger rolling off of him while the dwarf seemed unphased. ¡°You will tell me where my son went, or I will have no choice but to force it out of you.¡± Eitri finally showed a dark expression as he placed a hand on his hammer. ¡°I have seen you fight during the dragon war just as you have seen that I am as good of a warrior as I am a blacksmith. if you intend to continue down this path then I will have no choice but to remind you of that fact.¡± they stared deep into each other¡¯s eyes as they began radiating powerful magic with hostile intent. Their auras clashed with such intensity that the air shimmered and everyone in the palace felt the urge to run only for Eitri''s gaze to soften. He sighed and pulled his magical energy back in before taking a step back. ¡°I''m sorry old friend. I know you are upset over the disappearance of your son so for once I shall be the cooler head.¡± he placed his hands behind his back as he said, ¡°last night i caught your son trying to sneak out. He proclaimed he intended to do what he had hoped to do with your blessing. He had told me that even if I reported him or stopped him myself then he would just try again and again.¡± the king waved his hand as he replied, ¡°then we would stop him again and again. He must remain in the castle not just so he can remain safe but also so all of Orano will be safe.¡±


    ¡°At what cost to your son, old friend? He already feels like a prisoner but the more you try to keep him locked up here while he obviously doesn¡¯t wish to be then the more, he will resent you and feel alone. The darkness within him-¡± ¡°would only be a burden until we rid him of it! You know we have the best mages in Lothara working hard to find some way to extract whatever is inside him! He would only need to stay here until we can finally cure him!¡± Eitri scowled and placed his hands on his hips. ¡°And what if there is no cure in lothara? What if despite all our advancements in magic and mechanics and potions we just don¡¯t have the means to deal with whatever is inside him? I was going to take him back to his room, but something compelled me to help him. Something told me that the key to whatever ails him would be out there. So, I gave him a few items then handed him the dagger to give to someone he trusted.¡± ¡°You know orano! Who could he possibly end up trusting in a world like that?!¡± ¡°I don''t know. He will have to figure that out for himself.¡±


    The king stared down at the dwarf with his shadow looming over him before he turned and moved towards the thrones. ¡°This is insane! Absurd!¡± He turned on his heel to look at Eitri. ¡°You have put the entire realm at risk based on something compelling you to do so. You have given the prince the one thing that can stop him if the amulet is removed as well as given him a head start. Worse, you have sent my son into a world he knows nothing about.¡± he snapped his fingers and instantly an elven maid came rushing into the room. She stopped a couple feet in the room and bowed. ¡°Rina. I want you to alert the captain of the royal guard. Have him gather up any volunteers and have them track the prince down then return him to the castle." She bowed again and left the room without a word. The king grumbled softly, ¡°I''m going to have to keep this closed circle. I can''t put out a notice to the soldiers or police in Lothara because they will talk, and everybody will know Joran is out there somewhere. Not to mention nobody outside of the palace knows about the secret behind the prince¡¯s amulet.¡±


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan then? Drag him back and lock him up and pray to the gods we find a cure before you die, and he becomes king of a land he doesn¡¯t know and hasn¡¯t met?¡± Eitri crossed his arms and glared at the king. The king returned the glare as he said, ¡°he is my son and the last family I have left. I will do what I must to protect him and this realm. In time I may forgive you for your transgressions¡­ old friend¡­ but for now, go back to your forge and don¡¯t let me see you again.¡± Eitri stood there for a moment with a blank stare before turning and leaving the throne room without a word. The king sighed then looked at the intact throne of his wife and son. All he could do was picture his wife sitting in her throne while she cradled an infant joran in her arms. He slowly walked over and placed a hand on the back of the throne as tears swelled in his eyes. His eyes locked with infant joran¡¯s. So innocent and full of love and hope and happiness. If only he could¡¯ve stopped the death of jezereen. How he wishes he could¡¯ve prevented that night from ever happening and maybe everything would be different. There was no time for what ifs though. Now was the time to hope he can bring joran home before he is found by enemies or before the amulet is removed from his neck.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

    A week has passed and joran was covering plenty of ground. He had hitched rides on wagons, traveled on foot through the forests, and even occasionally used traversal magic which allowed him to conjure magical creatures such as a shadow mount. He would ride the steed as far as possible which with his mixed blood enhancing his magical capabilities made it pretty far before he had to dissipate the horse and travel on foot. He would travel by road most of the time only to go into the woods if he needed to make camp or avoid patrols which he was able to track due to some of the maps he took from the palace. There was a moment he was nearly caught by a patrol, but he draped his cloak around his body while hiding in a bush which allowed him to blend into the shadows as they moved on. He did everything he could to avoid towns and villages as he figured the knights who were after him would search as many populated areas as they could in order to find him.


    Another day had passed when he came upon the next town. The small border town of Vandren¡¯s Rest stands as the final bastion of civilization before one reaches the vast wilderness separating Lothara from the lawless territories beyond. Nestled between rolling hills and dense woodlands, Vandren¡¯s Rest is a rugged yet prosperous settlement, serving as a last stop for traders, travelers, and soldiers before venturing into the unknown. It is a town of hardened souls¡ªmerchants who deal in rare goods from mythic lands, beastmen hunters who provide exotic meats and furs, and mercenaries looking for work along the frontier.


    The architecture of Vandren¡¯s Rest blends practicality with the cultural influences of its mythic and human inhabitants. The buildings are sturdy, made of dark stone and reinforced wood, their roofs slanted to withstand harsh storms that often sweep through the region. Lanterns glow with a soft, enchanted light, illuminating the cobbled streets with an ethereal blue hue once night falls. Though the town lacks the grandeur of Lothara¡¯s heart, it carries a rustic charm¡ªhand-carved wooden signs hang from shopfronts, and intricate mythic glyphs are etched into some doorways, believed to ward off evil spirits.


    At the center of town, a large open market square bustles with activity. Vendors hawk wares ranging from dwarven-forged weapons to rare herbs cultivated by nymphs. A permanent posting board stands near the town¡¯s well, covered with notices¡ªjob requests, bounties, and messages from those seeking safe passage beyond the border. A local inn, The Wandering Drake, dominates one side of the square, its massive stone fireplace visible from the street, sending smoke curling into the evening sky.


    On the outskirts of town, a small watchtower and barracks house the Lotharan border guard. These soldiers, a mix of humans and mythics, are charged with monitoring those who leave and enter the kingdom. While Lothara is not at war, security is strict, especially with the looming presence of slavers, raiders, and those who wish harm upon mythics attempting to flee persecution in human lands. The border checkpoint, a fortified wooden gate, lies just beyond the town, marking the final boundary of Lotharan safety.


    Despite its importance, Vandren¡¯s Rest carries an air of quiet tension. Travelers speak in hushed tones at the tavern, wary of spies or bounty hunters who might report their movements. The local blacksmith, a cyclopean craftsman, works late into the night forging weapons for those preparing for dangerous journeys. A few streets away, an elven herbalist quietly provides untraceable potions for those who wish to disappear beyond the border. Joran stared at the town in the distance as he thought about what he should do. It would¡¯ve taken him a lot longer without the maps as he probably would¡¯ve wandered in a single direction and had to climb through mountains and forge through large rivers but thankfully, he was well supplied. He was considering avoiding this town like the others but as he thought about it, he was tired of sleeping in a tent and wanted to rest in an actual bed with delicious food served to him, so he began venturing towards vandren¡¯s rest.


    Meanwhile, only a few miles from the town joran had begun marching towards, there were three knights standing in the road. A beastman of lycan descent was sniffing the ground beneath the sky-colored orange by the setting sun.  Lorsan stands at an imposing 6''7", his broad, muscular frame exuding raw power and relentless endurance. Unlike full werewolves, his transformation is incomplete-retaining the wolf¡¯s strength, heightened senses, and instincts while maintaining a humanoid form. His sharpened features, golden-yellow eyes, and predatory aura make him a fearsome presence among the Royal Knights of Lothara.


    His face is a fusion of man and beast, with a strong jawline and slightly elongated nose that grants him an enhanced sense of smell, allowing him to track scents with unnerving accuracy. His ears are pointed and furred, flicking at the slightest sounds, an involuntary habit that betrays his heightened awareness. A light layer of short, bristled fur lines his cheeks and the back of his neck, a testament to his bestial bloodline. His thick, dark hair, streaked with silver strands, is kept relatively tidy¡ªthough wild enough to hint at his untamed nature.


    Lorsan stood, a mountain of muscle and iron, clad in onyx-black mithril armor that gleamed beneath the flickering torchlight. Though meticulously forged to suit the form of a royal knight, his armor bore subtle modifications¡ªones that accommodated the feral physique of a beastman, allowing him the agility and precision of a hunter despite the heavy plating.


    His breastplate, adorned with golden filigree, bore the sigil of Lothara: a mighty dragon coiled around a shield, its eyes set with small obsidian gems that flickered in the dim light like burning embers. His pauldrons, large and imposing, had been crafted in the shape of snarling wolves, their fangs bared as if they, too, were ready to strike at a moment¡¯s notice. The slight curvature of the metal allowed for swift shoulder movement, ensuring that even under layers of protection, his predatory reflexes remained unhindered.


    His gauntlets were a work of deadly artistry¡ªa seamless fusion of blackened steel and enchanted leather, reinforced to endure the force of a greatsword yet light enough for the dexterity of his claws. The fingers were tipped with retractable, razor-sharp talons, enchanted with runic etchings that faintly pulsed with golden light. A single deep scratch marred the metal of his right hand, the only imperfection in his otherwise pristine armor¡ªa relic of a duel fought long ago.


    Draped across his shoulders was a tattered crimson cloak, the fabric worn at the edges but still regal in its presence. The inner lining was woven from the fur of a dire wolf, thick and warm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the armor beneath it. It smelled faintly of leather, steel, and lingering embers from a forge, carrying the unmistakable scent of a warrior who had seen countless battles and walked away victorious.


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    His greaves and sabatons were similarly designed for both defense and speed. While the plated shin guards bore elegant engravings of crescent moons and leaping wolves, the boots themselves were made to allow for silent movement, ensuring that even a beast of his size could prowl unnoticed when he wished. The heels were reinforced for powerful lunges, and the soles, lined with textured leather, ensured that Lorsan never lost his footing, whether in the palace halls or the bloodied fields of battle.


    Hanging from his belt was a silver amulet, its intricate carvings forming the shape of a wolf¡¯s eye, a mark of his station among the elite warriors of Lothara. It gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight, a symbol of his rank. ¡°His scent is heavily clouded by powerful magic, but I can faintly make out his trail with Dain¡¯s aid.¡± His voice is deep, guttural, and laced with an ever-present growl, making even casual conversation sound like a veiled threat. His breath carries the faint scent of steel and blood, an ominous reminder of the battles he has fought.


    He turned his head to look at his two companions. Tall, lean, and carved from the cold elegance of his kin, Sir Vaelin stood as a living testament to elvish refinement twisted into cruelty. His features, sculpted with unnatural symmetry, bore the striking arrogance of highborn lineage¡ªsharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and piercing silver eyes that held neither warmth nor pity. His ashen-blond hair, sleek and straight, fell just past his shoulders, always immaculate, as though the grime of battle dared not touch him.


    His armor, forged of enchanted silver, was as breathtaking as it was deadly. Runic etchings wove across the polished breastplate, softly glowing in the dim torchlight, ancient spells embedded within the metal to enhance his speed and precision. The pauldrons, shaped into the delicate curves of elven craftsmanship, bore no unnecessary weight, ensuring that Vaelin¡¯s strikes remained fluid, unhindered by the burdens of lesser warriors. His gauntlets, masterfully fitted to his slender hands, waited eagerly to grip his crescent blade so he could spill noble blood.


    At his hip rested a slim ceremonial dagger, its blackened blade infused with a paralysis enchantment, used not for honorable combat but to keep his victims helpless as he toyed with them. A dark smirk often played at his lips, the face of a predator that took pleasure in breaking something pure.


    Despite the filth of his deeds, Vaelin¡¯s boots were always pristine, his cloak¡ªa deep, regal blue¡ªflowing behind him with an air of untouchable nobility. Every movement, every calculated step, radiated effortless control, as if the very world bowed to his existence. But beneath that composed facade, behind the veneer of elven perfection, lurked a deep, twisted satisfaction in the suffering of those beneath him.


    A figure wrapped in mystery and malice; Dain carried the eerie presence of a man too deeply entrenched in the old ways. His long, earth-toned robes, embroidered with golden sigils of nature¡¯s forgotten gods, clung to his form, giving the illusion of roots creeping along bark. A deep hood often shadowed his face, but when revealed, he bore the wizened yet cruel visage of a man who had long abandoned mercy in pursuit of power.


    His hair, dark and matted with the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs, was adorned with small trinkets¡ªbones of fallen animals, dried petals of poisonous flowers, and wooden charms carved with sinister intent. His pale green eyes, sunken yet brimming with ancient knowledge, held none of the kindness associated with druids. Instead, they gleamed with an insatiable curiosity¡ªa scholar¡¯s interest in pain, a fascination with suffering.


    Beneath the folds of his robe, his arms were etched with tattoos of pulsating runes, each symbol shifting subtly as if alive, drinking in the energy around them. His gnarled wooden staff, taller than himself and wrapped in twisting vines, was a conduit of terrible power, capable of manipulating the elements with devastating effect. The roots at its base twitched and curled as if yearning for something¡ªperhaps flesh, perhaps blood.


    Dain did not revel in cruelty the way Vaelin did; he studied it. Each wound, each drop of stolen blood, was a puzzle, a piece of a greater truth he sought to unlock. To him, Joran was nothing more than an experiment, a rare hybrid whose pain could be dissected, whose essence could be harvested for a greater purpose. He did not hate the prince¡ªhe simply did not see him as anything more than a vessel for magic, a living ingredient in his ever-growing collection of arcane knowledge.


    When he spoke, it was a slow, deliberate murmur, each syllable carrying the weight of rituals long since lost to time. His voice, a whisper upon the wind, could command the trees to ensnare, the air to suffocate, the earth to swallow whole. Yet, even without magic, his presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spine of those who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze.


    ¡°Of course¡­ it is only natural that someone¡­. Who has studied his blood¡­ would find it easier to track him¡­. Than other mages¡­" Dain smirked and gripped his staff a bit tighter causing magic to crackle from it. Dain wasn¡¯t really a knight or even a servant of the crown. He used to be a prisoner in the dungeons beneath the palace for kidnapping mythics and performing experiments on them but then the knights who abused Joran found him. They gave him a secret room and then made a deal with him. They would provide the tears and blood of the prince for him to experiment on and in exchange he would create potions from the substances. The druid mage was excited by the idea of experimenting on the fluids of a creature as rare as the prince, so he was quick to agree. When he had heard Joran had left the palace, he immediately volunteered to help track the prince down if he could extract other samples from the prince besides blood and tears which they agreed.


    ¡°Yes yes, very impressive you two. Can we hurry up? I''m sick of all this walking and I''m really eager to teach that half-breed shit a lesson for running from us." Vaelin tapped the hilt of his blade with impatience dripping from his voice when Lorsan snarled. ¡°Do not rush me elf! I am the best tracker in the royal guard and even i am having trouble maintaining the scent of the prince! We all want a piece of the prince so unless you have anything to contribute at this moment i suggest you shut the fuck up!¡± Vaelin''s smirk twitched slightly as he glared at the lycan. ¡°Be careful how you speak to me, mutt. Or maybe the doggy needs a lesson in respect.¡± lorsan snarled louder as he bared his teeth and claws before moving towards the elf when suddenly vines began wrapping around the ankles of the two knights as dain moved between them. ¡°Patience¡­. Patience¡­ my compatriots. We mustn''t fight ourselves when we should¡­. Be looking for the prince. Let us¡­.keep our cool¡­ and find our money maker¡­ before someone else does¡­¡± the two knights glared at Dain then each other before regaining their composure. The elf¡¯s smirk did not leave his face, but his eyes shined with disdain. Dain tapped his staff against the ground and the vines retreated back into the ground and they went off towards Joran''s location as lorsan continued to occasionally sniff the air while dain would mutter incantations to enhance the abilities of lorsan¡¯s senses. They would soon be upon joran and nothing will stop them from having their fun before taking him home.

 CHAPTER EIGHT

    The young prince entered the town with no problems as he kept the hood of his cloak draped over his head. He moved into the square looking for the inn but paused in the middle of the square and looked in awe of the different mythics who moved about. He saw lamia, cyclops, halflings, dwarves, and a few other races moving about the town looking for food, items, or just chatting comfortably with friends. The sight put a smile to joran¡¯s face as he felt hope for what could happen to the rest of orano. He then found the inn called the wandering drake and went inside to look for a warm meal and a soft bed. The Wandering Drake stood as the heart of Vandren¡¯s Rest, its sturdy wooden frame reinforced with dark stone foundations, a testament to the resilience of the town itself. The inn¡¯s name was etched into an aged wooden sign above the entrance, a faded carving of a dragon coiled around a tankard beneath it. Warm light spilled from its windows, and the scent of roasted meat, spiced mead, and freshly baked bread drifted into the evening air.


    Inside, the inn''s main hall was a grand yet rustic space, its atmosphere thick with the mingling scents of oakwood smoke, mead, and the faint hint of damp leather from weary travelers. A great stone fireplace dominated one side of the room, its flames casting flickering shadows across the timbered walls. The mantle above the hearth bore a collection of relics¡ªold blades, battered shields, and a preserved drake¡¯s skull with jagged horns curling toward the ceiling, its empty sockets staring into the bustling room.


    To the right of the fireplace stretched the dining area, a long communal table made from solid oak, its surface scratched and dented from countless feasts and rowdy nights. Smaller, round tables were scattered around, their mismatched chairs occupied by travelers, mercenaries, and merchants. The scent of roasting venison and seasoned potatoes wafted from the kitchen beyond, where cooks worked tirelessly behind a half-open wooden counter. Worn iron chandeliers hung overhead, their glow-crystals emitting a soft, steady luminescence that never dimmed, even in the dead of night.


    Opposite the dining area was the drinking hall, where a polished wooden counter ran the length of the room, lined with sturdy barstools that had seen their fair share of drunken mishaps. Behind the bar, shelves stocked with an impressive selection of spirits¡ªhoneyed dwarven mead, deep crimson elven wine, and potent orcish fire-brew¡ªshimmered beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns. A few private booths lined the far wall, each separated by heavy drapes for those who preferred their conversations unheard. The murmur of hushed deals and whispered secrets blended with the lively hum of patrons raising their tankards in laughter or slamming fists over lost bets.


    At the front, positioned near the entrance, was the reception desk, where an elf with an air of effortless grace managed the inn¡¯s affairs. She possessed an ageless beauty, as many of her kind did, with long silver hair braided elegantly over one shoulder and sharp, pale green eyes that carried both wisdom and weariness. Her deep blue tunic, embroidered with silver patterns of intertwining vines, marked her as someone of refined taste, though the many rings adorning her slender fingers and the ledger in her hand suggested she was far more concerned with coin than status.


