Joran was marched through the looming gates of the Warlord’s Hold, flanked on either side by Dorn and the saurian soldier he’d come to know as Tornon. Their heavy footfalls echoed through the stone corridors as torchlight flickered against the iron-lined walls, casting dancing shadows that felt almost alive.

  As they approached the throne room, Joran could already hear the noise within—laughter, the clatter of tankards, the groan of stone under weight, the distant, eerie hum of song. It wasn’t the sound of royalty or noble courts—it was a den of dominance. The domain of wolves, not kings.

  The heavy doors swung open, revealing a hall lit by rows of roaring braziers and torch sconces hammered into crumbling stone pillars. A black carpet stretched the length of the room, embroidered not with royal crests, but with crude depictions of battles, skulls, and chains—celebrations of violence.

  Joran’s eyes swept the chamber as he and his escorts stepped inside. The throne room was alive with activity. Mythics and humans alike filled the space, many clad in worn armor or loose, blood-splattered tunics. He spotted a towering minotaur and a lean magi-human engaged in a brutal arm-wrestling match atop a jagged stone table. The moment the minotaur slammed his opponent’s hand down with a roar of triumph, the stone split with a sharp crack, and the magi-human cursed, cradling his broken fingers as the small crowd laughed and cheered.

  To the left, a makeshift stage had been built where a siren sang—her voice hauntingly beautiful, sorrow woven into every note. Her body shimmered under the light, clad in silk that revealed more than it concealed. Around her, drunken spectators raised their mugs and hollered for more, oblivious—or uncaring—of the slave collar clamped tightly around her pale throat. Her song faltered when Joran looked at her, their eyes meeting for a moment. There was no spark of rebellion in her gaze, only quiet resignation.

  Joran's stomach twisted. He had grown up believing slavery was a human cruelty, a barbaric practice his people had long abandoned. But here, in Korr’s Maw, it was clear that many mythics had no qualms about participating in the same cruelty. The collars around their necks knew no racial bias—only ownership.

  He moved with the guards down the long carpet. Around them, warriors drank, ate, gambled, and jeered—until they noticed him. One by one, the laughter died, mugs paused halfway to mouths, dice stopped rolling. Murmurs spread like wildfire. Someone being brought before the Warlord wasn’t an everyday occurrence.

  Joran’s pace slowed slightly as they approached the throne.

  And there he was.

  Warlord Varkul.

  He sat sprawled across a jagged obsidian throne carved from the remains of some long-dead beast—its fangs and claws still protruding from the structure like a warning. Varkul was a brute of a man, nearly seven feet tall even seated. His skin was tanned and weathered like leather left out in the sun too long, his chest bare and thick with corded muscle. A monstrous lion pelt was draped across his shoulders, the beast’s fanged head hanging off his back like a grim trophy.

  Piercing green eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his brow, watching everything—and missing nothing.

  He wore only loose brown trousers and heavy rings on nearly every finger, each one glinting with gems that pulsed subtly with magical energy. Joran’s eyes lingered on them, sensing something... wrong. They weren’t just decorative.

  Draped around the Warlord were three female mythics, their bodies wrapped in scant silks and their eyes vacant. A highborn elf with sun-kissed skin and trembling hands stood to his right, pouring blood-red wine into his goblet whenever he lifted it. A pale lamia was coiled around the throne, her upper body resting languidly against his left leg, while a slender velcari girl leaned lazily against his right, her feline ears twitching at every sudden sound. All of them wore gleaming collars at their necks, magical brands of obedience.

  They didn’t move unless he did.

  Varkul took a long, sloppy drink from his goblet, red wine dribbling down the corners of his mouth and splashing onto the mythics draped at his feet. None of them flinched. He sighed in satisfaction and held out the goblet without looking.

  “More wine, bitch,” he said flatly.

  The elf poured with shaking hands.

  That’s when his gaze finally settled on Joran.

  He raised a single, calloused hand—and the siren’s song halted mid-note. The room groaned in disappointment, several warriors booing or cursing at the sudden silence—until Varkul’s hand came down.

  SLAM.

  The throne cracked under the force of his fist.

  “QUIET.”

  It wasn’t a yell—it was a command. The room obeyed.

  Joran kept his eyes forward, swallowing his revulsion. The slaves, the chains, the girls—it all made his blood boil, but now wasn’t the time.

  Varkul leaned forward, wine trickling down his chin as he studied the prince with lazy disdain. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

  “Why is this boy… no. This pup here?” he drawled. “Is he here to challenge me?”

  Joran stepped forward and bowed with practiced grace, his hand over his heart. “Warlord of Korr’s Maw. I am—”

  “Nothing,” Varkul interrupted, voice sharp. “Until you are given permission to speak. Now shut the fuck up.”

