Joran wasn’t led to the same room he’d stayed in after his first match.

  This time, the guard took him down a quieter corridor—one far from the noise of steel boots and the scent of sweat and blood. The stone was smoother here, faintly glowing with enchantments woven into the walls, and the air carried a strange mix of lavender, oil, and heat. The door he was brought to bore no symbols or locks—just smooth, dark wood veined with silver lines that pulsed gently like a heartbeat.

  When it opened, Joran’s breath caught.

  The chamber inside had clearly been altered with magic. A massive, enchanted window stretched along one wall, projecting the soft gold of afternoon sunlight across polished stone despite the real sun long since sinking. A plush bed rested in the corner, its sheets crisp and untouched, while thick velvet curtains framed the walls. Behind an archway, the scent of oils and steam hinted at a bath carved from marble. On the center table, a feast awaited—still warm, fragrant, and untouched.

  Joran stepped in slowly, his muscles aching, his shoulder still sore from the fight. The door shut behind him with a quiet thump, locking the silence in place.

  “A gift,” the guard had said. “From Varkul. If you win your next match, you’ll be free to roam the settlement… so long as you don’t cause trouble. Also, he has deactivated your bracelet for one hour so you may heal yourself. he doesn't want a broken puppy fighting in the arena tomorrow.”

  Joran had nodded, too tired to argue. Now he stood in the golden quiet, alone.

  With a groan, he removed his shirt, peeling it off gingerly as dried blood tugged at his skin. His shoulder pulsed with every breath. He let his cloak fall beside the bed, and the amulet around his neck shifted against his bare chest—silver glinting with the last rays of illusory light.

  Joran crossed the room and sat cross-legged on the soft rug beside the bed, grounding himself.

  He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

  His magic responded like a river loosed from a dam. It rose through him with practiced ease, gathering around the wound at his shoulder. He pressed his hand lightly against it, focusing the healing spell. Warmth spread outward, coaxing the bruised and torn muscle back together with a careful, steady rhythm.

  And then, the door creaked.

  His eyes snapped open, the spell faltering.

  A girl stood there—a tiefling, barely older than he was, her skin a dusky, moonlit blue and her frame clothed in delicate silks meant more to entice than protect. A dark collar glinted around her neck, etched with a rune that shimmered softly. Her hands clutched the fabric near her waist, her tail twitching behind her with nervous energy.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, stepping in slowly. “I was sent to… to serve. In any way you require, master…”

  The word made Joran’s skin crawl.

  He rose quickly, wincing as his shoulder screamed in protest. “No—I don’t…” He caught himself. “I don’t do that.”

  She flinched at the volume of his voice.

  “I’m the prince of Lothara,” he said, softer this time. “You don’t have to call me master.”

  The tiefling’s eyes widened. “I—I know,” she whispered. “Everyone’s been talking about what you did in the arena. They said you’re strong. Kind. But… but I still spoke without permission. I—I’m sorry. I’ll take my punishment if you wish it…”

  Joran’s stomach twisted.

  “Punishment?” he echoed, stepping forward—and immediately froze as she shrank from him, her whole body tensing.

  And in an instant, he was no longer in that room.

  He was twelve again.

  Kneeling on cold stone.

  Ringed by knights in obsidian and gold. Male and female. Human, elf, beastkin, etc.

  They called them “private training sessions.” Said it was to test his endurance. But it was beatings—hours of it. Shields slammed into his back. Boots cracked against his ribs. Lightning spells wracked his nerves. Fire left blistered welts that they’d heal just to burn again. They cut him, drained his blood, harvested his tears. If he screamed, they hit harder. If he cried, they laughed.

  “You’re not ready,” one would say as a blade dragged across his shoulder.

  “You’re not worthy,” another would murmur, pouring scalding water on fresh bruises.

  “You’re just a vessel,” they would whisper, again and again. “A thing.”

  The scent of blood and stone filled his nose. The cold returned.