    She moved with quiet efficiency, her keen gaze scanning guests with practiced precision. Every newcomer was noted, every drunken patron subtly monitored, and every deal struck under the glow of enchanted lanterns recorded in the back of her mind. Though poised and graceful, there was a sharpness beneath her smooth exterior, a quiet authority that kept even the roughest mercenaries and troublemakers from overstaying their welcome.


    Above the main hall, a wooden staircase led to the guest quarters, the second floor lined with private rooms, each offering simple yet comfortable accommodations. The walls bore faded tapestries depicting old mythic legends¡ªbattles between beastmen warriors, elven archers striking down sky-serpents, and even a mysterious cloaked figure standing before a dragon, their intentions lost to time.


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    Joran looked about the inn before nervously moving toward the front desk, stumbling a bit every couple of steps. The elf was eyeing two dwarves who were gulping down drink after drink causing her to worry that they might start a ruckus soon. ¡°Ummm¡­. E-excuse me?¡± a meek voice spoke, causing her to turn her attention to the young man in front of her with a raised eyebrow as her right ear twitched slightly out of irritation at having her attention pulled away. ¡°Yes. how may i-¡± she paused as she looked the traveler up and down and her ear twitched some more. ¡°If you¡¯re trying to blend in¡­ you¡¯re doing a horrible job.¡±


    Joran¡¯s eyes widened before he quickly tried to regain his composure. ¡°I-i don¡¯t know what you mean¡­¡± he reached up and pulled the hood to shadow his face a bit more while the other began to instinctively stroke his amulet. The elf rolled her eyes and suddenly jumped over the desk with great ease. She lands right in front of him and leans forward causing a blush to form on joran. ¡°Oh please. Anyone who is paying attention will notice that you are not like the other travellers who come through here.¡± she began to circle around him as she spoke. ¡°The amulet is too pretty for someone coming from Orano, even a merchant. Your body is tense and awkward as if you have something to hide. Obviously, we are close to the border and anyone coming from orano may be nervous due to the challenges they faced but you aren¡¯t from orano, as we have established, so that means you are from lothara. No sane person, man or mythic, would be caught dead this close to the border which means you are here with a purpose and no regular civilian would be trying as hard as you are not to stand out so I have to assume you are a noble of some sort travelling incognito.¡± she stopped in front of him and leaned forward so her face was inches from his.


    ¡°Am i correct?¡± Joran''s cheeks were blushing immensely from how close the elf¡¯s face was to his. Her face was sharp, sculpted with the elegance and precision characteristic of her kin, yet softened by the weight of experience rather than privilege. High cheekbones framed a slightly upturned nose, her skin bearing a smooth, porcelain quality that seemed untouched by time, yet her pale green eyes¡ªkeen and assessing¡ªheld the sharpness of someone who had seen much and forgotten nothing. They flickered with amusement, curiosity, and a quiet authority, as if she could peel away every lie with a single glance.


    Her long, silver hair was immaculately braided over one shoulder, its metallic sheen catching the soft lantern light, the plait secured with a delicate silver clasp in the shape of intertwining vines. The braid swayed slightly as she moved, betraying a practiced elegance, yet it was also practical¡ªmeant to keep her hair from interfering with her work rather than for vanity''s sake. A few loose strands framed her face, softening her otherwise striking features.


    She wore a deep blue tunic, finely woven and adorned with silver embroidery of twisting vines and leaves, hinting at either noble origins or an appreciation for craftsmanship. The fabric draped comfortably over her form, fitted enough to suggest refinement but loose enough for easy movement. A dark sash cinched her waist, over which hung several small pouches, no doubt filled with ledgers, keys, or the tools of her trade. Her sleeves were snug around her forearms, the cuffs lined with silver thread that caught the dim light of the inn¡¯s lanterns.


    Joran quickly averted his gaze and glanced around as he worried about others overhearing what she said but nobody seemed to be paying attention. She took notice of how worried he seemed to be and stood up straight before leaping over the desk once more. She turned to face him and said, ¡°you¡¯ve already confirmed it for me but i don''t really care too much. I would just be more careful about your appearance starting with that amulet. Now how may I help you?¡± Joran stood there for a moment before he cleared his throat and replied, ¡°i-i would like a room if one is available and maybe something to eat?¡± the elf gave a soft smile that caused joran¡¯s heart to skip a beat and his cheeks to blush some more as he shyly looked away before she said, ¡°lucky for you, we have both.¡±

 CHAPTER NINE

    After paying the elf for his room, Joran slid his amulet beneath his shirt and made his way toward the dining area. He moved quietly, choosing a shadowed corner table before ordering a meal from a cyclopean waitress. She gave him a soft, knowing smile before turning away, her presence adding a strange warmth to the otherwise tense air of the inn.


    The room was filled with a diverse mix of travelers¡ªa few mythics, a handful of humans, all engaged in hushed or boisterous conversation. Some spoke in casual tones, others were loud and animated, but a select few ensured their voices carried just enough to let others know deals were being made. It was a place where secrets and bargains thrived, and Joran instinctively kept his head down and ears open.


    The scent of roasted boar and seasoned vegetables reached him before he saw the plate being set before him. His stomach growled in response, earning a gentle chuckle from the waitress as he murmured his thanks. He wasted no time, tearing into the meal, savoring its warmth. It was one of the few comforts he had left.


    He sat in silent vigilance, occasionally glancing around the room, scanning for danger while feigning nonchalance. But the moment the doors to the inn swung open, his entire body locked up, his fingers going rigid around his utensils.


    Then, a voice he feared echoed across the inn. "If I could have your attention, please!" Joran¡¯s blood ran cold. Vaelin.


    The room fell into an immediate hush. Conversations died mid-sentence as all eyes turned toward the entrance. Joran, however, kept his gaze firmly on his plate, forcing himself to breathe steadily as he pulled his hood up, hoping the movement seemed natural.


    A low, guttural snarl broke through the silence, barely more than a growl beneath the breath¡ªLorsan had caught a scent. Meanwhile, Dain¡¯s fingers drummed idly against his staff, his hollow gaze sweeping the room like a predator considering its prey.


    The air buzzed with uneasy murmurs.


    "What are the Royal Guard doing this far from the capital?"


    "I don¡¯t like this¡­"


    "Probably here to harass newcomers entering Lothara."


    "Who do you think that druid is?"


    "Not dressed like the other two."


    "Gives me the creeps."


    Vaelin¡¯s scowl deepened, and in one smooth motion, he drew his blade. The sword hummed with energy, the faint vibration making the air crackle with power. Absolute silence followed.


    "I don¡¯t believe I asked for any of you mongrels to speak."


    Everyone knew what the Royal Guard were¡ªLothara¡¯s elite, the strongest warriors beneath the Dragon King himself. Their presence alone demanded submission, and their tempers were not to be tested.


    Vaelin took his time, letting the weight of his authority settle upon the room before continuing. "We are looking for a man. Barely a man, you might say. Around twenty-five years of age, shy, timid¡­ a little shit."


    Joran risked a glance toward the front desk, searching for the elf who had taken his payment¡ªshe was gone. His pulse quickened. Had she slipped away to warn him or to sell him out?


    A sharp sniffing sound pulled his attention. Lorsan¡¯s predatory gaze locked onto his table. Joran immediately dropped his gaze and resumed eating, willing himself to appear unbothered, insignificant.


    Vaelin continued, pacing slowly.


    "Our tracker here followed his scent to this town, to this very inn. But then, the trail vanished."He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps due to the unique¡ªyet horrendous¡ªstench coming from the lot of you."


    His disgusted sneer landed on a table of dwarves, who, despite their grumbling, refused to meet his gaze. A human seated nearby cleared his throat hesitantly before speaking.


    "Excuse me, sir. Might I ask what makes this person you''re after so important?"


    Vaelin turned his attention to the speaker, an unimpressed smirk curling his lips. He stepped onto the table itself, his light magic gently nudging plates, tankards, and trays aside, spilling food and drink onto the laps of those seated nearby. A drunken dwarf at the far edge of the table, now drenched in mead and gravy, shot to his feet.


    "Just who the fuck do you think you are?!" he bellowed. "I don¡¯t give a damn if you¡¯re a Royal Guard! You have no right¡ª" Vaelin¡¯s blade flashed upward.


    A heartbeat later, the dwarf¡¯s right arm hit the ground with a heavy thump.


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    A moment of horrified silence, then an ear-piercing scream tore through the room. Blood spurted across the floor, the severed limb twitching grotesquely. Three other dwarves scrambled toward their injured friend, while the rest of the inn¡¯s patrons reacted in shock, fury, or preparation for battle.


    Joran, despite everything, kept his eyes on his meal. The pain, the panic, the metallic scent of fresh blood filling the air¡ªit was all distant, numbed by sheer survival instinct.


    Then came the shift.


    A pulse of dark, powerful nature magic rippled through the room.


    Dain barely lifted his staff, tapping it against the ground. From the floor, shadowed vines erupted, winding around chairs and limbs, binding every patron in place except for the dwarves who stood there in shock for a moment before returning to bandaging their friend who had grown weak from the blood loss. Some screamed, others struggled, but the magic held firm.


    All except for Joran.


    His Elven-Arachne Cloak kept him unnoticed, his presence slipping beneath their perception. It was as if he were merely a shadow against the wall.


    Dain chuckled, a slow, rasping sound.


    "I apologize¡­ for the aggressiveness of my compatriot." His voice was oily, condescending. "But I must correct a mistake¡ªyour dwarf friend was wrong." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "These two are Royal Guards, and I am just a humble druid trying to help. And yet, we are all on a level beyond you fleas. That gives us the right to treat you however we please."


    Lorsan, still sniffing, snarled. "He¡¯s here. In this room."


    Vaelin¡¯s smirk widened.


    "Perhaps he¡¯s using magic to disguise himself." He glanced toward Dain. "Make him visible."


    Dain tilted his head, considering it, but Lorsan growled impatiently, drool pooling at the corners of his maw. "Or we take advantage of his pathetic heart and draw him out."


    Vaelin turned to a bound waitress, cupping her chin, his grip firm despite her whimpers of fear. "Dain¡­ feeding time."


    Dain¡¯s grin stretched wide as he tapped his staff against the floor. The vines glowed, siphoning life energy from those bound, their screams filling the air.


    Joran tensed.


    He recognized that spell. A ritual that drains life force and transforms it into magic, transferring years, if not entire lifetimes, to the caster as well as enhances their magical might. A forbidden, monstrous act. He had to help them¡­ he couldn¡¯t just let them suffer because they were looking for him, but he was terrified of the knights. They had beaten and scarred that fear into him. The screams got louder and finally it was too much for joran to just sit there and do nothing.


    He quickly stood¡ªhood falling back¡ªand looked up only to lock eyes with Lorsan who was now looming over him. Lorsan had moved towards joran¡¯s table without the prince even realizing it.


    The beast-knight grinned. "There you are."


    A clawed hand latched onto his head, digging into his skin, before hurling him through the window. Glass shattered, pain lanced through him, and Joran crashed onto the ground outside, gasping. The cloak protected him from the worst of it, so he only had a couple cuts on his face and his arms.


    He forced himself to his feet, stumbling into the square, where onlookers gathered. Behind him, the knights and druid stepped calmly from the inn, their expressions shifting to concerned deception.


    "Healers, now!" Vaelin called, voice thick with fabricated urgency. "A dangerous fugitive cast a powerful drain spell inside¡ªhelp those affected! Everyone else, stay in your homes!"


    As the last of the healers disappeared into the inn and the gathered onlookers scattered back into their homes, the town square grew eerily silent. Vaelin waited a moment, ensuring that no curious eyes lingered before he turned to Dain, his voice low and sharp.


    ¡°That memory-altering spell will work, right?¡± His eyes flickered with irritation. ¡°We don¡¯t need any loose ends knowing the truth.¡±


    Dain merely smirked, the expression one of amused arrogance.


    ¡°You insult me,¡± he murmured, rolling his staff idly between his fingers. ¡°I have performed that spell countless times. By the time they wake, they will remember only what I wish them to¡ªthe fugitive they saw attacking them, draining their life force, before your dear lycan friend so nobly cast him out the window.¡±


    Vaelin¡¯s expression darkened, his scowl deepening as his gaze snapped toward Lorsan. ¡°Yes¡­ I do believe that was an idiotic move,¡± he bit out. ¡°He could be anywhere by now.¡±


    Lorsan, who had been absently licking blood from his claws, paused, then gave a low, amused rumble. He tapped a claw against his nose, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light.


    ¡°Close enough to catch his whole scent,¡± he murmured, almost purring in satisfaction. ¡°The cloak kept him hidden before, but with the druid¡¯s magic and my nose, he can¡¯t escape.¡±


    Vaelin studied him for a moment, then gave a single curt nod, trusting in the beastman¡¯s instincts. Just then, a group of soldiers hurried toward them, their armor clanking softly in the still night. The leader, a human woman clad in captain¡¯s armor, strode ahead and offered a formal salute, fist pressed against her heart.


    ¡°Sirs,¡± she said, her voice steady and disciplined. ¡°We heard there was an attack at the inn. We¡¯ve come to aid you in capturing the culprit.¡±


    Vaelin barely spared her a glance before sneering in disdain. With a casual shove, he pushed her aside, not even bothering to slow his stride as he followed Lorsan, who was already moving, sniffing the air as he tracked their quarry.


    ¡°As if we need assistance from lowly knights.¡± His tone was dripping with contempt. ¡°If you want to be useful, then form a perimeter around the town. No one enters. No one leaves.¡±


    The woman¡¯s expression tensed, but she gave a curt nod before turning to relay orders to her soldiers. Vaelin, meanwhile, focused on the hunt. Joran was out there¡ªexhausted and vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before they caught him.

 CHAPTER TEN

    Joran moved swiftly through the shadowed streets, his hood drawn low as he cast anxious glances over his shoulder. The weight of pursuit pressed heavy on his chest, his every step measured and cautious. The distant clanking of armored boots sent a surge of panic through his veins, and he quickly veered into a narrow alleyway, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. His fingers clenched at the edges of his cloak, pulling it tightly around him as he held his breath.


    The knights marched past the alley¡¯s entrance, their metallic footfalls like hammer blows against his nerves. He listened intently as a commanding voice broke through the steady rhythm of movement.


    ¡°We¡¯ve all been given orders to form a perimeter around the town to keep the criminal from escaping. Move out!¡±


    Joran exhaled slowly as the footsteps faded into the distance. His muscles, coiled tight with tension, loosened slightly. He turned, ready to slip deeper into the alley and away from danger¡ªonly to collide with something solid and unmoving.


    A low, rumbling growl filled the space between them, thick with amusement.


    ¡°Found you, little prince.¡±


    Joran¡¯s blood turned to ice as he looked up into Lorsan¡¯s gleaming, predatory eyes. Before he could react, the beast-knight swiped with deadly precision, claws gleaming like razors in the moonlight.


    Joran barely managed to throw his hands up, summoning a magic shield, but the force of Lorsan¡¯s strike shattered it like brittle glass. The impact sent Joran hurtling backward, tumbling from the alley and crashing onto the cobbled street. Pain exploded through his body as he struggled to push himself up, his vision swimming from the blow.


    Above him, Lorsan landed gracefully on a rooftop, his silhouette outlined against the night sky, golden eyes burning with cruel delight.


    ¡°Did you really think you could hide from us?¡± he mocked, his voice dripping with savage amusement. ¡°That you¡¯d just leave Lothara, and that would be the end of it?¡± He gave a slow, rumbling chuckle, one that sent a fresh wave of dread crawling down Joran¡¯s spine. ¡°We will find you, boy. No matter where you go.¡±


    Then, with an almost playful malice, he tilted his head back and let out a bone-chilling howl, the sound ripping through the night air like a death knell.


    Joran¡¯s heart pounded violently against his ribs. The others would hear it. They were coming. Panic surged through him, and he turned on his heel, bolting down the street¡ªbut Lorsan moved faster. With an inhuman leap, he landed in front of him, crouched low on all fours, blocking his escape.


    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡±


    Joran barely had time to react before Lorsan lunged, his clawed hand snatching the prince by the collar. He lifted him effortlessly, muscles coiling with brutal strength before driving his fist into Joran¡¯s gut.


    The force knocked the breath from his lungs. Agony shot through his ribs, and he barely choked down the bile that rose in his throat. Lorsan grinned, reveling in his suffering, before slamming another punch across his face, whipping his head to the side. The coppery taste of blood filled Joran¡¯s mouth as a warm trickle ran from his nose. His vision blurred for a moment, stars dancing in his peripheral vision.


    ¡°This is just like old times, isn¡¯t it?¡± Lorsan laughed, a wicked gleam in his feral eyes.


    Joran clawed at the lycan¡¯s grip, his fingers scrambling for any purchase, but Lorsan only tightened his hold. Then, with mocking slowness, he raised his free hand, his claws elongating into gleaming, curved daggers. He brought them dangerously close to Joran¡¯s eye.


    ¡°You know,¡± he mused, his voice a cruel whisper, ¡°we could rough you up a little, say we found you like this. No one would question it. It¡¯s not like you¡¯d tell a different story.¡±


    A shiver of sheer terror lanced through Joran¡¯s body. His breath came ragged and shallow, the weight of helplessness pressing down like a crushing tide. No. Not like this. Not again.


    Instinct took over. With raw desperation, Joran summoned his magic and unleashed a burst of fire, the spell called flame flash ignited into an uncontrolled explosion at point-blank range.


    Flames roared to life between them. Lorsan howled in agony as the fire consumed his face and right arm, the magical flames clinging stubbornly to his fur. His grip finally loosened, and Joran dropped to the ground, scrambling backward on his hands and feet before forcing himself up. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but Lorsan¡¯s enraged screams as he thrashed, trying to extinguish the fire.


    This was his chance. He had to run. Turning on his heel, Joran bolted down the street, forcing his aching body to move. Every part of him screamed from the blows he had taken, but he refused to stop.


    Behind him, Lorsan¡¯s howls morphed into an unearthly snarl.


    ¡°I HAVE YOUR SCENT, BOY!¡± the lycan roared, his voice a thunderous mix of rage and pain. ¡°I WILL FIND YOU, AND I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET EVER BEING BORN!¡±


    Joran didn¡¯t dare look back as he sprinted deeper into town, weaving through the dimly lit streets, his breath ragged with exhaustion and fear. He had to find a way out¡ªfast. But the moment he rounded a corner, his heart plummeted.


    Vaelin.


    The elf knight strode down the street with casual arrogance, his silver eyes scanning the alleyways as if he already knew his prey was nearby. The streetlights cast eerie shadows against his pristine armor, the runes along his crescent blade crackling with raw energy. He hadn¡¯t yet noticed Joran¡ªbut it wouldn¡¯t take long.


    "Damn it, you mangy mutt!" Vaelin snarled, clearly still fuming. "First you run off and leave us behind, and then you make us track you down after forcing us to listen to that ungodly howling? I swear, when this is over, I''m going to¡ª"


    He stopped mid-sentence, his sneer curling into something far more sinister. His piercing gaze locked onto Joran, standing frozen at the end of the street.


    "Well, well, well... the little boy wandered right into my path."