  Joran froze, straightened, and said nothing. Every muscle in his body was tense.

  The warlord turned his gaze lazily to the two soldiers behind him. “Well?”

  Tornon jabbed his elbow into Dorn’s side.

  The cyclops stepped forward hesitantly, his single eye flickering with nerves. “W-well… you see, sire… I used my Sight on this newcomer to see what he really was… a-and well…”

  Varkul’s goblet flew through the air with a blur of motion and slammed into Dorn’s gut like a cannonball.

  WHUMP.

  The cyclops doubled over and dropped to his knees, vomiting onto the black carpet as the hall erupted in shocked silence. Joran’s eyes darted between Dorn and the throne. He hadn’t even seen the warlord move.

  Wine soaked the girls at Varkul’s feet, their soaked silks now nearly transparent. Still, they didn’t speak.

  “The next guard to speak better answer plainly,” Varkul said coldly, licking his teeth. “Or else both of you will be on tonight’s menu for the Champion.”

  Dorn continued to wheeze on the ground.

  Tornon stepped forward, spine stiff. “Warlord Varkul… Dorn used his vision magic to discern the boy’s race. He… he is not fully human. He’s half dragon. Western lineage. And the other half…”

  He paused only a moment.

  “Slayer.”

  The throne room exploded.

  Gasps, snarls, shouted curses.

  “The prince?!”

  “That’s the blood of the Dragon Queen!”

  “Lothara’s heir?!”

  “How far behind is the Dragon King?!”

  “What the hell is he doing here?!”

  But the chaos only lasted seconds. Varkul rose to his feet, arms spread, expression like a god surveying insects.

  “I SAID…”

  His next word was a whisper. But the weight of it crushed the room like a hammer.

  “…quiet.”

  And once again, silence reigned.

  Everyone stared at Joran.

  Everyone waited.

  The slaves at the base of the throne scattered in silence as Varkul stepped down from his seat of bones and obsidian. His heavy boots thudded against the cracked stone floor, the weight of each step matched only by the gravity in the room. The air thickened with tension as the warlord approached, the torchlight casting his towering form in flickering shadows that made him seem less man, more mythic beast.

  Joran held his ground as Varkul came to a stop just a few feet away. The warlord loomed over him, the sharp scent of wine and blood in his breath. The jeweled rings on his fingers glinted with faint pulses of arcane light.

  “So…” Varkul rumbled, voice deep and coarse, “you are the Prince of Lothara, aren’t you?”

  His tone wasn’t curious. It was amused. Knowing. The way a hunter might speak after cornering prey that finally gave up the chase.

  “Yes,” Joran replied, his voice steady and clear—stronger than it had been since leaving the castle. There was no stammer, no hesitation. “I am.”

  He didn’t know if it was the weight of his mission, the fury in his gut, or the teachings of courtly presence etched into his spine, but the moment demanded strength, and Joran answered. His eyes flicked past Varkul’s broad frame to the silent slaves still cowering by the throne, their eyes hollow, their collars gleaming like shackles of shame.

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  “Why do you do this?” he asked, lifting his gaze back to the warlord.

  Varkul tilted his head slightly, like he hadn’t heard right. Behind him, Dorn and Tornon slowly backed away, tension building in their expressions. Even they knew this was dangerous territory.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific, pup,” Varkul said, his grin widening. “I do a lot of things, and most of ‘em I don’t bother remembering.”

  Joran took a single step back—not in fear, but to give the conversation space to breathe. He didn’t drop his gaze. “The slaves. The blood sport. The cruelty. Why do you do this to innocent people?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Varkul burst into laughter—loud and guttural, like boulders grinding together. The entire hall joined in, hooting and howling, their mirth bouncing off the stone walls like an avalanche. Joran stood firm in the eye of it, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Innocent?” Varkul barked, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Pup, you’ve lived in your ivory tower for far too long. There are no innocents in this world—or any world. There’s only the strong… and the weak. The predator, and the prey.”

  The laughter began to die down, but the gleam in Varkul’s eye grew sharper. His voice turned more serious.

  “I may be human, but I respect strength. And mythics? Some of ‘em have it in spades. But when I took over this place, it was rot. Crumbling under a tiefling who only cared about his own reflection. I beat him to death with my bare hands and laid down one law—prosper if you are strong.”

  He spread his arms wide to the room, to the warriors, the mercenaries, the cages in the corners.

  “Korr’s Maw became a place where any bastard can rise, as long as they’ve got the guts to fight for it. We’re not hiding. We’re thriving. And when we found out how close we were to one of Lothara’s main mythic roads, well…” he chuckled darkly, “…let’s just say fortune favors the bold.”