  He flinched back into the present with a sharp intake of breath.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice strained and shaking. “I promise.”

  He reached out, gently resting a hand on her arm. She flinched but didn’t pull away.

  “Come on,” he said softly. “Have a seat. Are you hungry?”

  She looked confused. “Hungry…?”

  “If you know who I am,” Joran repeated gently, “then you know I don’t hurt people like you. I’m asking again—are you hungry?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  He helped her to the edge of the bed and crossed to the table, filling a plate with meats, fruit, and bread. When he handed it to her, she stared down at the food like it might vanish at any second. But then—tentatively—she began to eat.

  Joran sat cross-legged beside the bed again, pressing his hand to his shoulder and resuming the healing spell. He glanced up occasionally, watching her eat as if every bite might be taken from her. Her manners were careful, but the speed betrayed how hungry she was.

  “Slow down,” he said gently. “No one’s taking it away.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  She paused mid-bite, then nodded shyly and tried to pace herself.

  Joran finished the spell, lifting his hand from his shoulder. The wound was mostly gone—only a faint scar remained. He exhaled in relief.

  He glanced at her. “What’s your name?”

  She hesitated, tail curling around her legs. “Wh-whatever you want it to be… master.”

  “Call me Joran,” he said firmly. “And I want your real name.”

  “…Daurial,” she whispered. “It’s Daurial.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Daurial.”

  She glanced up at him—then at the silver amulet resting against his chest. It gleamed softly in the magical light. Her eyes trailed from the pendant to the scars scattered across his torso—lines of pain woven like old stories. Some jagged. Some surgical. All ancient.

  “P-permission to speak?” she asked quietly.

  “You don’t need permission,” he said. “Speak to me as an equal. Always.”

  Her eyes softened a little. “Those scars… they’re old. You must’ve seen so many battles to have them…”

  Joran touched the amulet at his chest, his fingers tightening around it.

  “Not battles,” he murmured. “Not the kind that count.”

  Her gaze held his. “why do you wear that amulet?”

  He hesitated.

  He couldn’t tell her the truth—not all of it. Not the reason he’d been told: that it was the only thing keeping a strange illness from consuming him.

  But part of the truth would do.

  “It was given to me after my mother died,” he said quietly. “I was ten. I’ve never taken it off since.”

  “I’ve heard of the queen… Jezereen, right?” Daurial asked gently.

  Joran nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “She was the most revered of the western dragons. She ruled with wisdom… and kindness. She died of a rare illness. And when she passed, this was placed around my neck. For protection. For remembrance.”

  Daurial looked down at her plate. “I’ve heard of Lothara… but only in stories. What’s it really like?”

  He breathed in slowly. “It’s everything you’ve heard. Humans and mythics live side by side. There are no collars. No slaves. No one starving in the streets. It’s… peace. True peace.”

  Her eyes were wide, filled with awe. “That sounds like a dream…”

  “I left,” he said after a moment.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was tired of Lothara being the only place like that,” he said. “I want to help build a world where mythics are safe everywhere. Where they can walk free. That’s why I came here. And if I have to tear this settlement apart to do it…” His jaw tightened. “So be it.”

  Daurial was quiet. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “But… how will you beat the warlord?”

  “…I don’t know yet,” Joran admitted.

  Silence fell between them.

  Daurial looked down again, her voice smaller. “I’m… usually taken by the guards. When they want company. When they want to… hurt something that doesn’t fight back. They will probably want to use me after I leave here.”

  Joran’s throat tightened. “Not tonight,” he said immediately.

  She looked up, startled.

  “You can sleep in the bed,” he told her. “I’ll take the floor. And I promise, Daurial—no one will touch you while I’m here. No one.”

  Her hands trembled around the plate in her lap. For a moment, she didn’t speak.

  Then, she smiled. Just a little. Soft. Fragile.