    A slow, deliberate movement¡ªhis sword left its sheath, humming with lethal magic, the air distorting faintly around it. Joran stumbled backward, terror seizing his body.


    "Where¡¯s Lorsan?" Vaelin taunted, closing the distance at a predator¡¯s pace. "Don¡¯t tell me he lost you again¡ªhow incompetent."


    Joran¡¯s fingers instinctively curled around the hilt of his sword. His entire body trembled, but he forced himself to stand his ground.


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    "P-please..." he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "Just let me go. I only want to make this realm a place where all can live in harmony."


    Vaelin¡¯s expression twisted in disgust. He drew his dagger with his free hand, its dark edge gleaming beneath the street lanterns.


    "You na?ve little shit," he spat. "There is no harmony. No equality. There is only the strong and the weak. Perfection and worthlessness. And you?" He tilted his head, voice mocking. "You may have the blood of two powerful races, but you are still nothing."


    Joran barely had time to react before Vaelin disappeared.


    A blur¡ªthen steel.


    Joran instinctively drew his sword, barely deflecting the downward strike as Vaelin came crashing down from above, his blade aimed for Joran¡¯s skull. The impact sent sparks flying, the shock rattling his bones as he stumbled backward, gasping.


    Vaelin landed gracefully, rolling his neck as if this was merely warm-up. He pointed his sword at Joran with a smirk.


    "Even if you escape tonight, we will always find you." His voice lowered, turning taunting. "And if you force us to leave Lothara to chase you? Then we go home and fetch the rest of our little group..."


    Joran¡¯s blood turned to ice.


    Vaelin grinned, his eyes drinking in Joran¡¯s terror.


    "...Including her."


    Joran¡¯s grip on his sword tightened, his heart slamming against his ribs. No. Not her.


    The elf lunged, moving twice as fast as before, forcing Joran into a desperate series of blocks. The crescent blade and dagger struck in perfect tandem, steel flashing as Joran barely kept up. His instincts screamed not only to block the sword¡ªbut also the dagger.


    But Vaelin was too fast.


    Their blades clashed again and again, Joran retreating with every step, sweat dripping down his face. He was holding his own¡ªbarely.


    Then¡ªimpact.


    Joran¡¯s breath left his lungs as Lorsan blindsided him, slamming into his back.


    The prince was thrown to the ground, his sword sliding across the dirt.


    Lorsan landed atop him, claws poised to rip into his back¡ªbut the enchanted Elven-Arachne Cloak deflected the blow, the protective enchantments absorbing the damage.


    ¡°Damn this cloak!¡± Lorsan snarled in frustration, his burnt flesh still raw from the flames Joran had cast earlier. The fur on his face and arms had been completely singed away, revealing deep, still-healing burns.


    Joran barely had time to react before he was lifted clean off the ground. Lorsan¡¯s iron grip closed around his throat, shaking him like a ragdoll.


    ¡°You burned me,¡± the lycan growled, his breath hot with fury. ¡°Then you ran.¡± His golden eyes burned with pure, unfiltered rage. ¡°I¡¯m going to tear a chunk out of your hide!¡±


    Joran¡¯s survival instinct kicked in.


    A spell¡ªany spell! Was all he could think before He threw his hands forward and cast Ice Bomb. The air around them froze instantly, the moisture crystallizing before exploding outward in a deadly shockwave.


    Shards of razor-sharp ice tore through the street, sending both Lorsan and Vaelin flying backwards. Joran was hurled into a nearby wall, pain lancing through his back, but he forced himself up, gasping for air. Lorsan was already shaking off the ice, snarling curses under his breath. But it was Vaelin who had truly snapped.


    "You..." the elf¡¯s voice was trembling¡ªnot with fear, but with blinding rage.


    Joran¡¯s stomach dropped.


    A thin line of blood ran down Vaelin¡¯s cheek.


    "You... bastard."


    His magic flared violently, the air around him distorting.


    "You fucking BASTARD!"


    Joran barely registered the movement before a blur shot past him.


    A sharp, searing pain in his side.


    He gasped, stumbling back, pressing a hand to his cloak¡ªblood.


    Vaelin had cut him beneath the protective fabric.


    Then¡ªanother slash.


    A burning pain across his cheek. More blood.


    Joran tried to fight back, summoning magical barriers, but his body froze. He looked down to see Vaelin had cut him with his dagger causing the prince to become paralyzed and drop his blade. He moved with terrifying speed, cutting and beating Joran down, overwhelming him with relentless precision.


    Joran collapsed to his hands and knees, panting heavily, his vision swimming. Blood dripped from fresh wounds across his body. Vaelin wiped the blood from his own face with the back of his glove.


    "You better pray to the gods I can heal this," he sneered. "Before it leaves a scar."


    Then he kicked Joran across the face, sending him sprawling into the dirt. A slow set of footsteps approached.


    ¡°Now, now, Vaelin¡­¡±


    Joran¡¯s stomach turned as he looked up.


    Dain.


    The druid stood above him, smirking. "We shouldn¡¯t break him too badly¡­ but¡­" He tapped his staff against the ground.


    Agony. That was all he felt after he heard the staff tap against the ground.


    Joran screamed as his blood was pulled from his body, drawn into the vials strapped across Dain¡¯s chest.


    He had suffered many kinds of pain before¡ªbut this was unbearable. Vaelin and Lorsan laughed as the prince writhed in agony. Dain¡¯s voice was mockingly soothing. ¡°Such sweet misery¡­ but we mustn¡¯t overdo it, hmm?¡±


    Then¡ªa blur from above.


    Two precise, brutal kicks¡ªone slamming into Lorsan, the other into Vaelin.


    A double strike to Dain¡¯s chest sent him staggering back, the stolen blood spilling onto the ground. Lorsan roared in fury. "Who dares interfere¡ª?!" Joran looked up¡ªhis vision hazy, but clear enough to see her.


    The elf from the Wandering Drake. But she was no longer just an innkeeper.


    The elf receptionist of The Wandering Drake had shed her refined tunic for something far more suited to battle¡ªa sleek, form-fitting set of light mercenary armor, crafted for speed and precision. She exuded the effortless confidence of a warrior, her posture relaxed but coiled with controlled energy, ready to strike at a moment¡¯s notice.


    Her cuirass was a snug, midnight-blue leather chestplate, reinforced with thin mithril plating beneath the surface¡ªlight enough to allow full agility but strong enough to deflect glancing blows. The design was elegant yet practical, curving naturally to her form while allowing fluid movement in combat. A short, high-collared capelet draped over her left shoulder, enchanted to dampen sound, making her movements near-silent.


    Her arms were guarded by slim, blackened vambraces, intricately woven with silver-threaded elven runes, enhancing her reflexes and ensuring that any blade she deflected would glance away harmlessly. Beneath the armor, fitted sleeves of a dark, enchanted fabric hugged her arms, offering protection against minor magic and the cold of night.


    Her lower half was covered in sleek, reinforced leggings, snug yet flexible, layered with mithril-threaded leather along the thighs for extra defense without sacrificing mobility. Strapped securely along her right thigh was a dagger, its hilt wrapped in navy-blue leather, while a thin, utility belt sat snug at her waist, carrying small throwing knives and lightweight pouches of essentials.


    The true stars of her arsenal, however, were her twin curved blades, strapped diagonally across her lower back for a swift, cross-body draw. The hilts, dark and sleek, bore engraved silver glyphs that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The blades themselves were slightly curved, perfect for rapid, dance-like strikes, their enchanted edges designed to slice through armor and flesh alike with lethal precision.


    Her silver hair was tied back into a loose yet efficient braid, strands still framing her face, giving her a battle-worn but refined look. Her pale green eyes, usually filled with the sharp wit of an innkeeper, now held the keen, calculating focus of a warrior who had once lived by the sword.


    Her boots, slim and flexible, were built for swift, silent movement, their soles enchanted to enhance balance and allow for near-soundless steps. Despite the lightness of her gear, every piece served a purpose¡ªto keep her fast, lethal, and utterly unpredictable in battle.


    This wasn¡¯t just an innkeeper in armor.


    This was a mercenary reborn¡ªan elven warrior who had long since mastered the art of the twin blades, now stepping back into the shadows of her past.


    "You will leave the prince alone," she said coldly.


    Vaelin laughed. "A nobody thinks she can give us orders? Hilarious."


    But Lorsan had gone pale. "That¡¯s no mere elf¡­" he whispered, his voice laced with recognition. He swallowed hard.


    "That¡¯s Druna Myclerva."


    The Silver Phantom.

 CHAPTER ELEVEN

    As Joran looked at her through slightly blurry vision, he recognized her from some of the books he¡¯s read. Many years ago, there was a mercenary whose name alone struck fear into those who heard it. Druna Myclerva. Among the ranks of killers, warlords, and sellswords, she stood apart¡ªnot just for her legendary speed, nor merely for her unmatched precision in battle, but for her presence, or rather, the way she seemed to lack one entirely. They called her the Silver Phantom, a name whispered in dim-lit halls and war camps, carrying both reverence and dread. To see her was to glimpse death itself. If you were lucky, you wouldn¡¯t see her at all.


    She could slip through fortified castles, past layers of enchanted defenses, evading the keenest of sentries as though she were never there. Her blade had ended the lives of merciless raiders and tyrants alike. Some spoke of how she had singlehandedly slain an entire company of knights to get to a single noble, while others claimed she wiped out a family of rulers, causing the collapse of a kingdom overnight. The most chilling tale of all whispered of how she stood alone against a group of giants, cutting them down one by one until not a single behemoth remained.


    It was said that if she was coming for you, there was no place you could run. No place you could hide. And then, just as suddenly as she had risen, she vanished. No records. No sightings. Not even a body left behind. Some believed she had finally met her match. Others thought she had tired of bloodshed, choosing to fade into obscurity. A few murmured of a curse, that some ancient sorcery had marked her, dooming her to wander outside of time itself.The truth was far simpler. Druna Myclerva had chosen to disappear.


    She had abandoned the path of blood and built a quiet life for herself in a distant place known as Vandren¡¯s Rest. There, she ran a small, humble inn¡ªa sanctuary where warriors, mercenaries, and wanderers could lay down their weapons, if only for a time. A place where battle-worn souls could drink and rest, free of the burdens of war. For years, the Silver Phantom faded into legend.


    Until tonight.


    Joran lay on the ground, his body paralyzed, his thoughts racing. His limbs refused to obey him, his breaths shallow as his mind swam in fog and his body screamed in pain. His eyes moved to see druna as she stood over him but that was all he could really move at this point.


    She watched the knights carefully, her expression unreadable, though her eyes flicked toward Joran with the briefest of glances. Then, without a word, she reached into a pouch at her side, pulling free a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, a soft blue glow pulsing from within. She pulled the cork free with her teeth and muttered, ¡°Never thought I¡¯d be using this for fucking paralysis¡­¡± With her other hand, she tilted Joran¡¯s head back, her fingers firm but careful. He felt his jaw forced open, and before he could react, the acrid taste of the potion spilled onto his tongue.


    ¡°Swallow,¡± she ordered, voice low. The taste was vile¡ªbitter and thick, like crushed herbs mixed with iron¡ªbut he obeyed. The liquid burned down his throat, and for a moment, it felt as though his body rejected it. Then, a rush of clarity. His vision steadied, the fog in his mind clearing as sensation crept back into his limbs.


    He could move again. Slowly, weakly, Joran pushed himself up, his muscles sluggish but no longer frozen. His breathing came heavy, but he was no longer helpless. He shakily lifted up his sword and looked down to see he was covered in fresh cuts and bruises but he noticed that despite vaelin¡¯s rage, he had made sure not to cause permanent damage on joran¡¯s body. The sword was heavy in his hands to the point he could just barely lift it to a ready position.


    Druna rose smoothly to her feet, stepping between Joran and the knights who stood before them. Her hands drifted to the hilts of her blades.


    Vaelin, ever smug, tilted his head as he regarded her. ¡°You are interfering in royal matters, girl. It would be in your best interest to stand aside.¡± Druna¡¯s fingers tapped her blade idly, her expression unreadable.


    ¡°So this is what royal matters look like now?¡± she mused, her voice calm, almost amused. ¡°Two knights of Lothara, and some horrid-looking druid, abusing the future ruler of the kingdom.¡±


    Lorsan let out a low snarl, his sharp teeth glinting as he stepped forward. ¡°He attacked the people in the inn,¡± he growled. ¡°Then he attacked us while we were merely trying to bring him home.¡± Druna¡¯s ear twitched slightly, catching something in his tone.


    ¡°So¡­¡± she murmured, tilting her head. ¡°When the druid was draining his blood, and the elf lost his shit¡­ that was all just a means of ¡®subduing¡¯ him?¡± Dain exhaled through his nose, stepping forward, lifting a hand. ¡°It is obvious she has seen too much,¡± he said. His voice was smooth, too smooth. ¡°There is no convincing her otherwise.¡±


    A sickly glow began to build around his fingertips. The moment the spell formed; Druna moved. In a blur, a blade left her fingers, cutting through the air toward Dain¡¯s face¡ª


    CLANG.


    Vaelin¡¯s sword flashed, deflecting the knife in a heartbeat. It veered off course, embedding itself into the wall with a soft thunk. Vaelin¡¯s smirk widened. ¡°Impressive speed for a retired mercenary,¡± he said. His tone was amused, but there was a glint of interest in his cold eyes. ¡°I¡¯d almost think you haven¡¯t faded into obscurity at all.¡±


    Druna remained still. Her posture was relaxed, casual even. But her hand had already shifted toward another blade.


    ¡°I¡¯m a little rusty,¡± she admitted, rolling her shoulder. Then her voice lowered, colder than before. ¡°But if that druid tries to get into my head again¡ª¡± her fingers flexed, ¡°¡ªhe¡¯ll die the slowest.¡±


    Vaelin let out a low chuckle, twirling his blade, watching as arcane energy crackled across its surface. ¡°There¡¯s no need for violence,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°Just hand us the prince, and we will be on our way.¡± Druna didn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder.


    Joran, still unsteady, met her gaze. His brown eyes were wide, his breath unsteady. He could see it¡ªthe moment of decision¡ªthe question unspoken between them.


    Then she whispered, so low only he could hear:


    ¡°I need you to run.¡±


    His breath caught.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Don¡¯t argue. Don¡¯t fight. Just run.¡±


    Joran¡¯s heart pounded in his chest. His fingers curled into fists, but before he could answer, Druna had already turned back. She drew a blade. And smiled.


    ¡°Go to hell.¡±


    Everything happened at once. Lorsan lunged forward on all fours, claws tearing into the dirt. Dain¡¯s hands wove through the air, summoning thick, writhing vines that surged toward Joran. Vaelin disappeared in a blur, moving too fast for the eye to follow.


    Druna vanished.


    A flash of silver¡ªvines sliced mid-motion, severed before they could ensnare Joran.


    A sharp crack¡ªLorsan¡¯s head snapped back as Druna¡¯s boot slammed into his snout, sending him skidding backward.


    A clash of metal¡ªVaelin appeared mid-strike, his blade flashing downward¡ªonly to meet Druna¡¯s own sword, locked against his in a deadly clash.


    For the first time that night, Vaelin¡¯s smirk faded. Until today he had never faced someone who could match his speed and power.


    Joran couldn¡¯t help but watch in awe as this innkeeper¡ªthis phantom of an age past¡ªheld her own against two of the most feared knights in Lothara and a druid whose cruelty knew no bounds. Every strike, every movement, every perfectly timed step was a masterstroke in combat. She was not just fighting; she was dictating the flow of battle itself. And yet, despite how enthralling it was to witness, it took only a sharp, knowing glance from Druna between clashes for him to snap back to reality.


    Run.


    The order, unspoken but absolute, sent his sluggish body into motion. He turned on his heel and forced himself into a sprint, ignoring the pain that burned through his muscles, the raw ache of wounds both fresh and deep. He had lost too much blood, suffered too many blows, and the lingering effects of paralysis still clung to him like a phantom¡¯s grasp. But he put his blade back into its sheath and ran anyway.


    High above, Lorsan vaulted onto the rooftops, moving with predatory ease. His claws dug into the wood and stone as he leaped from building to building, keeping pace with Joran before finally lunging downward. The prince barely registered the movement before a blur of silver intercepted him. A sickening crack rang out as Lorsan was kicked mid-air, sent hurtling into a wall with bone-jarring force. Druna vanished just as quickly as she had appeared.


    Sparks flared around Joran. He barely had time to register their meaning before another flash of silver cut through the air¡ªVaelin had been attempting to close in on him, but Druna intercepted him again, blade meeting blade in a cascade of arcane light. Every move he made, she was there, denying them any chance to take him. Dain, however, moved differently. He was in no rush, his steps slow, measured. A tap of his staff against the cobblestone sent a ripple through the ground, morphing it beneath him into a rolling wave of stone, effortlessly carrying him forward.


    Joran gritted his teeth, desperately trying to think of a spell to mend his wounds, anything that could buy him more time. But before he could focus, a chilling sensation wrapped around his ankles. He looked down. The solid ground beneath him had turned liquid, viscous and dark like thickened tar. He was sinking.


    Panic seized him as he struggled, but the more he moved, the deeper he sank. The once-cobblestone road had become a living trap, pulling him down inch by inch. Druna moved in an instant, but Vaelin was faster, intercepting her with a smirk. ¡°Eyes on me, puny elf.¡±


    Joran was waist-deep now, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Lorsan shook off the daze from his earlier collision, prowling toward him with a grin. ¡°Well, well¡­ looks like Joran is a little stuck.¡± Dain¡¯s floating platform coasted to a stop beside the trapped prince, his smirk deepening. ¡°Yes¡­ and now all that remains is to deal with the troublemaker.¡±


    Lorsan cracked his knuckles, anticipation gleaming in his eyes. ¡°Leave it to me.¡± He bided his time, waiting until Druna and Vaelin reappeared in their dance of steel and sorcery, then lunged. Claws clashed against her blade, while her second sword met Vaelin¡¯s strike in perfect synchronization. Dain crouched before Joran, watching him with dark amusement.


    ¡°Just give up, Joran¡­ there is no escape.¡± His voice was honeyed venom, soothing yet laced with cruelty. Fingers, cold and unnervingly gentle, caressed Joran¡¯s temple as he squirmed away. ¡°I have so much planned for¡ª¡± A knife embedded itself deep into his arm.


    Dain¡¯s pained cry shattered the moment as he reeled backward, clutching the wound. Druna¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding: ¡°Joran! I told you to run, but for fuck¡¯s sake, do something! I can¡¯t do everything!¡±


    His pulse pounded in his ears. She was right. He wasn¡¯t some helpless royal. He had been trained by the greatest mages of the realm. Fear might keep him from fighting, but it wouldn¡¯t keep him from escaping. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands against the liquefied ground, channeling his magic. The earth softened beneath his touch, shifting, lifting¡ªuntil he was no longer sinking but rising. Solid ground formed beneath his feet once more.


    He didn¡¯t hesitate. He ran.


    Dain climbed to his feet, fury twisting his features. ¡°Cursed bitch¡­¡± He wrenched the dagger free and tossed it aside, eyes narrowing as he watched Joran nearing the end of the street. His scowl deepened. ¡°I suppose I have no choice.¡±


    From his robes, he retrieved a small vial filled with dark, shimmering liquid¡ªJoran¡¯s blood. Vaelin, locked in a clash with Druna, saw it too. His voice snapped with warning. ¡°Dain, no! We aren¡¯t to use that unless absolutely necessary!¡± Dain ignored him. His grip tightened around the vial. ¡°I won¡¯t allow my test subject to get away.¡±


    He downed it in a single motion.


    The glass shattered at his feet, and almost immediately, his body convulsed. A guttural cough ripped from his throat, sending plumes of smoke and stray sparks into the night air. His eyes burned a deep, unnatural red before flickering back to normal. He staggered, one knee hitting the ground as wooden, bark-like scales erupted across his skin before retreating just as quickly.


    A suffocating pressure blanketed the area. Druna, Vaelin, Lorsan¡ªeven Joran¡ªfelt the shift. The raw, overwhelming surge of magic was unlike anything they had encountered before. For a moment, everything stilled.


    Then Dain exhaled, a wicked grin splitting his face. ¡°Let the fun begin.¡±


    He raised his staff and brought it down with crushing force. A shockwave burst outward, splitting the very streets. The ground cracked and heaved as massive, gnarled vines erupted from below, thick as tree trunks. They lashed out¡ªtoward Druna, toward Joran¡ªseeking to ensnare, to crush, to end.


    Druna got separated from the knights but was already moving, weaving through the chaos, blades a flurry of motion as she severed the monstrous vines before they could reach her. Joran ran, firing beams of raw magic at any vine that strayed too close, but the living tendrils were relentless. They coiled around him, walls of greenery forming a closing dome.


    ¡°Run, Joran!¡± Druna¡¯s voice cut through the chaos. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me¡ªjust run!¡±


    He panted, eyes darting, searching for any possible escape. The vines encroached, sealing him in. No way out. No way¡ª


    A teleport spell. His mind latched onto the only viable option. It was risky, unstable given his condition, but he had no choice. If he could escape, Druna could disappear. He just needed to think of a location¡ª


    A blur. A glint of steel.


    Vaelin appeared before him; blade raised high. ¡°Gotcha.¡±


    Joran¡¯s instincts screamed. Without thinking, he unleashed the spell.


    Light enveloped him¡ª


    Then he was gone.


    Vaelin¡¯s sword met empty space. For a heartbeat, he stood motionless, staring at the spot where Joran had been. Then, tremors of rage wracked his frame, his breath sharp and uneven. His fists clenched. The street echoed with his roar of fury. The prince had escaped.

 CHAPTER TWELVE

    A burst of light split through the darkness of the forest, and in the next instant, Joran crashed to the earth in a heap. His hands dug into the dirt as he panted, his entire body trembling from exertion. Every breath burned his lungs, every muscle ached with the weight of exhaustion. His cloak clung to him, damp with sweat, as if he had been submerged in water. The cool night air brushed against his skin, but it did little to soothe the feverish heat coursing through his veins.


    He lifted his gaze skyward, staring at the vast expanse of stars blinking against the midnight canvas. Two moons hung above him¡ªsilent, watchful sentinels. Joran swallowed hard, lips parting as he whispered a prayer to any god that would listen. ¡°Please¡­ let Druna have escaped. Let her still be alive.¡±


    His fingers twitched, a strange sensation prickling along his left arm. A deep, sinking feeling settled in his gut. Slowly, he turned his gaze downward, and there¡ªetched into his forearm¡ªwas a jagged scar, stretching from the back of his hand to his elbow. It flickered, shifting between existence and illusion like a dying ember struggling to stay alight.


    ¡°No. No, no, no¡­¡±


    Joran gritted his teeth, forcing what little magic he had left into the spell. His vision blurred as he willed the illusion to hold. The flickering ceased. The scar vanished.


    Then, the world tilted.


    His head spun violently, and before he could steady himself, his body gave out. He rolled onto his side, limbs trembling, the ground beneath him cool against his burning skin. He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open, let alone move. He could feel his magic still within him¡ªhis reserves were far from empty¡ªbut his body had been pushed far past its limits. The damage wasn¡¯t just magical exhaustion; it was something deeper, something that no amount of rest could easily fix.


    Even so, he couldn¡¯t allow himself to succumb. Not yet.


    With the last of his fading will, Joran pressed his palm weakly against the dirt, his fingers trembling as they traced a rune into the soil. A faint glow pulsed beneath his hand, spreading outward in slow, deliberate waves. A soft hum filled the air as a healing dome formed around him, warm and gentle like a cocoon of golden light. The moment the spell took hold, Joran¡¯s vision dimmed, and consciousness slipped from his grasp.


    <hr>


    Midday


    The first thing Joran noticed upon waking was the warmth.


    Sunlight streamed through the dense canopy above, dappled golden rays spilling onto the forest floor. He groaned as he forced himself upright, his body stiff, his limbs aching from where they had lain on the hard ground for hours. His throat was dry, his mind sluggish, but at the very least, he was alive.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as he glanced down at his torso. His cloak was tattered and stained with dirt and dried blood, but the worst of his wounds had been healed. He lifted his tunic slightly, revealing the fresh scars that now joined the many old ones on his body. His bruises had faded to dull patches of discoloration, no longer the deep, angry purples they had been before.


    With a weary sigh, he let the fabric fall and turned his attention to his surroundings.


    The forest was vast and tranquil, the very air thick with the scent of summer. Towering trees¡ªancient oaks and sprawling maples¡ªstretched their limbs high, their verdant leaves rustling softly in the warm midday breeze. Willows swayed gracefully along the edges of a small clearing, their delicate branches trailing toward the earth like golden threads. A narrow brook snaked its way through the landscape, its waters shimmering like molten silver beneath the afternoon sun.


    The air was alive with the subtle, ceaseless symphony of nature. Birds trilled from the treetops¡ªa melody of warblers and finches, their calls blending with the rhythmic tapping of a distant woodpecker. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, their small bodies dusted with golden pollen. A pair of dragonflies skimmed across the water¡¯s surface, their iridescent wings flashing with every movement.


    Joran took it all in with a slow, measured breath. Despite everything, the world here remained untouched by war, by blood, by cruelty. It was a stark contrast to the violence of the previous night, to the chaos he had barely managed to escape.


    But peace could only last so long.


    Joran pushed himself onto unsteady feet, swaying slightly as his legs adjusted to standing again. He stumbled toward the brook, sinking to his knees at its edge before cupping his hands and splashing the cold water against his face. The chill jolted his senses, washing away some of the fatigue clinging to his mind. He scrubbed away the dried sweat, letting the cool liquid trickle down his arms before bringing a handful to his lips.


    The water was crisp, refreshing, untouched by any trace of civilization. He drank deeply, taking several gulps before finally exhaling and sitting back on his heels.


    He was alone.


    The realization settled in as he stared at his reflection in the water, his brown eyes dark with exhaustion. He had no idea where he was.


    The teleportation spell had been cast in desperation, without any real direction. He had only thought of getting away¡ªescaping Lothara, escaping his pursuers. And now, he had no clue how far he had been flung from the kingdom¡¯s borders.


    His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. Druna¡­ Had she made it out? Had she survived? The last thing he saw was her fighting all three of them at once, holding them back so he could run. He gritted his teeth, frustration simmering beneath his exhaustion. I should have stayed. I should have fought harder.


    But that wouldn¡¯t have changed anything. He knew that.


    Taking a slow breath, Joran rose to his feet, shaking away his lingering doubt. Standing still wouldn¡¯t get him anywhere. He needed to move, to figure out where he had landed. If he was lucky, he¡¯d find a town, maybe a trade route, anything that could give him some sense of direction.


    He adjusted his cloak, shifting its folds to better conceal his injuries. Then, without another word, he started walking.


    The forest stretched before him, bathed in golden light, silent and waiting.

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    Joran moved through the forest on foot, his steps steady but measured. Though his magic could summon a steed, he refrained¡ªhis body was still recovering from the toll of overexertion, and he couldn¡¯t afford to push himself any further. The rhythmic crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his boots was his only companion as he pressed onward.


    For the first hour, the forest remained lush, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Birds flitted between the branches, their songs filling the silence, while the occasional rustle in the underbrush hinted at unseen creatures lurking just beyond sight. But as he continued, the terrain began to shift.


    The vibrant greenery gave way to dry, brittle soil, and the once-dense canopy thinned, allowing the harsh sunlight to bear down on the land. The trees, once towering and healthy, now stood in sparse clusters, their bark stripped and weathered, their branches skeletal and twisted. The undergrowth withered, choked by the lifelessness that crept across the landscape. The rich aroma of the forest was replaced with the acrid scent of dust and old iron¡ªlike dried blood lingering in the wind.


    The further he walked, the quieter the world became. The cheerful songs of birds faded into eerie silence. No insects buzzed, no animals stirred. Even the wind seemed hesitant to stir this forsaken land. Then, from beyond a jagged ridge, a new sound rose¡ªa dull, rhythmic thudding, like metal striking flesh, accompanied by the distant roar of a crowd. Voices overlapped in harsh, guttural tones, mixing with the clinking of chains, the clatter of weapons, and the unmistakable scent of sweat and blood thickening in the air.


    Joran reached the crest of a crumbling ridge, and there it was¡ªKorr¡¯s Maw.


    The settlement sprawled across the remains of an ancient battlefield, built upon the bones of war. Its architecture was crude but imposing¡ªa fortress of jagged stone and rusted metal, its walls cobbled together from salvaged weapons, shattered siege engines, and the remnants of long-forgotten battles. The main gates stood wide, guarded by warriors clad in mismatched armor, their eyes sharp and predatory, scanning every soul who dared enter.


    Inside, the streets were a chaotic sprawl of shanties, forges belching thick smoke, and crude tents where merchants peddled everything from weapons to slaves. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of blood. Armed men and women roamed freely¡ªsome mercenaries, others were warriors seeking glory in the arena, their weapons always within reach.


    At the heart of it all lay The Maw¡ªan enormous, circular pit dug deep into the earth, surrounded by towering stands where spectators gathered to witness the brutality within. Even from a distance, Joran could hear the roar of the crowd as steel clashed against steel, the cheers of gamblers and the agonized cries of the defeated.


    Beyond the arena, a looming structure dominated the skyline¡ªThe Warlord¡¯s Hold. A crude but formidable fortress built atop a hill of ancient ruins, its exterior reinforced with layers of iron and stone, its banners stained with old blood. This was the seat of power in Korr¡¯s Maw, where only the strongest ruled, and the weak were ground beneath their boots.


    Joran exhaled, bracing himself. He was far from Lothara now, stranded in unfamiliar territory. Though he didn¡¯t yet know this place by name, its nature was unmistakable¡ªa brutal, lawless den where strength ruled, where life was cheap, and death was nothing more than a spectacle. And now, he was walking straight into its maw.


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Joran walked through the settlement¡¯s main entrance, his hood drawn low over his face, his body tense with unease. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every muscle in his frame wound tight like a coiled spring. This place felt wrong. Even without looking too closely, he could feel it¡ªthe weight of unseen eyes, the whispered threats in every sidelong glance.


    The mythics here were unlike those in Lothara. There were no warm smiles, no children playing in the streets, no artisans selling enchanted wares with jovial laughter. Here, every soul bore the marks of survival¡ªscarred bodies, missing limbs, jagged weapons strapped to their backs, and expressions as hard as the steel they carried. The only ones who appeared unarmed were the merchants, but even they radiated the air of predators waiting for the right moment to strike. Then Joran saw them.


    Cages.


    Iron bars lined the marketplace, crude but sturdy, filled with huddled figures wrapped in tattered scraps of cloth. Slaves. A dozen pairs of wide, terrified eyes turned toward him, their gazes hollow with exhaustion and despair. Elves. Gnomes. Lamia. Succubi. Even children. Some clung to each other, while others remained motionless, staring at the ground as though they had long accepted their fate. A few bore fresh, seared brands on their skin, marking them as property. A chuckle broke through Joran¡¯s trance. ¡°Ahh... caught your attention, did they?¡±


    A hunched merchant with a single milky-white eye limped toward him, wringing his hands together. His grin was missing several teeth, and his greasy, stained robes stank of ale and sweat. ¡°Fine stock, eh? Fresh, too. They¡¯re a bit pricey, but I assure you, the young ones are worth the coin.¡±


    Joran turned sharply to face him, his stomach churning. ¡°Fresh?¡± he repeated, voice tight. ¡°What do you mean¡­ fresh?¡±


    The merchant wiped his nose on his sleeve and let out a wheezing laugh. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re new around here, huh? This batch was picked up just yesterday. Poor bastards thought they could make it to Lothara. Almost made it, too. If not for us, they¡¯d be lounging in that mythic paradise instead of making someone a nice coin.¡±


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    Joran forced his hands to remain still at his sides, resisting the urge to summon magic. His heart pounded, but his face remained impassive, his jaw tight as he turned away from the cage filled with shackled mythics. If he acted now, it would only end in disaster. He needed information first. He needed to understand where he was¡­ and how to get out.


    Feigning disinterest, he turned his gaze back to the merchant. ¡°Hmmm¡­ Lothara, huh?¡± His voice was casual, but his words were measured. ¡°How far are we from its borders? We can¡¯t be too close, or else Lothara¡¯s forces would¡¯ve razed this place to the ground.¡±


    The merchant let out a scoff, scratching his grimy cheek with a blackened fingernail. ¡°Hah! They wish they could.¡± He shook his head, chuckling darkly. ¡°This place? It¡¯s built for the strong. Even if they tried, the warlord and the people here would tear their precious kingdom¡¯s soldiers apart before they could even breach the walls.¡± He spat onto the dirt, sneering. ¡°Lothara¡¯s about four days north on foot. Far enough that their patrols don¡¯t come sniffing around. Far enough that we can do whatever we damn well please.¡±


    Joran¡¯s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to nod, playing along.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t traveled through this region in a while,¡± he said, glancing around as though only mildly curious. ¡°Didn¡¯t even realize there was a settlement here.¡±


    The merchant smirked. ¡°That¡¯s by design. This place started as a camp, but once folks realized how many mythics traveled this route, it grew. Four years later, we¡¯ve got a proper city of our own.¡± His voice carried a note of pride. ¡°A place where the weak get sold and the strong get rich.¡±


    Joran¡¯s lips thinned. ¡°And the arena?¡±


    At that, the merchant¡¯s grin widened. He jerked a thumb toward the massive coliseum in the heart of the settlement, where the sound of clashing steel and roaring crowds echoed through the air.


    ¡°That¡¯s the Maw. The heart of Korr¡¯s Maw.¡± His voice carried an almost reverent tone. ¡°That¡¯s where warriors prove their worth. Some fight for freedom, others for coin, and then you¡¯ve got the real bastards¡ªthe ones fighting just for glory.¡± His grin turned cruel. ¡°Course, you get the occasional idiot who tries to fight their way to the Warlord. But no one¡¯s ever made it that far. And the ones who tried?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Well¡­ the sand remembers their blood.¡±


    Joran stepped ahead of the merchant staring at the maw then the structure past it which he can only assume was where the warlord was. ¡°I appreciate the information. I assume you want money in exchange, so I have a couple coins to spare.¡± ¡°How about you give me everything you¡¯re carrying.¡± joran turned to see the merchant had a dagger drawn and pointed towards him. ¡°What are you doing? What good does a merchant gain from robbing customers?¡± the merchant laughed and said, ¡°you seem like a nice fellow but i also can tell you have some nice gear on you. You can either hand it over or i''ll take it off your corpse. Now hurry before the guards see and we both get in trouble!¡± joran tried to think of the best way out of this. He was always afraid when the knights who hurt him would challenge him to training or when he would see them in the halls but for some reason, he was less afraid with this guy. He expected himself to be terrified the next time he entered combat but as he stared at this man, he felt ready for a fight. He knew he had to cast a spell and came up with the perfect one.


    His left hand shot out, fingers curling into a half-clenched palm as a surge of raw magical energy built up in his arm. The air vibrated around his outstretched hand, rippling like a distortion in reality. An ethereal blue-white glow burst forth from his palm, forming a ring of shimmering light¡ªa visual warning of what was about to happen.


    The merchant¡¯s eyes widened. He had just enough time to register the sudden shift in the air¡ªthe sheer force pressing against his chest like the weight of a tidal wave¡ªbefore Joran struck.


    The instant his palm thrust forward, a compressed shockwave exploded outward with thunderous force, sending the merchant hurtling backward as if a giant had just backhanded him. His feet left the ground.


    His body twisted midair like a ragdoll, limbs flailing wildly as he rocketed across the marketplace¡ªbarrels and wooden crates bursting apart in his wake.


    The merchant slammed into the side of a nearby stone wall, the impact sending spiderweb cracks rippling outward from where his body struck. A dull groan escaped his lips before his head lolled forward unconsciously. Silence fell over the marketplace. All eyes turned to Joran. People froze mid-bargain. A butcher, holding a cleaver, gawked at the body-shaped imprint in the stone. A pair of mercenaries, halfway through a heated dice game, slowly lowered their hands. Even a drunk slumped over a broken barrel lifted his head, blinking blearily at the unconscious merchant. The tension was palpable.


    Joran slowly lowered his palm, flexing his fingers as the lingering magic dissipated. He glanced at the merchant, still crumpled against the wall, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Alive. That was good. He wasn¡¯t looking to kill anyone. He was ready to get moving and blend into the crowd when a saurian (lizardman) and a cyclops in matching armor ran up to the stall and blocked any way joran could leave. The saurian¡¯s tail waved back and forth behind him as one clawed toe tapped against the ground. ¡°What in the hell happened here?¡± The cyclops tapped his club against his palm as he snarled and stared at the prince with his one wide eye at 6 feet tall while the saurian was a matching height. Joran took a step away from them nervously. ¡°Uhhhh i-im sorry¡­ I didn''t mean to cause a disturbance. The merchant was trying to rob me, so I had to do something.¡± the saurian took a step towards him. ¡°What is your placement?¡± ¡°m-my placement?¡± ¡°Did I stutter? You¡¯re obviously not a merchant and you don¡¯t look like a mercenary so where did you place on the test that decides what you are in the class system?¡± ¡°i-i don¡¯t¡­ I didn''t know there was a test¡­¡± the saurian sighed and stood up straight. ¡°A newcomer, eh? Well, you need to go through the test to decide if you belong with the strong¡­ or the prey. What race are you?¡± joran gulped nervously as he looked between them. ¡°Ummm¡­ human¡­ yeah¡­ just a plain human¡­¡± he smiled nervously, and that nervous grin got wider when they didn¡¯t seem to believe him. The saurian nudged the cyclops. ¡°Alright dorn. Do your thing.¡± the cyclops named dorn moved closer to joran and his eye glowed brightly. This caused joran to remember one thing he had forgotten about cyclops. They had the magical ability to use their eye to see things others can''t, similar to oracles and prophets but not as powerful. They can see magical power, auras, certain weaknesses, and other things but there was one thing that they could see that worried him. His worries were proven correct when Dorn took a large step back as his power faded but his eye was now wide with fear.


    dorn spoke with a deep and trembling voice. ¡°W-we¡­ he¡­ he isn¡¯t human¡­ dear gods¡­ he needs to see the warlord¡­¡± ¡°ummm¡­i-i''d rather¡­¡± Joran began to say but then dorn readied his club as did the saurian with his spear. ¡°That wasn¡¯t a request boy.¡± he said as he tried to regain his composure but whatever he had seen had him shaken to the core. ¡°You claim to not want trouble so come with us or else.¡± joran was quiet for a minute then looked around to see others ready for a fight. Not just guards but mercs as well who were itching for the stranger to make a move so they could all pile on him and get their chunk of flesh. Joran sighed softly as he patted his side out of annoyance and said, ¡°fine¡­ take me to your leader¡­¡±

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    Joran was marched into the main throne room by dorn and the saurian who he had learnt was named tornon during a conversation between the cyclops and lizard. The prince¡¯s eyes roamed around the room to see it was filled with mythics and even a couple humans in armor. He looked over to see a magi-human, humans who were born with magical abilities and are easily identified by their aura, and a large minotaur arm wrestling on a stone table. The minotaur ended up slamming the magi-human¡¯s hand down so hard the table cracked in half and the magi-human yelled briefly in pain while the minotaur cheered along with the small group that had gathered. Music played and a beautiful voice filled the air which drew joran to turn his attention to a siren wearing a slave collar while being forced to sing on a stage while others watched and cheered. He had believed only humans practiced slavery, but this settlement has proven there are those of other races who don¡¯t mind the practice which makes him sick to his stomach.