  “…Thank you, Joran.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran had risen to his feet the moment he heard the knock—light at first, followed by the distinct click of the latch turning. He moved without sound, his bare feet brushing the cool stone floor as he stepped between the bed and the door. The chamber’s soft, enchanted glow bathed him in amber light, casting long shadows across the room. Behind him, Daurial lay curled on the far edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket far too large for her small frame, her breathing slow and steady.

  The door creaked open.

  Three guards stood in the hallway, armor only partially donned—casual, almost smug in posture, as if they weren’t on official business. One leaned against the frame, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. Another held a bottle of some amber-colored liquor and swayed slightly, clearly already halfway to drunk. But the one in the center—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed—was sober, and clearly the leader.

  Joran met them with a calm expression and a faint glint in his eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he asked quietly, voice low so as not to disturb Daurial. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his stance, a coil of warning just beneath the surface.

  The guards exchanged glances.

  The leader stepped forward. “We came for the tiefling,” he said casually, as if asking for a drink refill. “Thought we’d enjoy some company tonight. She’s off-duty now, isn’t she?”

  Joran took a deliberate step forward, placing himself more firmly between them and the room behind him. His eyes sharpened.

  “She’s not available,” he said flatly. “She’s staying here tonight. She’ll stay here indefinitely.”

  One of the other guards let out a snort and muttered, “Damn, that good, huh? Didn’t think royal types went for slaves…”

  The others chuckled behind him, laughter low and vile.

  The leader tilted his head, clearly unimpressed. “You know you’ve got that fancy little bracelet on, right?” he said, gesturing to the inhibitor clasped around Joran’s wrist. “No magic. No tricks. Just fists. So, tell me, prince—how exactly do you plan on stopping us?”

  Joran was silent for a moment. Then he took a long breath, calm and slow—almost meditative.

  And then he moved.

  In a blur of motion, he surged forward, his hand flashing out to seize the leader by the throat. The man didn’t even have time to react before Joran slammed him backward, driving him into his two companions. The force of the impact sent all three stumbling into the hallway in a tangled heap. Joran stepped through the threshold, dragging the leader with him, his grip like a vice.

  He didn’t use magic.

  He didn’t need to.

  “I didn’t use a single spell during the final stretch against Sarrak,” Joran said coldly, his voice like frost. “And I fought Takeda hand-to-hand while bleeding out. You think a few cowardly rats in half-armor are going to scare me?”

  He tightened his grip, just enough to make the guard’s face flush red, his hands clawing at Joran’s arm. Then, just as suddenly, Joran released him.

  The man crumpled to the floor, gasping, coughing violently.

  Joran stood over him, eyes burning.

  “She is not to be touched,” he said. “Not by you. Not by anyone. If I so much as hear a whisper that one of you stepped through that door again, I’ll find you. And I will tear you apart.”

  The other two guards stepped back quickly, pulling their groaning leader up by the shoulders.

  Joran didn’t wait for them to answer. He turned, stepped back into the room, and shut the door behind him with a firm, final thud. The echo rang down the hall like the snap of a closing tomb.

  He let out a slow breath, tension still wired through his body, then quietly lay back down on the floor beside the bed. Behind him, Daurial had barely stirred, though her tail flicked faintly beneath the blanket—she’d heard something, but sleep held her tight for now.

  Out in the hallway, the guards staggered a few feet before one of them growled, “Fucking hell… that son of a bitch…”

  “We should go back in there,” another hissed under his breath. “Teach that pampered prick what it means to pick a fight with real soldiers.”

  “No point,” muttered the third, rubbing his bruised shoulder. “He’s right. We don’t stand a chance. He beat Sarrak and Takeda without magic. He’ll snap us in half.”

  The leader said nothing for a moment, still coughing. Then he looked back toward the closed door, eyes narrow.

  “Who does he fight tomorrow?” he rasped.

  “Thraza. Why?”

  A dark grin spread across his bruised face.

  “Because I’ve got an idea,” he said. “One that’ll take him off the board for good… and remind him that nobody—nobody—makes fools of us.”

  They disappeared down the corridor, shadows swallowing them whole.