    He moved down the black carpet past those eating. Drinking, gambling, laughing, and doing all other sorts but when he walked past, they would go quiet since it¡¯s rare for someone to be brought before the warlord. Joran now stood at the end of the carpet before a large throne and laid eyes upon the man they called the warlord of korr¡¯s maw. He was a large mass of muscle standing at about 6¡¯11 with shoulder length hair and piercing green eyes. The only clothing he wore was brown pants, a fur coat made from some type of monstrous lion, and rings on his fingers that sparkled in the torchlight. Joran¡¯s eyes fell on the rings as he felt there was more to them than meets the eye. Female mythics were draped around the warlord in very revealing clothing that left little to the imagination. An elf held a pitcher of blood red wine and would pour into the warlord¡¯s goblet every time it ran empty. A lamia was coiled around the throne with her human half resting against the warlord¡¯s left leg while a girl with cat ears and a tail which could only be a cat beastkin which were also known as felari leaned against his right. They were of different races, but Joran could tell the one thing they all had in common was the broken look in their eyes and the slave collars on their necks that will punish them if they misbehave.


    The warlord gulped his wine noisily with the liquid streaming down the sides of his mouth and a little bit splashing on the girls at his feet. He sighed and wiped his mouth before holding the goblet up to the elf who flinched nervously. ¡°More wine bitch.¡± She poured wine into the goblet just as the warlord seemed to notice joran. He raised his free hand causing the siren to go quiet which led to the complaints of some of the others who were enjoying her song until the man slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. ¡°QUIET!¡± the stone arm cracked beneath his fist and the entire room went silent as everyone turned their attention to the warlord. The slaves were trembling as they were afraid if he got angry then he would let out his anger on them. Joran stared at collared mythics with sadness and quiet anger as the sight sickened him and kept him from blushing at their barely concealed bodies.


    Finally, Joran looked back up at the warlord whose eyes were locked onto the prince with a look of mild interest but also disdain. ¡°Why is this boy¡­no. This pup here? Is he here to challenge me?¡± Joran placed his hand over his heart and bowed as he attempted to regain his composure. ¡°Warlord of korr¡¯s maw. I am-¡± ¡°nothing until you are given permission to speak. Now shut the fuck up.¡± joran stood up straight and went quiet as the warlord turned his attention to joran¡¯s escorts. ¡°Well?¡± tornon nudged dorn who then stepped forward. ¡°well¡­ y-you see sire¡­ I had used my sight on ummm¡­ him and¡­ w-well¡­ i¡­ we.. tornon and i¡­ discovered that¡­ y-you are not going to believe-¡± suddenly a goblet slammed into dorn¡¯s gut causing his eye to widen and he fell to his hands and knees vomiting. Joran looked at Dorn then turned back to the warlord. The prince had barely processed that the warlord had thrown his goblet until it was already over, showing off his strength and speed. The lamia and the felari were drenched in wine causing their tops to be more see through.


    ¡°The next guard to speak better answer plainly or else both of you will be on tonight''s menu for the champion.¡± dorn was still on the ground groaning and heaving which left tornon to answer. He stepped forward and said, ¡°warlord varkul¡­ Dorn used his vision magic on this newcomer to see what race he was as we didn¡¯t believe him when he said he was just human and¡­ he¡¯s half dragon and half slayer." This caused quite the uproar in the throne room. What was he doing here? What does this mean for korr¡¯s maw? There is only one person known to the realm that has that kind of mixed blood and that is the prince of lothara. If the prince was here, then how far away could the king or the knights of Lothara be? Varkul rose to his feet and yelled, ¡°I SAID¡­ quiet¡­¡± he said the last word softly, but it carried through the entire room as everyone followed his command.


    The slaves moved out of the way as he walked towards joran until he was now looming over the prince. ¡°So¡­ you are the prince of Lothara aren¡¯t you?¡± he asked with a tone that said he already knew the answer but wanted confirmation. ¡°Yes¡­ I am.¡± joran¡¯s voice was clear and filled with confidence unlike any other time he has spoken to strangers. It could be the fact he was addressing the ruler, and he has been taught how to do that for most of his life or maybe it was the anger at how it was obvious varkul mistreated these slaves and how many mythics seemed to be ok with it. He looked past varkul at the slaves then up at him. ¡°Why do you do this?¡±


    The room was still as varkul just chuckled and leaned down a bit as dorn and tornon slowly backed away.¡±you¡¯re going to have to be specific, pup. I do a lot of things and half of them I barely care enough to remember." Joran took a step back, but he didn¡¯t pull his gaze away from varkul. ¡°The slaves, the gladiator fights, the pain and suffering. All of it. Why do this to innocent people?¡± varkul started laughing and so did the rest of the room except for the slaves. The laughter was so loud joran could feel his bones rattle a bit. ¡°Pup¡­ you have lived in your ivory tower for too long. There are no innocents in this world or any world. There is only the strong and the weak. The predator and the prey. I may be human, but I have respect for strong mythics. When I took over as warlord this settlement was crumbling because the leader before me, a tiefling with an affinity for speed magic, focused on himself. I murdered him with my bare hands and then told everyone who resided here that you will prosper if you are strong. I turned the maw into a place where you can rise through the ranks if you prove you can defeat or kill someone stronger than you. Then we realized how close we were to a route that mythics used to travel to Lothara and took advantage of that discovery.¡±


    ¡°But why? You could help them. You just said you give those the chance to live as the strong so why force mythics looking for a better life into this way of living.¡± ¡°Where there is the strong there must be a lower class, prince of lothara. The strong are the ruling class and then the weak are the serving class. They all have the chance to rise through the ranks. We even have a couple warriors here who were slaves. Those who were servants, raise your hands!" Joran looked around to see a couple of the grisly warriors and mercenaries raising their hands ¡°you see? They have the opportunity and if they wish to enter the maw then we allow it but then we have quite the number who are too weak or too afraid and so they continue as slaves until they are sold off or finally have the guts to enter the arena. There are a couple who will take their chances when they find out that they are close to being sold to merchants and sent back out into orano.¡±


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    Joran¡¯s gaze became more intense before he said, ¡°I have an alternative. You¡¯re right that you are close to one of the main routes mythics use so why not make business off of it.¡± varkul stroked his chin with a raised eyebrow. ¡°I am on a mission to build alliances and deal with other groups and kingdoms to further the goal to one day have a united orano where mythics and humans can live in equality. I am willing to make an agreement with korr¡¯s maw. You will be allowed to continue your way of living of the strong over the weak but only for those who come to your settlement willingly. You will be put on the map and everyone will know of this place. In exchange you will protect those on the road to lothara, for a hefty payment which lothara will provide, and you will banish all merchants of the slave trade from this location.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ if we say no to your offer?¡± varkul asked as he leaned closer towards the prince so their faces were inches from each other. Joran didn¡¯t flinch as he replied, ¡°then Lothara will raze this settlement to the ground leaving nothing but the ruins that came before it.¡± varkul stood up straight and was quiet for a long minute before turning to walk back to his throne. He waved away the lamia and the felari causing them to scramble to move out of his sight. He then looked over at the elf. ¡°Come here, elf.¡± She placed the pitcher down and slowly moved over to the warlord. Varkul snatched her arm and moved so they were now facing joran with the elf in front of varkul. ¡°That is an interesting offer prince joran but now is the time for me to explain something to you.¡± he moved his large hand to grab the elf¡¯s breast causing her to whimper as he groped and molested it. Joran could feel his heart beating through his chest as he stood and watched. ¡°You aren¡¯t in your kingdom anymore. This isn¡¯t lothara. The rules are different out here. We aren¡¯t your subjects and if you think we are just some mercs who will move towards the biggest buyer then you¡¯re wrong. We aren¡¯t afraid of you. I''m not afraid of you. Your authority means nothing to us. Those of us in the strong stay here because we love to rule over those below us.¡± he moved his hand from the elf¡¯s breast to her head which he began to stroke gently as she trembled. ¡°You are the hybrid between two powerful races. If you just stopped acting like such a little bitch and released your inner beast then you could rule us all but instead you preach about equality and love¡­. None of that matters.¡± he began to squeeze the elf¡¯s head causing her eyes to widen and she gripped at his fingers trying to pry them off as he lifted her off her feet. Joran¡¯s eyes widened and he stepped forward. ¡°Let her go!¡± ¡°There is only one thing that matters, prince! One thing that keeps humans at bay!¡± the elf started to scream as the sound of bone cracking came from her. ¡°Stop it!!!¡± joran yelled even louder as he moved towards the warlord. ¡°What matters is strength! Power! Domination! If you have none of that¡­ then you are nothing.¡± with that he squeezed and crushed the elf¡¯s head with ease. Her body went limp except the occasional twitch until it fell off the crushed remains of her skull and hit the ground with a thud.


    Joran stared in shock as varkul dropped the crushed skull and shook off the blood and brains on his hand. Joran¡¯s heart was beating faster now as his eyes rested on the warlord. ¡°You fucking MONSTER!!!¡± Joran¡¯s rage burned hotter than dragon¡¯s fire. The heat in his chest surged, spreading through his veins like liquid magma. His fingertips curled, sparks of gold and crimson arcing between them, the air twisting from the sheer pressure of his gathering magic.


    Varkul¡¯s smirk remained as he rolled his shoulders, taking a step forward. Unbothered. Unshaken. ¡°Yess¡­. Show me your strength! Show me your power! Make me fear you, pup!¡±


    He doesn¡¯t think I can hurt him.


    Joran gritted his teeth. Then I¡¯ll show him.


    He slammed his hands together, and the entire room ignited.


    A shockwave of golden fire erupted from his body, shattering the stone at his feet. The blazing energy spiraled upwards, forming into a massive, searing-hot sphere above his hands. It pulsed like a second sun, writhing and crackling with power barely contained. The air itself trembled, the pressure threatening to collapse in on itself.


    Varkul¡¯s grin widened while everyone in the room backed up as far as they could from the two.


    Joran¡¯s eyes blazed like an inferno as he thrust his hands forward, his voice thundering through the hall.


    ¡°INFERNAL JUDGEMENT!!¡±


    The blazing sphere exploded forth. A pillar of fire ripped through the air, swallowing everything in its path as it slammed into Varkul with the force of a divine hammer. The entire chamber shook violently, walls cracking, the floor splintering as the flames raged, expanding outward in a blazing vortex.


    The heat was unbearable. Metal warped, stone melted, the air itself shimmered under the sheer intensity of the blast. The light was so blinding that Joran had to shield his eyes, yet he could still hear the deafening roar of flames consuming everything.


    The warlord¡¯s form disappeared in the maelstrom as he laughed before going quiet.


    Joran¡¯s chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face as the last of the fire began to fade, leaving behind only a swirling mass of thick, choking smoke. The acrid scent of melted gold and scorched stone filled the air. Joran could feel himself drained and noticed the sweat on his skin. He knew that this particular spell was powerful but considering he was rested, healed, and had a great deal of magical power there is no way he should feel this spent. He stood up straight and waited for the smoke to clear, expecting the spell to have been enough to take down the warlord. The warriors in the room stared in complete shock at the magical power joran had shown and wondered if that was it for their warlord. The slaves were hopeful as they stared where the warlord had been standing.


    Joran''s fists clenched as he tried to pierce through the haze, his breath uneven.


    Was it enough?


    Had he¡ª?


    A deep breath echoed through the silence. his stomach twisted. The smoke refused to clear completely, as if something still lingered within it. Something standing. And then¡ªa low, guttural chuckle that turned into a laugh.


    Joran¡¯s blood ran cold as varkul stepped out of the smoke with not a scratch on him. He pulled off his burning fur coat and tossed it aside as he cracked his knuckles with a malicious smile on his face. ¡°While a disappointing attack, I still believe¡­ that was a challenge for my throne.¡± he slammed his foot into the ground causing it to crack before he charged toward the prince.

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    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¡ªunstoppable, 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¡ªa 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¡ªeach 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


    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¡ªa 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.


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    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¡ªdeep, guttural, mocking¡ªechoed 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¡ª" 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¡ªbut 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.

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    Joran awoke with a sharp inhale, his body jerking upright as though he had been drowning in darkness. The moment he moved, a splitting pain lanced through his skull, hammering against the inside of his head like a war drum. He groaned, pressing his fingers against his temple, willing the pain to subside. The dull ache in his limbs, the stiffness in his muscles¡ªit all reminded him of the brutal fight that had led to his defeat.


    Then, a voice.


    ¡°Oh, good¡­ You¡¯re awake.¡±


    Joran¡¯s head snapped toward the source. Varkul.


    The warlord sat outside the iron-barred cell, his massive frame lounging comfortably on a wooden chair. Despite the dim torchlight, his presence was suffocating. Even seated, the sheer bulk of the man made him seem more like a beast resting after a hunt than a man simply watching a prisoner.


    Joran¡¯s instincts flared, and he glanced down, scanning his body. His clothes were intact, but his belt was missing. His gear¡ªhis cloak, his belt, his dagger¡ªall gone. His heart pounded as he reached for the sheath at his side, only to feel nothing but empty space.


    His sword was gone.


    ¡°What¡­?¡± Joran¡¯s voice was hoarse, his throat raw. His fingers curled into fists. ¡°Where is my¡ª?¡±


    Varkul chuckled, cutting him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. ¡°If you¡¯re looking for your little toys, don¡¯t worry about them. They¡¯re safe.¡± He smirked, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. ¡°Well, except for your sword. We had to leave that in the lobby. Seems like after we took it off your belt, nobody could lift it.¡±


    Joran felt the faintest flicker of relief. Eitri¡¯s enchantment was working. Only he could wield the Vermillion Fang. That meant no one had taken it for themselves. But his relief was short-lived.


    Without hesitation, he reached out, focusing his will, summoning the sword back to him¡ª


    Agony exploded through his body.


    A searing, unbearable pain ripped through his arm and spread like wildfire to every nerve, every muscle, every fiber of his being. His knees buckled, and a strangled scream tore from his lips as he collapsed to the ground. His vision blurred with the sheer intensity of the pain, his body convulsing as wave after wave of torment crashed into him.


    Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.


    Joran lay on the cold stone floor, his breath ragged, his body wracked with lingering spasms. The pain had left his muscles weak and trembling, sweat clinging to his skin.


    Varkul¡¯s laughter rumbled through the air like distant thunder. ¡°You just tried to use magic, didn¡¯t you?¡± The warlord¡¯s smirk widened as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ¡°You thought us savages wouldn¡¯t plan for that? Look at your wrist.¡±


    Joran forced himself to move, his trembling hand brushing against a cold, metallic band wrapped around his wrist. His stomach sank.


    A silver bracelet.


    ¡°That little thing is quite the marvel,¡± Varkul continued. ¡°It stays active at all times¡ªexcept when you step into the arena. If you so much as think about using magic or tapping into your precious mythic abilities outside of a fight, well¡­¡± He gestured vaguely at Joran¡¯s sprawled form. ¡°You get a little reminder.¡±


    Joran¡¯s mind reeled. This was bad. He couldn¡¯t even summon his sword, let alone use his spells.


    Varkul studied him with an almost lazy curiosity, then stroked his chin. ¡°That leads to a rather interesting question, princeling¡­ Why didn¡¯t you use your natural abilities?¡±


    Joran narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re a hybrid,¡± Varkul continued. ¡°Half-dragon, half-slayer. Slayers are fast, strong, and damn near impossible to kill, while dragons have their fire, their claws, their scales¡­ wings. I¡¯ve even heard dragonkin are blessed with magic powerful enough to turn entire battlefields to ash. So why were you holding back?¡±


    Joran sat up slowly, his muscles still screaming in protest. He climbed onto the cot, resting his back against the wall as he exhaled through gritted teeth.


    ¡°And why,¡± he said at last, his voice dry, ¡°would I answer that?¡±


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    Varkul let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. ¡°Now, now. No need for such hostility.¡± He spread his arms in mock diplomacy. ¡°I¡¯m just making conversation. Warlord to prince.¡±


    Joran¡¯s expression hardened. ¡°Why the hell would you want a civil conversation now? I¡¯m not your pet. I¡¯m not some slave. I tried talking to you before. I tried diplomacy. And what did you do? You murdered an innocent elf and spat on my proposal.¡±


    Varkul gave an exaggerated sigh, scratching behind his ear. ¡°Ah yes¡­ the elf.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Regrettable, I suppose.¡±


    Joran¡¯s breath caught. Regrettable?


    Varkul leaned back in his chair. ¡°Here¡¯s the thing, princeling. I was drunk. And when I drink, I get a little more¡­¡± He rolled a hand in the air as if searching for the right word. ¡°¡­aggressive.¡±


    Joran stared at him in disbelief. Drunk? If that was him drunk, then what was he like when he was actually trying?


    ¡°So,¡± Joran said slowly, searching the warlord¡¯s expression, ¡°does that mean you¡¯ll let me go?¡±


    Varkul smirked. ¡°Sadly, no.¡±


    Joran¡¯s fingers dug into his palms.


    ¡°While I regret killing the elf¡ªmainly because she was a good fuck¡ª¡± his smirk widened at Joran¡¯s barely contained rage, ¡°¡ªI still stand by my decision. I have no interest in doing business with Lothara. And I still plan to have you fight in the arena.¡±


    He snapped his fingers. A guard approached, unlocking the cell and tossing Joran¡¯s belongings onto the floor.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get your sword back later,¡± Varkul continued, ¡°but you won¡¯t be allowed to keep it in your cell. And don¡¯t try anything stupid. You already lost to me once. We both know how a rematch would go.¡±


    Joran clenched his jaw.


    Varkul stood, towering over him even through the iron bars. ¡°I must admit, princeling. I find you interesting. You hold your cards close to your chest, and I respect that. But¡­¡± His lips curled into a knowing smile. ¡°After a few rounds in the arena, you might start talking. And if I¡¯m even luckier, you¡¯ll stop holding back.¡±


    He turned, making his way toward the door.


    Joran¡¯s mind raced. He needed to get out. If he stayed, sooner or later, he would either die in the arena¡ªor worse, the knights would find him.


    Then, an idea struck him.


    ¡°Wait!¡±


    Varkul paused.


    Joran moved to the bars, gripping them tightly. ¡°What if I beat your champion?¡±


    The warlord turned back, intrigued. ¡°Say that again?¡±


    Joran¡¯s golden eyes burned with determination. ¡°If I defeat your champion, then I will have proven my strength. That means I should be allowed to choose to stay¡ªor leave.¡±


    Varkul crossed his arms. ¡°Bold words. But there¡¯s no way you¡¯ll win.¡±


    ¡°Then let me prove it,¡± Joran pressed. ¡°And if I do win, you set all the slaves free.¡±


    Varkul let out a bellowing laugh. ¡°You fool! If I lose my slaves, I¡¯ll just replace them.¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t need to,¡± Joran shot back. ¡°You¡¯d have a reason to negotiate with Lothara¡ªto trade your services for gold.¡±


    Varkul went silent, considering. Then, he grinned. ¡°Alright, princeling. Here¡¯s the deal. You¡¯ll fight three of my best gladiators. If you win, you¡¯ll fight the champion.¡± He smirked. ¡°If you beat her¡­ then we¡¯ll talk.¡± joran nodded in agreement.


    He watched Varkul¡¯s broad back as the warlord strode toward the exit, his footsteps heavy against the stone floor. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on Joran, his body aching from the brutal beating he had suffered. His ribs throbbed, his muscles burned, and the constant, biting pain from the magic-suppressing bracelet still lingered in his veins like a cruel reminder of his helplessness.


    Your first fight will be this evening. Rest up.


    Varkul¡¯s words echoed in his mind, but something about them felt¡­ off.


    The warlord had agreed too easily. No negotiation, no mocking laughter, no cruel conditions to make the deal feel unwinnable. He simply agreed.


    Joran¡¯s stomach twisted. That wasn¡¯t right.


    A heavy ache settled in his chest. He had been taught since childhood to read between the lines, to watch for hidden meanings in political discussions, but this was something different. This wasn¡¯t a king at court making an alliance¡ªthis was a predator playing with its food.


    Joran turned his gaze downward, staring at his open palm. His fingers trembled, whether from fatigue or anger, he wasn¡¯t sure. If he was going to fight for his freedom, then he needed to be certain of Varkul¡¯s true intentions.


    If he was lying¡­ then there was no deal at all.


    His jaw tightened as his free hand reached into his coat, fingers wrapping around a familiar, cool object. The Voidglass Eye.


    Joran inhaled deeply before stepping forward, pressing himself against the iron bars of his cell. He raised the artifact to his eye, feeling the familiar weight settle over his vision. The dark glass shimmered with an unnatural glow, its magic awakening as he focused his will into it.


    He locked onto Varkul¡¯s retreating form.


    Show me.


    A surge of energy passed through Joran¡¯s mind, and then¡ª


    A voice not his own whispered in his ear.


    Ha! That fucking idiot! He honestly thinks I¡¯d let him go?


    Ridiculous. He¡¯s going to bring me more gold and glory than any fighter I¡¯ve ever had. Every round he wins, the crowd will go wild. More bets, more drinks, more coin in my pockets. And he actually thinks I¡¯d free the slaves? That¡¯s the best part! The fool believes his own idealistic nonsense. He¡¯ll fight his hardest because he thinks he¡¯s saving them. That alone makes this all worth it.


    But let¡¯s say¡ª on the smallest, most impossible chance ¡ªthat he actually beats my champion?


    Then I¡¯ll just kill him myself. With my bare hands.


    Joran staggered back, his breath caught in his throat as the Voidglass Eye¡¯s magic faded. His fingers trembled around the artifact as he quickly stuffed it away.


    His heart pounded, his blood roaring in his ears. He could still hear Varkul¡¯s laughter in his mind, still feel the warlord¡¯s smug confidence pressing against him like a vice.


    It was a lie. Everything was a lie.


    His hands curled into fists. There was no deal.


    Joran gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe through the overwhelming tide of emotions that threatened to pull him under. He had to think. He had to plan.


    Varkul had no intention of keeping his word, which meant Joran was never going to be allowed to leave¡ªnot as a free man. If he won, they¡¯d throw him into more fights. If he lost, he would die for the crowd¡¯s amusement.


    And if he somehow won every fight, including against the champion?


    Then he would have to face Varkul himself¡ªa man whose mere presence weakened him, whose strength seemed limitless, whose monstrous resilience defied reason.


    Joran exhaled shakily, his body tense as he turned toward the small, hard cot in the corner of his cell. He lowered himself onto it, facing the cold stone wall.


    His mind raced, but exhaustion clawed at him like a beast demanding its due. His body was battered, his magic sealed away, his strength rapidly draining from his bones.


    For now, he needed rest.


    But as he closed his eyes, one thought settled deep in his mind, unshakable. I will not die here. I will find a way out. And when I do¡ªVarkul will regret underestimating me.

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    A thunderous roar shook the air, the cries of hundreds¡ªno, thousands¡ªechoing through the Maw, the gladiatorial arena carved deep into the heart of Korr¡¯s Maw. The structure loomed like the ribcage of a great beast, its jagged walls towering over the pit where countless warriors had fought, bled, and died. The arena¡¯s floor, a mixture of compacted dirt and ancient bloodstains, felt almost alive beneath Joran¡¯s boots, pulsing with the memories of slaughter.


    He strode forward with Vermillion Fang in hand, the weight of the enchanted blade grounding him against the overwhelming noise. The heat of countless torches bathed the stands in flickering orange light, illuminating the jeering faces of warriors, mercenaries, and slavers, their laughter cruel and hungry. The scent of sweat, ale, and roasted meat hung thick in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of rusted iron and old blood.


    Joran¡¯s gaze swept across the stands, taking in the grotesque spectacle that surrounded him. Warriors leaned against the railings, exchanging bets on whether the prince would last longer than the last poor soul thrown into the pit. Slavers lounged with their ¡®property¡¯¡ªmythic men and women forced to kneel by their sides, their faces hollow with resignation. Some still carried the spark of rebellion in their eyes, while others had long since been broken.


    A particularly loud cheer erupted from the crowd, drawing Joran¡¯s attention to the grand viewing box, an elevated platform overlooking the carnage.


    There, seated upon a great throne of dark iron and monstrous bones, was Varkul, the tyrant of Korr¡¯s Maw. The warlord lounged lazily, exuding an air of unshakable dominance, as if he had already decided the outcome of this match before it had even begun.


    At his feet, his personal harem of enslaved mythics knelt in humiliating positions, their barely concealed bodies pressed against the stone, their faces blank masks of obedience. A feline beastkin, a Felari, coiled her tail around his leg, forced into affection she clearly did not feel. An elven woman poured more dark wine into his goblet, her hands trembling as she tried not to spill a single drop. A siren sat stiffly beside him, her voice silenced save for when Varkul willed it.


    But it wasn¡¯t his presence that made Joran¡¯s stomach churn with rage¡ªit was the thing he was eating. Varkul tore into a hunk of roasted meat, his teeth sinking into it with an almost animalistic glee. The juices ran down his chin, staining his beard red as he ripped away another chunk.


    And then Joran saw it.


    A bone jutted out from the cooked flesh, unnaturally long for animal meat. A sickening realization crashed over Joran like a tidal wave of ice. The charred flesh, the grotesque shape¡ªit was a leg. A human leg.


    No¡ªnot just human.


    The elf.


    The very woman he had killed in the throne room. The innocent elf Varkul had so casually crushed in his grasp now lay upon his plate, her body desecrated and devoured as if she were nothing more than livestock.


    Joran¡¯s breath hitched. His vision narrowed, rage flaring inside him like a wildfire as his grip on Vermillion Fang tightened. The leather of the hilt creaked under the force of his hold, his knuckles turning white. A burning heat coiled in his chest, crawling up his throat like bile.


    That bastard. That fucking monster.


    The warlord, as if sensing Joran¡¯s revelation, looked directly at him and grinned. His sharp, predatory teeth gleamed in the torchlight, his expression one of pure amusement. He knew. He wanted Joran to realize it. He wanted him to suffer in the knowledge of it.


    Joran¡¯s pulse thundered in his ears. His magic flared instinctively, sending faint golden embers flickering along the blade¡¯s surface. The world around him faded, leaving only Varkul in his sights, the monstrous warlord reveling in his own cruelty.


    Just as the pressure in Joran¡¯s chest reached its peak, a voice boomed across the arena, cutting through the tension like a blade.


    The announcer had arrived.


    The booming voice of the announcer exploded through the arena, ringing out with an almost unnatural strength, as if woven with magic to be heard in every corner of the Maw. The crowd roared in response, a chaotic symphony of cheers, jeers, and drunken howls, their voices colliding in an overwhelming maelstrom of excitement and bloodlust.


    ¡°WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THE MAW!¡±


    Joran winced slightly, though he made sure his expression remained neutral. He couldn''t see the announcer, which meant the voice was being projected from some unseen balcony or magical device. He scanned the arena, but his instincts told him that his true concern lay beyond the announcer¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Today, we bring you a truly special event! A tale of legend, a moment of history in the making!¡±


    The crowd''s fervor grew, boots stomping against the wooden and stone seating, fists pounding against tables, tankards slamming onto the ledges. Some barked for blood, others screamed for the thrill of a new fight.


    ¡°In the pit today, we have a warrior unlike any other! A child of two worlds! A son of legends!¡± The announcer¡¯s voice carried an unmistakable mockery, though the audience was too swept up in their excitement to care.


    Joran shifted slightly, his grip tightening on Vermillion Fang. He knew what was coming.


    ¡°That¡¯s right! In our arena, we have the son of the DRAGON KING and the QUEEN OF THE WESTERN DRAGONS themselves!¡±


    The crowd erupted. The name of the Dragon King still held power and fear, and to hear his bloodline spoken aloud sent a ripple through the spectators. Some cheered wildly, eager to see what the offspring of such a powerful union could do. Others booed, sneered, and spat, calling for his death.


    ¡°But alas! This little hatchling has yet to prove his strength!¡± the announcer declared with feigned disappointment.


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    Laughter rippled through the stands, cruel and mocking.


    ¡°And he already failed his first challenge! That¡¯s right! He faced our mighty warlord¡­ AND HE LOST!¡±


    A deafening roar of approval rolled through the arena. Joran clenched his jaw as his gaze instinctively flickered up toward the high balcony, where Varkul lounged upon his throne.


    The warlord, ever the showman, grinned as he set aside his half-eaten meal, rising to his feet with a theatrical motion. He raised his thick, muscular arms into the air, flexing for the crowd, basking in their adoration like a self-crowned god. The moment he did, the cheers doubled in intensity.


    These people really worship him.


    Joran¡¯s stomach twisted with revulsion. Not because they saw him as strong¡ªbut because they saw him as justified. A ruler of monsters and murderers, of slavers and killers, and yet¡­ they adored him.


    The announcer, enjoying the crowd¡¯s reaction, let the cheering go on for a few moments longer before raising his voice again.


    ¡°And so, here he is! The fool who challenges the Maw! The prey of the pit! The LASTBORN of the Dragon King!¡± The announcer took a deep breath, stretching out the final declaration as he shouted,  ¡°PRIIIIIIIIIIIIINCE JORAN!!¡±


    A fresh wave of cheers, jeers, and taunts rang out as Joran forced himself to remain stone-faced. His fingers curled slightly tighter around his blade¡¯s hilt, but he didn¡¯t react beyond that. He wouldn¡¯t give them the satisfaction.


    His eyes swept over the crowd, past the cheering slavers and warriors, and onto the others. The ones who weren¡¯t cheering. The ones who weren¡¯t drinking or celebrating.


    The slaves.


    They stood silently behind their masters, some watching with wide, hopeful eyes, others staring at the ground, their expressions deadened, their spirits long since broken. Joran felt a sinking weight settle in his chest.


    If they had once believed in the dream of Lothara, they had lost all hope of it now. Seeing its prince in chains, forced to fight for amusement, proved to them that even the so-called kingdom of freedom was powerless against the cruelty of the Maw.


    He had to change that. He had to find a way out. Not just for himself¡ªbut for them.


    The announcer let the noise settle before continuing, his voice dripping with anticipation.


    ¡°But our dear prince is not alone in the pit!¡±


    Joran¡¯s head snapped toward the opposite gate. A heavy rumbling filled the air as the gate began to grind open, revealing a dark void beyond its threshold. The crowd hushed, as if holding their breath. And then, a lone figure emerged.


    A piercing blue eye gleamed from beneath the shadow of the hood, a stark contrast against the darkness that clung to the figure as he strode forward. His movements were eerily fluid, almost casual, each step unhurried yet deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The moment he entered the pit, the crowd¡¯s cheers reached a fever pitch, the energy in the arena shifting from wild anticipation to sheer exhilaration.


    Joran watched him closely, noting the way the stranger carried himself¡ªcalm, calculated, completely unshaken. Unlike the bloodthirsty warriors he had encountered in this place, this man exuded no outward aggression. There was no swagger, no arrogance, no posturing. Just an unsettling stillness that sent a chill crawling up Joran¡¯s spine.


    This isn¡¯t just some thug looking for glory. The warrior stopped a mere twenty feet away from Joran, his presence imposing despite his lack of theatrics. His cloak was long, ragged from years of battle, its black fabric outlined in crimson, giving the illusion of dripping blood against the tattered ends.


    Then, with an almost leisurely motion, the man reached up and pulled back his hood.


    A hush fell over a portion of the crowd¡ªa reverence reserved only for warriors of legend. Others erupted in renewed cheers, laughter, and chants, the mere reveal of this fighter¡¯s face sending the arena into chaos.


    The man beneath the hood was young, his features sharp and well-defined, his expression one of pure boredom. Short black hair, slightly unkempt, framed a face devoid of emotion. His gaze flicked lazily to Joran, studying him the way one might examine a mild inconvenience, a thing to be dealt with rather than an opponent worth acknowledging.


    Joran narrowed his eyes, gripping Vermillion Fang tightly. No weapons. No armor. No clear signs of strength. And yet¡­ the man stood with the confidence of a god.


    What am I missing?


    Then the announcer¡¯s voice thundered through the Maw once more, his excitement reaching its peak.


    ¡°And now, his opponent!¡±


    The cheers swelled, rising in waves as bets were placed, drinks were raised, and the gamblers of the Maw prepared to profit from what they believed would be an easy match. ¡°Other than the big boss himself, he is the only man to ALWAYS leave a fight unscathed!¡±


    Joran¡¯s eyes narrowed further. Unscathed?


    ¡°This warrior has claimed FIFTY total victories and ZERO losses! A flawless record!¡±


    That number alone made Joran¡¯s grip on his sword tighten. There were many strong fighters in the Maw, but fifty consecutive wins? That wasn¡¯t just skill¡ªit was something unnatural.


    This man has never been hurt? Not even once?


    The crowd¡¯s cheers reached an ear-splitting volume as the announcer finally declared the fighter¡¯s name. ¡°HERE HE IS! The WRAITH of the ARENA! The WALKING PARADOX! The DEATHBOUND DUELIST!¡±


    The air in the arena thickened, the anticipation becoming almost suffocating. The announcer took a deep breath, stretching out the final declaration with dramatic flair:


    ¡°SARRAK THE UNTOUCHABLE!!!¡±


    Joran exhaled slowly, trying to still his racing thoughts. Now those are titles. He couldn¡¯t help but grumble in his mind, feeling a pang of irritation at his own lackluster introduction.


    The reaction from the audience was telling. These people weren¡¯t just excited¡ªthey were betting with absolute certainty. Joran glanced at the stands, his eyes darting between merchants, slavers, and warriors, all wagering obscene amounts of gold on Sarrak. Their confidence in him was unwavering.


    Then there were the slaves. Unlike the gamblers and warriors, they watched in stunned silence. Some of them recognized the name¡ªtheir expressions shifting from fleeting hope to dread and resignation. They had seen this fight play out before. They had seen newcomers, fighters, warriors, slaves hoping to win their freedom¡ªall face this man.


    And they had seen them fall.


    Joran¡¯s stomach twisted. He was missing something crucial.


    ¡°You really shouldn¡¯t turn your attention away from your opponent.¡±


    The voice was smooth, low and unimpressed, like someone idly commenting on the weather. Joran snapped his gaze back to Sarrak, startled at how soundlessly he had spoken, how unreadable he remained.


    The magi-human stood perfectly still, his posture relaxed¡ªtoo relaxed¡ªas if he didn¡¯t care at all about the fight he was about to engage in. No defensive stance. No preparation. No hesitation.


    ¡°And you,¡± Joran replied carefully, scanning for any subtle movement, any tell, ¡°shouldn¡¯t make yourself so open.¡± Sarrak didn¡¯t react, his expression remaining as flat and uninterested as before.


    ¡°I am not afraid,¡± he said simply.


    Then, in a tone so matter-of-fact that it chilled Joran to his core, he added¡ª


    ¡°You can¡¯t harm me anyway.¡±


    Joran¡¯s muscles tensed. The crowd was already screaming for blood, their excitement spilling over in chants and drunken howls, but Joran barely heard them. What the hell does he mean by that? His instincts screamed that this man was no ordinary opponent.


    Something was wrong. And he needed to figure it out. Fast.

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    The deafening sound of a gong reverberated through the Maw, signaling the start of the fight. A wave of excitement rippled through the stands as the battle commenced, the crowd a writhing mass of bodies, roaring in anticipation. Some jeered, some cheered, and bets were exchanged in hurried whispers and boisterous shouts.


    Though the noise was deafening, Joran forced himself to focus, tightening his grip on Vermillion Fang as he lowered into a two-handed stance. The weight of the enchanted sword was comforting, familiar¡ªhis one reliable weapon in this brutal, foreign battlefield.


    Yet, despite the signal to begin, Sarrak did not move.


    The cloaked warrior stood perfectly still, feet planted, arms slack at his sides, his expression unreadable. The only thing that moved was the lazy flicker of his piercing blue eyes, tracing Joran¡¯s every movement like a predator watching its prey but not yet hungry enough to pounce.


    A sliver of unease crawled up Joran¡¯s spine. Why wasn¡¯t he preparing to fight? No tension in his shoulders, no shift in his stance¡ªnothing about him suggested wariness or caution. It was as if he had already deemed Joran''s attacks pointless.


    Joran began to move. His boots scraped against the coarse, bloodstained dirt of the arena floor as he took slow, deliberate steps, circling his opponent, trying to gauge what sort of warrior he was dealing with. Sarrak did not turn to follow him. Instead, he simply watched with an eerie, detached curiosity, standing as though he were a spectator rather than a combatant.


    At last, Sarrak broke the silence.


    ¡°Well? Are you going to make your move?¡± His voice was dry, almost mocking, yet held no excitement, no aggression. It was as if he were merely indulging in a conversation rather than standing in the pit of blood and sand.


    Joran didn¡¯t answer. He kept circling, grip firm on his sword, eyes locked onto his opponent¡¯s every minuscule movement, searching for any hint of intent or preparation. Sarrak, however, remained unbothered¡ªunmoved. The tension in the crowd built as those watching realized what was happening.


    Sarrak sighed, exhaling through his nose in something between boredom and amusement.


    ¡°Ahhh¡­ I get it now. You¡¯re cautious. You¡¯re trying to figure it out.¡±


    His head tilted slightly as he observed Joran with that same unsettling calm.


    ¡°Why am I not on guard? Why don¡¯t I seem to care? Why am I just¡­ standing here?¡± His lips curled into something that was not quite a smirk, not quite a smile¡ªjust a hint of knowing amusement.


    Joran still didn¡¯t respond, but he felt his muscles tighten as Sarrak finally shifted, his shoulders rolling lazily, his weight shifting ever so slightly onto the balls of his feet.


    ¡°Hmph. I used to care.¡±


    His voice carried through the arena, smooth and composed, like a man reminiscing rather than preparing for battle.


    ¡°But after doing this for so long¡­ I don¡¯t.¡±


    His hand twitched at his side, but he did not reach for a weapon¡ªif he even had one beneath that tattered cloak. Joran took another step, his instincts screaming at him to be ready for anything. Yet the stillness of his opponent was unnerving. He had fought many enemies before¡ªknights, bandits, and creatures of the wild¡ªbut they all wanted something. They had drive, they had hunger. But this man? He lacked something essential.


    There was no aggression. No thrill. No malice.


    Just boredom.


    Finally, Sarrak turned his head, locking eyes with Joran in a way that felt unnaturally slow. His blue eyes gleamed, and for the first time, something like curiosity flickered behind them.


    ¡°So¡­ give me your best shot.¡±


    Joran''s grip on his sword tightened as Sarrak spread his arms slightly, leaving his entire body open. An invitation. A challenge.


    His voice carried over the hushed whispers of the arena, a solemn promise wrapped in certainty.


    ¡°I promise you¡­ it won¡¯t work.¡±


    The moment hung in the air, stretching longer than it should have, as the crowd waited with bated breath for the prince¡¯s first move.


    Joran¡¯s grip on Vermillion Fang tightened for a moment before he loosened his hold, lowering the blade slightly. He flexed the fingers of his free hand, contemplating his next move. Attacking head-on was too risky. Something about Sarrak¡¯s unwavering confidence, the way he left himself open, made Joran hesitate.


    The man hadn''t even shifted his stance to defend himself. There was no tension in his body, no signs of preparation¡ªjust that detached, almost indifferent gaze.


    Was it arrogance? Or something else?


    Joran weighed his options quickly. If Sarrak truly had a perfect defensive technique, then he had to determine how it worked. Maybe he was simply faster than he seemed, dodging and countering before anyone could land a hit. That could explain his perfect record. Or, perhaps, he possessed some sort of unknown magic that shielded him from harm.


    Whatever the case, Joran needed to test him first. A direct melee assault was too dangerous. If Sarrak truly had inhuman reflexes, then the prince might be cut down before he even realized what had happened.


    No. A long-range attack was the best way to start.


    Joran raised his free hand, channeling raw magic into his palm. Instantly, golden light flickered to life around his fingers, crackling with energy. The warmth spread rapidly, coalescing into a growing mass of power that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The gathered magic elongated, extending outward, shaping itself into a blazing spear of pure arcane energy.


    The weapon shimmered, the air around it warping from the sheer intensity of its power. The light glowed brighter and brighter until it took on a defined form¡ªTitan¡¯s Lance.


    A formidable spell, one that had devastated enemies in the past. This wasn¡¯t just a projectile. It was a weapon designed for raw destruction. Capable of moving at immense speed, the spear could pierce through anything in its path until it struck its intended target. And upon impact¡­


    A catastrophic detonation of pure kinetic force. Even those with powerful magical defenses rarely walked away from it unscathed. Joran let out a slow breath as he took aim, feeling the weight of the spell settle in his grip. His magic pulsed in anticipation, the charged energy humming like a storm barely restrained.


    This should be enough.


    With a sharp twist of his wrist, Joran pulled back his arm, adjusting his stance as he prepared to throw. His eyes locked onto Sarrak, searching for any sign of movement. He expected his opponent to react¡ªto shift, to brace, to prepare some form of defense.


    But Sarrak did nothing. He simply stood there, watching. Joran¡¯s jaw tightened. Sarrak is going to find he shouldn¡¯t be underestimated.


    With a surge of power, Joran hurled the Titan¡¯s Lance forward.


    The spell cut through the air with a sonic boom, a streak of golden energy ripping toward Sarrak at blinding speed. The force of the throw kicked up dust and debris from the arena floor, leaving a shimmering afterimage of golden light in its wake. The crowd gasped, some standing, anticipating impact.


    And yet¡­


    Sarrak still didn¡¯t move. The Titan¡¯s Lance struck him head-on. The explosion was instantaneous. A deafening blast tore through the arena as a blinding burst of golden fire and force erupted around Sarrak. The impact sent a shockwave outward, kicking up a violent storm of dust and debris. The force of the spell was so intense that cracks spread across the ground, ripping apart the stone beneath them.


    A cloud of smoke engulfed the area, obscuring the aftermath from view. The crowd erupted into chaos¡ªsome roaring in excitement, others watching in stunned silence, waiting for the dust to settle. For a moment, Joran felt a flicker of satisfaction.


    Then¡ªpain. White-hot agony exploded in his chest. It was as if he had been struck by his own spell. A sickening force crashed into him, sending him hurtling backwards. His body collided with the arena wall, stone cracking on impact as he crumpled to the ground with a harsh gasp.


    His mind reeled.


    What¡­? What just happened?


    Joran groaned, coughing harshly as he struggled to push himself up. His entire body ached. His ribs screamed in protest, and when he looked down, his breath hitched. A massive bruise had already formed across his chest, accompanied by deep cuts that stained his tunic with fresh blood. It was as if he had been struck by his own attack.


    Realization dawned on him in horror. He looked up, dread pooling in his stomach. The dust was beginning to clear. From within the fading haze, a figure emerged.


    Sarrak.


    Completely unharmed.


    His cloak was singed, slightly torn at the edges from the heat of the explosion, but his body bore not a single wound. Joran stared in disbelief.


    ¡°So you see now?¡±


    Sarrak¡¯s voice was calm. Unshaken. He stepped forward at a casual pace, showing no signs of pain, no signs of injury. His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, as if watching the realization dawn on Joran was the most entertainment he had gotten in ages.


    Joran forced himself to his feet, legs shaking. He barely felt the pain coursing through his body, too focused on the horrifying truth that was unraveling before him. Sarrak lifted his hand slightly, gesturing toward the prince.


    ¡°Any attack made upon my body will be reflected back upon you.¡±


    Joran¡¯s breath hitched.


    ¡°That is why I always leave the arena unscathed. Because every opponent I face¡­¡±


    Sarrak took another step forward, his shadow looming over Joran as his expression remained calmly amused.


    ¡°Ends up killing themselves trying to kill me.¡±


    The words hung in the air, sinking in as the crowd roared in excitement, now fully understanding the hopeless nature of Joran¡¯s situation. This was why the majority bet against Joran despite his bloodline. How do you beat someone who reflects your own attacks right back at you?


    Joran staggered upright, hand trembling as he pressed his palm to the bruised and bloodied patch of flesh on his chest. His breaths were shallow and uneven, but he forced himself to steady them. Focus. Control. Channel. A soft golden glow began to emanate from his palm, the warm hue sinking into his skin and spreading like sunlit ripples across his torso. Slowly, the pain dulled. The jagged cuts that lined his chest began to seal themselves with faint sizzles of magic, and the deep bruise faded into lighter tones before vanishing entirely.


    ¡°You¡­¡± Joran muttered, his voice tight with lingering pain and disbelief. ¡°What kind of magic is that? Or are you a magi-human?¡±


    Sarrak¡¯s expression remained unreadable. He stood tall in the center of the arena like a shadow that refused to move in daylight, his tattered cloak still flapping gently in the warm air. ¡°It¡¯s not magic,¡± he said, his voice calm, even, disturbingly patient. ¡°I was born with it.¡±


    He paused and tilted his head, studying Joran like a tired teacher watching a student struggle with the obvious. ¡°I was fifteen when I discovered this ability. Bandits attacked our caravan¡ªme, my father, my mother, my younger sister. They were merciless. The first blade went into my father''s throat. I tried to fight back¡­ but I was just a boy. One of them lunged at me, and I braced for death¡ªbut he screamed instead. His own weapon had turned on him. A clean slice across his chest, the exact blow meant for me.¡±


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    Sarrak¡¯s gaze grew distant, as if he could still see the flames of that raid in his mind. ¡°I didn¡¯t understand it at first. I was covered in blood¡ªmy family¡¯s, the bandits¡¯. None of it was mine. When I realized what I could do¡­ I knew the world would never look at me the same again.¡±


    He gestured toward the stands, toward the screaming spectators and the pit stained with old blood. ¡°I spent years wandering Orano. Mercenary work. Bounty hunting. Gladiator pits. I needed to test myself¡ªpush my limits, see if there was anyone out there who could touch me, who could force me to actually fight. Then I found the Maw. This place draws in the strong, the reckless, the desperate. I thought¡­ maybe, just maybe, here I¡¯d find someone who could break through what others couldn¡¯t.¡±


    Joran shifted his grip on Vermillion Fang, his knuckles white around the hilt. Sarrak¡¯s words sank in slowly. He wasn¡¯t boasting. There was no arrogance in his voice¡ªjust bone-deep weariness. A man who had waited his entire life for something real, and only found disappointment.


    ¡°When I heard I was going to face the Dragon Prince of Lothara,¡± Sarrak continued, ¡°I was excited for the first time in years. Half dragon. Half slayer. The blood of kings and beasts. You were supposed to be more than the rest.¡±


    His lips curled into the barest shadow of a frown. ¡°But like all the others¡­ you¡¯re a disappointment.¡±


    Joran flinched¡ªnot from the insult, but from the hollow truth behind it. He didn¡¯t want to prove himself to this man. That wasn¡¯t why he came here. He wasn¡¯t trying to win glory or reputation.


    He was trying to survive. To escape. To find a way to save those shackled souls who had no voice left to scream. Still¡­ he couldn¡¯t show weakness. Not here. Not now.


    Joran lifted his chin, lowering his sword just slightly as he spoke, voice firm but not cocky. ¡°Don¡¯t count me out just yet, Sarrak. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Sarrak¡¯s blue eyes narrowed slightly. The weight of his gaze was suffocating. ¡°Then by all means¡­ Give me your best.¡± The challenge wasn¡¯t shouted. It wasn¡¯t barked in rage or mockery. It was simple. Clean. A line drawn in the sand. And behind it stood a warrior who had never bled in battle.


    Joran took a step back, breathing through the sting still echoing across his ribs from the backlash of his earlier spell. Blood smeared across the inside of his tunic, healed already by his magic¡ªbut the phantom pain lingered. Across the arena, Sarrak stood perfectly still, watching him with that same casual indifference. His cloak fluttered faintly in the wind, untouched by flame, blood, or bruises. Untouchable.


    But not unshakable.


    Joran clenched his jaw. Fine. If brute force wouldn''t work¡ªif elemental piercing spells, shock lances, and even kinetic blasts were all just going to ricochet back at him¡ªthen he would try something different. Something disruptive. He had no intention of letting this fight become a slow death of self-inflicted wounds.


    He shifted his stance, lifted Vermillion Fang, and then with a single motion, plunged the blade deep into the earth at his feet. The arena floor split slightly from the force, the magical steel humming in resonance with his blood. His hands ignited with light¡ªcrimson and gold threads of draconic magic coiling up from his fingertips like divine serpents. The air around him trembled as he pressed his palms together, building power¡ªnot to destroy, but to unleash resonance.


    He whispered the spell¡¯s name like a vow.


    ¡°Stormburst Echo.¡±


    The magic surged from his core like a tidal wave. A pulse formed between his palms, glowing brighter with every heartbeat¡ªswelling in intensity, vibrating the very fabric of the arena. Then, with a thunderclap, he slammed his hands together, and the ground responded. A massive concussive wave of compressed sound and shock erupted outward in a wide ring from the impact point, tearing across the stone and sand of the arena. The sound was deafening¡ªa rolling, warping boom of pure magical force that bent the air and shimmered like a heat mirage.


    It wasn¡¯t a fireball. It wasn¡¯t a spear. It wasn¡¯t meant to tear flesh. It was meant to shatter focus. Meant to disorient, to disrupt, to strip away control from within.


    The wave raced toward Sarrak, and for the first time, the warrior¡¯s expression shifted¡ªnot in fear, but in curiosity. He made no move to defend, no attempt to dodge. And once again, just before the wave struck him, Joran felt it. An invisible tether pulling tight. The spell hit its mark¡ªand instantly turned back on him.


    The concussive blast of sound reversed its arc like a whip cracked in reverse. The thunder rolled over Joran with the force of a landslide, slamming into his chest and hurling him backwards off his feet.


    ¡°Guh¡ªAUGH!!¡±


    He hit the ground hard, skidding through sand and shards of stone. His ears rang so violently it was like hundreds of bees buzzing deep in his skull. Pain screamed through his sinuses and jaw, and when he reached up with trembling fingers, he felt warm liquid¡ªblood¡ªtrickling from both ears. Everything sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater. For a moment, the arena was a blur.


    Joran groaned, rolling onto his side and pulling himself to his knees. His vision cleared slowly¡ªjust enough to see Sarrak walking out from the fringe of dust, completely untouched. Not a waver in his step. Not a flicker of imbalance. The man hadn¡¯t even flinched.


    Joran¡¯s teeth ground together. Unbelievable. Even Stormburst Echo, a spell designed not to kill but to disorient, had rebounded on him. Sarrak¡¯s ability didn¡¯t care about damage types or intentions¡ªit was absolute. Pain surged through his skull again, and he stumbled, falling to one knee. But his hands began to glow once more.


    This time, with a golden light that shimmered like the sun reflecting off a dragon¡¯s scale. He pressed them to the sides of his head and let out a breath as the spell worked through him¡ªRenewal of the First Flame, a high-tier healing spell that restored even inner trauma. His blood dried. The pressure behind his eyes eased. The ringing faded.


    In less than ten seconds, he was upright again, and whole. His magic was vast. Deep. Ancient. He was the son of two of the most powerful bloodlines in Orano. He would not fall from a few reflected spells¡ªnot yet.


    But it didn¡¯t change the facts.


    Every spell he cast, no matter the intent, hurt him. His options were shrinking. Sarrak wasn¡¯t a wall¡ªhe was a void. A mirror. A trap. And unless Joran could change the rules of this fight¡­ he would bleed himself dry.


    Sarrak stood in the center of the arena like a statue carved from contempt, his arms still draped lazily at his sides, cloak fluttering faintly in the arid breeze that wafted through the cracked bones of the Maw¡¯s open ceiling. His bright blue eyes held no spark of interest¡ªonly a dulled, weary discontent, like a man forced to watch the same play over and over again.


    Joran¡¯s breath still came heavy, chest rising and falling with sharp focus. His skin stung with the residual pain of spells reflected and wounds repeatedly mended. Magic hummed beneath his flesh, his blood still saturated with untapped power¡ªyet no outlet seemed to yield a result.


    Across the battlefield, Sarrak tilted his head lazily, raising a hand to gesture toward the prince with an almost casual flick of his fingers. "Still standing, huh?¡± he drawled. His voice echoed through the Maw, threaded with that same dry boredom that had irritated Joran since the fight began. ¡°I¡¯ll give you credit, prince. You last longer than most. But it''s all the same in the end.¡±


    Joran didn''t respond. His jaw tightened, his eyes burning. He wasn¡¯t about to feed the man¡¯s theatrics with more words. But the tension in his shoulders, the ever-tightening grip on the hilt of Vermillion Fang, spoke volumes.


    ¡°You know,¡± Sarrak continued, his tone nearly a yawn, ¡°I really thought the son of the Dragon King would be more than this. Fire and fury, scales and strength¡­ you¡¯ve got the pedigree. But all I see is a pretty boy with too much mana and no idea how to use it.¡± He stepped lightly to the side, circling just enough to force Joran to pivot with him. ¡°I¡¯ve seen court mages with better imagination. And here I thought this might be fun.¡± Joran¡¯s patience cracked.


    He shifted his stance and raised his free hand, magic pooling into his palm as a sudden chill gripped the air around him. Frost-magic, honed and honed again in the cold towers of Lothara, surged from his core. His fingertips shimmered with crystalline light, his breath misting in the rising cold. The ground beneath him began to frost over, tiny spiderweb patterns of ice crawling out in every direction. Even the sand crackled underfoot as the temperature plummeted.


    He whispered the spell under his breath, voice sharp and focused:


    ¡°Frozen Embrace.¡±


    The air shimmered with shifting pressure, and then the freezing storm surged outward¡ªan enormous, coiling wave of magic that swirled toward Sarrak. The spell took the form of jagged ice spires rising from the earth, racing to encircle and entomb the man in an unbreakable shell of elemental frost. It wasn¡¯t lethal. Not directly. But it would immobilize, encase, trap. It was a cage made of winter. Sarrak didn¡¯t move.He just smiled.


    The moment the magic made contact with his presence, Joran gasped in pain. A wave of instant, agonizing cold crashed through his body. It didn¡¯t build up slowly¡ªit slammed into him like an avalanche from within. His muscles locked up. His veins felt like frozen rivers. The moisture in his lungs condensed, and he choked, staggering back, falling to one knee as frost crept up his own arms, curling over his skin in sharp patterns of rime and crystal.


    His fingertips turned blue. His breath caught in his throat. The spell¡ªhis own spell¡ªwas turning against him. And fast.


    Every spike of ice meant for Sarrak instead materialized around Joran¡¯s legs, his boots locking to the ground as freezing pillars of magic erupted beside him. A glacial shroud formed around his shoulders, weighing him down like iron chains of winter. He grit his teeth as shards of cold pierced into his side, numbing his joints, slowing his pulse, sinking deeper. The worst part was since he is part dragon he is cold blooded so the effects of the cold were 10 times what it would be for a regular human.


    His lips trembled. His hand dropped from the spell¡¯s channeling posture. And with a sharp grunt of will, he canceled the magic.


    The cold vanished like a nightmare at dawn, dissipating in a burst of mist that swirled around him before fading into nothing. His limbs remained trembling. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud as he panted heavily, thin trails of frost flaking off his clothes and fingertips. The veins in his forearms were still etched in blue. From across the pit, Sarrak clapped slowly¡ªmocking applause.


    ¡°That¡¯s new,¡± he said with amusement, ¡°You¡¯re the first to try freezing yourself to death. Original, I¡¯ll give you that. Not very effective, but hey¡ªstyle points.¡±


    Joran coughed and rose to one knee, his palm glowing as he summoned a healing pulse to drive the lingering frostbite away. It took more concentration than he liked to admit, and even then, his fingers still burned with residual cold. His breath still fogged.


    ¡°I suppose,¡± Sarrak went on, taking a few leisurely steps forward, ¡°that this is the part where you try something desperate. Maybe summon a volcano under my feet? Drown me in a lake of acid?¡± He flashed a grin. ¡°Want to guess how that¡¯ll end?¡±


    Joran didn¡¯t respond. His mind was already working¡ªdesperately sifting through his vast mental library of spells and magical theory. He had to find something different. Something that broke the connection between them. Because as long as Sarrak¡¯s curse was in place, every attack would only hurt Joran. And at this rate¡­ it would only be a matter of time.


    The prince allowed himself a moment¡ªjust a breath¡ªto recover.


    Frost still clung stubbornly to his skin and clothes, crackling faintly as he shifted his stance. His magic had failed him. Again. Every spell, no matter how complex or devastating, had turned against him the moment it touched Sarrak¡¯s skin. Immobilization, misdirection, disorientation¡­ all reversed. All futile. His sword, even if swung true, would do the same. He would bleed for every blow he struck.


    Joran exhaled sharply, steam rising from his breath. His hands were trembling¡ªnot from fear, but from calculation. He ran every spell he knew through his mind like a scholar flipping through a tome in firelight. There had to be something. Something different. Something that didn¡¯t target Sarrak, but removed the very mechanism of his power.


    Then it struck him.


    Not a spell of harm.


    Not a spell of control.


    But a spell of removal.


    Joran clenched his jaw. He hated this spell. Even back in Lothara¡¯s mage tower, scholars only discussed it in hushed tones. It wasn¡¯t taught¡ªit was warned about. Arcane Severance was a spell designed to end magic. Not just interrupt it. Not dispel a single effect. It wiped the field. Every thread of magic in a wide radius? Gone. Unraveled. Burned out. Even the caster¡¯s. But if Sarrak¡¯s ability truly was innate magic, as it appeared¡­ this would strip it away. For a time, at least. And that might be enough.


    He looked up at his opponent, who was now tapping his fingers on his arm as if waiting for a dinner guest to show up. ¡°I have one last trick up my sleeve,¡± Joran said, voice quiet but firm. ¡°One I think you¡¯ll appreciate.¡± Sarrak tilted his head, mildly curious. ¡°I doubt that, princeling. But sure, amuse me.¡±


    Joran didn¡¯t respond. He slid Vermillion Fang into its sheath with a soft shk. Then he extended both hands out in front of him. Magic began to coil and flicker in his palms, arcs of radiant energy snapping between his fingers. His breathing slowed. Focused. A sphere began to form between his hands¡ªunstable, shifting like a miniature storm. It wasn¡¯t fire. It wasn¡¯t ice. It wasn¡¯t lightning or shadow or any elemental domain. It was raw disruption¡ªchaos forged into shape.


    The ground rumbled slightly. Loose pebbles vibrated. Dust swirled up from the cracked arena floor in spiraling currents. The temperature didn¡¯t rise or fall, but the air grew heavy, charged with an unnatural weight, like the moment before a thunderclap. Even the crowd seemed to sense something wrong. Their cheering dulled to murmurs.


    ¡°This spell,¡± Joran said through gritted teeth, his arms shaking from the resistance between his hands, ¡°isn¡¯t used lightly. It¡¯s considered reckless. Dangerous. Because it doesn''t discriminate. It severs all magic. Mine. Yours. Everything.¡±


    Sarrak arched an eyebrow, arms still folded. ¡°Are you deaf, or just deluded? You¡¯re going to hurt yourself again. Just like every other time.¡±


    The sphere flared brighter¡ªunstable, rippling with waves of iridescent color. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to hurt you,¡± Joran muttered, eyes glowing now from the effort. ¡°I¡¯m granting your wish.¡± He threw his arms outward.


    The orb of magic detonated in a pulse¡ªnot of fire or light, but of emptiness. A wave of nullification spread out in all directions like a shockwave, rippling across the arena in an instant. The torches dimmed. The magical wards along the perimeter sputtered. Even the enchanted chains of the nearby arena guards went slack for a moment, stripped of their runes. It was silent for half a second. Then the world resumed¡ªbut it was different.


    Joran staggered slightly, his body suddenly feeling heavier. His internal reservoir of magic¡­ quieted. Still there, but inaccessible. Like a door slammed shut. The crowd¡¯s murmurs rose in confusion. ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°Did he just¡­ suppress the arena?¡± ¡°Was that mana nullification?!¡±


    Sarrak, for the first time, looked uneasy.


    Joran drew Vermillion Fang slowly, holding the hilt with firm hands despite the fatigue in his limbs. ¡°You feel it too, don¡¯t you?¡± Sarrak looked down at his own hands. Flexed his fingers. No magical shimmer. No energy thrumming beneath his skin. Nothing.


    ¡°¡­My power,¡± he whispered. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ gone.¡±


    Joran didn¡¯t smirk. He didn¡¯t speak. He simply raised his sword into a defensive stance.


    Sarrak¡¯s expression tightened. Not fear. But something close to interest. ¡°Well then,¡± he murmured, stepping forward, ¡°maybe this won¡¯t be so boring after all.¡±

 CHAPTER NINETEEN

    ¡°Mind telling me what that spell was?¡± Sarrak asked, his tone finally colored with a trace of genuine curiosity. He stepped out of the fading dust cloud, reaching up to grasp the frayed edge of his cloak. With a smooth motion, he peeled the ragged garment from his shoulders and let it fall to the bloodstained sands. The fabric fluttered briefly before settling, revealing what lay beneath.


    Sarrak was clad in fitted light armor¡ªdark leathers and reinforced cloth plates sculpted for freedom of movement rather than brute defense. It hugged his frame with an assassin¡¯s elegance, sleek and utilitarian, designed for speed and silence. The armor lacked sleeves, revealing the defined musculature of his arms, which flexed subtly with each breath. On his lower back, a pair of razor-thin daggers were secured horizontally, one hilt sticking out to each side¡ªsleek, blackened blades with a faint, unnatural sheen that shimmered like oil under the torchlight. Whispersteel daggers. Silent. Deadly. Forged for killing without a sound.


    At his hip, slung low and angled for a quick draw, rested a longer, curved blade¡ªits lacquered black scabbard etched with a subtle fang motif. This was the Phantom Fang, a slender, obsidian-hued sword known among those in the Maw for its speed and lethality. The way Sarrak¡¯s fingers drifted toward its hilt, almost lovingly, spoke volumes of his comfort with the weapon.


    Joran narrowed his eyes, watching the fluid ease with which the warrior discarded his cloak and revealed his arsenal. He took a steady breath, recovering his stance after the brutal strain of the spell he had just unleashed.


    ¡°It¡¯s a spell called Arcane Severance,¡± Joran said, his voice low but strong, cutting through the arena¡¯s renewed silence like a blade through silk. ¡°One of the more obscure spells of Lothara¡¯s arcane archives¡ªrarely used, even more rarely mastered. It creates a temporary field of magical nullification¡­ one that disables all spells, enchantments, and innate abilities within a certain radius.¡±


    Sarrak¡¯s brows rose slightly at that. ¡°Including your own.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Joran confirmed with a nod. He reached up and swept a lock of silver-blond hair out of his eyes, his expression calm despite the exhaustion threatening to weigh him down. ¡°Most mages wouldn¡¯t dare cast it. Cutting themselves off from magic makes them helpless. Exposed. Just another body waiting to be cut down.¡±


    Joran raised his hand and pointed to himself.


    ¡°But I¡¯m not like most mages.¡±


    He drew Vermillion Fang from its sheath with a smooth, almost ceremonial motion. The crimson-steeled blade caught the firelight in a flash, humming with residual energy even as its magic was sealed away. Joran lifted it above his head, the tip aimed toward Sarrak as he eased into a combat stance¡ªlegs bent, feet steady, center of gravity low.


    ¡°I trained under the finest mages Lothara has to offer. And I trained under the harsh, unrelenting hand of my father¡ªthe Dragon King himself. With or without magic, I was forged to endure. To fight. And now¡­¡±


    He tilted the blade slightly, the gesture fluid, challenging.


    ¡°¡­you finally have the opponent you¡¯ve been asking for. One who can hurt you.¡±


    A spark of something flickered behind Sarrak¡¯s normally impassive expression. A smirk¡ªreal and wolfish¡ªtugged at the corner of his lips. He reached over his shoulder and drew one of the whispersteel daggers from his lower back with a motion so smooth it barely disturbed the air. In his right hand, he drew the Phantom Fang in a single breath of movement. The slender blade glimmered faintly in the light, its edge nearly invisible.


    ¡°Well now,¡± Sarrak said, rotating the dagger in his left hand until it lay flat against his forearm. ¡°I¡¯m used to people trying to wear me down with tricks and desperation. But this¡­ this might actually be fun.¡±


    ¡°I figured as much,¡± Joran replied, shifting slightly as he prepared for the coming assault. ¡°Now¡¯s your chance, Sarrak. Go on the offensive. Show me what a man who¡¯s never had to bleed can do when he finally has to earn it.¡±


    Sarrak¡¯s grin widened. ¡°You might regret that invitation, Prince.¡±


    And then he moved.


    The sound of his boots kicking off the sand was like a soft whisper, a heartbeat out of sync with the sudden blur of motion that followed. Sarrak launched forward like a shot, dirt and debris exploding behind him in a spray. He was fast¡ªunbelievably fast. Joran¡¯s eyes tracked the movement only by instinct, his body already reacting, adjusting, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.


    Sarrak leapt.


    From above, the Phantom Fang came down in a sharp, arcing slash, aimed with deadly precision toward Joran¡¯s left shoulder. The prince twisted at the last second, pivoting his body and raising his sword to meet the strike. Steel clashed against steel with a screeching cry of force and friction, sparks spraying from the point of contact as both blades trembled under the impact.


    Joran grunted, feeling the strength behind Sarrak¡¯s blow. It wasn¡¯t overwhelming¡ªnothing like Varkul¡¯s crushing power¡ªbut it was clean, precise, expertly delivered. A swordsman¡¯s strike. Not a brawler¡¯s.


    The moment their weapons parted, Sarrak dropped low, his dagger sweeping toward Joran¡¯s knee with surgical intent. Joran barely caught the motion and stepped back just in time, deflecting the follow-up jab with the edge of his blade. The whispersteel dagger hissed past his leg, missing by inches.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± Sarrak admitted as he rolled to the side and came back to his feet. ¡°But you¡¯re not the only one with real training.¡±


    The relentless rhythm of steel on steel echoed across the pit, the crowd''s roar becoming a distant murmur behind the sound of battle. Sparks flew in bursts as Joran and Sarrak exchanged blow after blow, the force of their collisions lighting the air with brief flashes of fire and light.


    Sarrak fought with uncanny precision¡ªhis movements economical, refined, born from years of deadly repetition. In his right hand, he wielded the Phantom Fang, the slim, obsidian-colored blade gliding through the air like a shadow given form. In his left hand, he held one of his whispersteel daggers, its near-invisible edge glinting only when the light caught it just right.


    Joran matched him strike for strike, Vermillion Fang ringing out in sharp defiance against the assassin¡¯s weapons. Sweat coated the prince¡¯s brow, and his breathing grew heavier¡ªbut not from exhaustion. His strength remained vast, his stamina bolstered by the deep reserves of draconic magic that still slumbered within him. But without that magic now¡ªthanks to Arcane Severance¡ªevery strike had to be perfect. Every defense, flawlessly timed.


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    And still, neither of them could gain the upper hand.


    They clashed in a burst of flurry¡ªblade meeting blade, dagger glancing off steel. Then, just as Joran caught Sarrak¡¯s sword in a high parry, the assassin broke away with a smooth sidestep and, without hesitation, threw the whispersteel dagger from his left hand.


    Joran¡¯s eyes caught the blur of motion. He twisted, raised his blade, and smacked the projectile aside. The dagger spun and lodged into the sand at his feet, just inches from his boots. But that was exactly what Sarrak wanted. By the time Joran looked up again, Sarrak was already upon him.


    While Joran had deflected the thrown blade, the rogue had used the brief moment of distraction to reach behind him¡ªhis hand slipping down to his lower back where the second whispersteel dagger was sheathed. In a single motion, he drew it into a reverse grip and lunged forward. Now armed again, he struck with chilling precision.


    The Phantom Fang arced low in a gut-bound slash, while the freshly drawn dagger came up in a high reverse strike toward Joran¡¯s face. It was a trap¡ªperfectly timed, perfectly executed. Joran had less than a heartbeat to react.


    Vermillion Fang swept downward in a powerful block, catching the sword with a heavy clang that sent a jolt through his arms. At the same time, he raised his left arm¡ªhis forearm intercepting the second blade just as it closed in on his cheek.


    The dagger¡¯s tip froze a breath away from his eye. The tension between them was palpable, locked in the moment, steel straining against strength. Joran¡¯s muscles burned. His jaw clenched. But he held firm. Sarrak¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift much¡ªbut his pale eyes gleamed with something new. Interest.


    ¡°Hm,¡± he murmured with an approving tilt of his head. ¡°Clever reflexes, Prince.¡±


    Joran didn¡¯t answer¡ªhis breath coming hot and quick from the effort of blocking both attacks at once. The prince could feel the force behind Sarrak¡¯s strikes. Even without his magical defense, this was a man who knew how to kill. Up close, in silence, and with surgical precision. The weight of the moment lingered before Sarrak gave a slight push and gracefully disengaged, flipping the dagger once in his hand before sliding back into a loose, open stance.


    ¡°No magic,¡± he said with a small grin. ¡°Just blade and instinct. I like this version of you.¡± Joran took a step back, regaining his footing. He raised Vermillion Fang again, steady and unwavering.


    Suddenly, Joran felt it¡ªthe faint but unmistakable pulse of magic returning to his veins, like the first breath after near-drowning. His fingertips tingled. The numb edge of the severance spell was lifting, which meant only one thing: Sarrak''s ability would soon be back. The clock had started ticking, and he had only seconds left to end this fight before every strike once again became his own undoing.


    Joran¡¯s eyes snapped to Sarrak, who was already rising from his guarded stance, reading the shift in the air with razor instinct. Their blades met again in a flash of steel and a spray of sparks, igniting the arena into a frenzy of cheers, shouts, and disbelief. The crowd had long stopped cheering for just Sarrak¡ªthey were now fully enthralled by the spectacle of two masters at war.


    Joran threw himself into the fray with everything he had. His body burned with effort, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. The fatigue from casting Arcane Severance was nothing compared to the grueling barrage of movements he now executed. Each clash of their weapons was a calculated strike. He used feints, redirections, shoulder checks, short-range bursts of speed¡ªhis entire training, from Lothara¡¯s elite swordmasters to the grueling drills under the Dragon King himself, flowed through him like muscle memory made flesh.


    Sarrak responded in kind, smiling wide despite the tension in his shoulders and the bruises forming beneath his light armor. With his Phantom Fang in one hand and a Whispersteel dagger in the other, he launched unpredictable combinations¡ªslashing low before whipping high, spinning into precise strikes designed to overwhelm defenses. His eyes glinted with exhilaration, like a man who had finally found purpose.


    "This is what I wanted!" he cried mid-swing. "A real fight! One where I have to think! Adapt!"


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome!¡± Joran growled back, parrying a downward strike before twisting and narrowly avoiding a blade slicing for his throat.


    They circled each other once more. Then Joran moved in. Feint high. Block low. Shift the angle. Step in. Disrupt the stance. Sarrak tried to match him, but Joran had watched, had learned. The patterns. The small openings. The timing.


    He caught the dagger on the flat of his blade, twisted it aside, and slammed his boot into Sarrak¡¯s knee with a brutal crunch. The man dropped with a cry, falling to one knee just as Joran¡¯s sword swept across and batted the Phantom Fang from his hand. With fluid motion, Joran stepped in, pivoted, and kicked Sarrak onto his back. Before the warrior could recover, Joran planted a foot on Sarrak¡¯s sword arm and brought the edge of Vermillion Fang to his throat.


    Silence fell across the arena like a thunderclap. The crowd held their breath. Even Varkul had leaned forward in his private box, his meat forgotten, his knuckles clenched against the arm of his throne. The arena, once deafening, was now hushed.


    Joran and Sarrak locked eyes. Sweat trickled down their faces. Their chests rose and fell in tandem with labored breath. ¡°Well?¡± Sarrak rasped, defiant even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ¡°Go on. Do it. Finish the job while you have the chance.¡±


    Joran¡¯s blade trembled for a moment. Then he stepped back. The sword lifted from Sarrak¡¯s throat and was stabbed into the ground beside him with finality. Joran extended a hand to him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a killer,¡± the prince said, voice low but clear. ¡°That¡¯s not who I am.¡± Sarrak blinked, stunned. His fingers twitched, almost uncertain of what to do with the offered hand.


    ¡°Why?¡± he asked. ¡°Why show mercy? Why spare me?¡±


    ¡°Because you don¡¯t fight to dominate,¡± Joran replied. ¡°You don¡¯t enjoy pain. You fight because you¡¯re searching for something. A challenge. A purpose. I¡¯ve met enough monsters to know you¡¯re not one of them.¡±


    Joran stepped closer, hand still outstretched. ¡°You wanted someone who could beat you, right? Well¡­ you found him.¡±


    Sarrak stared, then slowly reached up. He took the prince¡¯s hand, and Joran hauled him to his feet. As he stood, the shimmer of magic returned to the air¡ªthe Arcane Severance had fully faded. Both men felt it instantly. Sarrak glanced at his hand, flexing it, then looked back at Joran. ¡°You realize my ability¡¯s back.¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°And there¡¯s nothing stopping me from finishing this.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing,¡± Joran agreed. ¡°But I don¡¯t think you will.¡±


    Sarrak¡¯s lips quirked into a faint smile. ¡°You¡¯re either the bravest man I¡¯ve ever met¡­ or the dumbest.¡±


    ¡°Maybe both.¡±


    The two stood for a moment longer, until Joran turned and began walking toward the exit gate. He left his sword behind knowing that they would want him to hand it over and nobody would be able to lift it. Before he passed under the archway, he paused and looked over his shoulder.


    ¡°You know¡­ if you ever find yourself in Lothara, you should consider applying for the Royal Guard.¡±


    Sarrak raised an eyebrow. ¡°You offering me a job?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m offering you a place where warriors like you are honored¡ªnot caged.¡±


    Joran gave a slight nod and vanished behind the rising gate.


    Above them, the announcer''s voice finally broke through the silence:


    ¡°LADIES AND GENTLEMEN¡ªYOUR VICTOR¡­ PRINCE JORAN OF LOTHARA!¡±


    The arena exploded with sound. Cheers, screams, applause¡ªit echoed through the Maw like thunder. Yet Sarrak didn¡¯t hear them.


    He just stood there, rubbing his jaw with a tired grin.


    ¡°Brave or foolish¡­ we¡¯ll see,¡± he murmured.