  Joran’s jaw tightened. “You had the opportunity to help them. Those trying to reach Lothara for peace—freedom. And instead you turned them into fodder.”

  Varkul shrugged. “Where the strong reign, there must be those beneath them. The strong rule, the weak serve. It’s balance. But no one’s stuck. Anyone can fight. Some of my finest warriors?” He snapped his fingers. “Former slaves. Raise your hands, dogs.”

  Several scarred, hardened men and women raised their arms—ogres, beastkin, even a few humans. Their faces bore no shame, only pride. The crowd cheered again, like it proved Varkul’s point.

  “They had the chance,” Varkul said. “And they took it. The rest? They cower. They wait to be sold, or they die in the Maw trying to be more than they are. Fair odds, if you ask me.”

  Joran’s eyes burned with a quiet fury. “Then let me offer you something different. Something greater than coin or sport.”

  Varkul arched a brow, amused. “Go on, prince of peace.”

  Joran took a deep breath. “You’re right. This settlement sits near one of the main routes mythics take to reach Lothara. But instead of exploiting them, you could profit another way. I’m on a mission to forge alliances across Orano. To lay the groundwork for a future where mythics and humans can live as equals—not prey and predator, but people.”

  He took a step forward.

  “I propose an agreement. Korr’s Maw will remain as it is for those who come willingly—mercenaries, warriors, thrill-seekers. Let them fight. Let them rise. But for those who pass through seeking sanctuary? You will protect them. Guard the road, in exchange for a hefty payment. Lothara will fund it. In return, you will banish all slavers and merchants who traffic in flesh from this place.”

  The room murmured. Eyes narrowed. Some laughed again, others whispered.

  Varkul stared down at him for a long moment, green eyes searching his face.

  “And,” he said, his voice low, leaning so close that their faces were inches apart, “if we say no?”

  Joran didn’t flinch. “Then Lothara will raze this place to the ground and salt the ruins so that nothing ever grows here again.”

  A silence thicker than before fell over the room.

  Varkul straightened slowly, his expression unreadable.

  He turned, without a word, and walked back to his throne—each step slow, deliberate.

  Varkul waved a hand, dismissive as a god shooing away insects.

  The lamia and the felari scrambled to obey, slithering and stumbling from his feet as quickly as they could, their silks fluttering in their haste to vanish from his view. Only the elf remained, trembling beside the wine table.

  Varkul’s eyes fixed on her.

  “Come here, elf,” he said.

  Her breath caught. The pitcher trembled in her hands as she set it down, her movements mechanical. She moved to him with the slow, practiced obedience of someone who knew what disobedience earned.

  Joran’s stomach turned.

  Varkul snatched her arm with a sharp jerk, spinning her until she stood between him and the prince, her back to his broad chest. His hand, calloused and enormous, slid around her body—gripping her breast in a vile display of dominance.

  She whimpered. Her hands twitched at her sides, trying not to react. Her eyes never left the floor.

  Joran’s heart pounded in his chest. His fingers itched to summon flame. He stood paralyzed—not out of fear, but rage. Pure, trembling fury that vibrated in his bones.

  Varkul smirked at him over the girl’s shoulder, fingers still cruelly kneading her. “That is an interesting offer, Prince Joran,” he said, his voice casual, like they were talking over dinner. “But now it’s time for me to explain something to you.”

  He released her breast and reached up to stroke her hair instead—gentle, almost tender. The contrast made it worse. She flinched at the touch.

  “You aren’t in your kingdom anymore. This isn’t Lothara. There are no crowns here. No royal edicts. No diplomacy.” His tone darkened. “You think we’re just mercs for hire? That we’ll grovel for your gold, bow to your symbols, obey your morals?” His grip tightened on the elf’s hair.

  “We aren’t afraid of you,” he growled. “I’m not afraid of you. Your authority means nothing to us.”

  Joran clenched his jaw. His nails dug into his palms.

  “The strong stay here because they enjoy ruling over the weak,” Varkul continued. “Because it’s their right.”

  He looked at Joran with that wolfish grin again.

  “You’re a hybrid—slayer and dragon. You could rule this whole damn continent if you stopped acting like such a little bitch and embraced what you are. But instead…” He laughed bitterly. “You preach about peace. Equality. Love.”

  He released the girl’s hair—but only to wrap his hand around her skull.

  Joran’s eyes widened.

  “You want to know what really matters?” Varkul said, his voice low and poisonous. “It’s not unity. It’s not hope. It’s not kindness. It’s strength.”

  He lifted the elf off her feet, his fingers digging into her scalp like iron vices.

  “Let her go!” Joran stepped forward, voice cracking with rage.

  “There is only one law that matters, prince!” Varkul bellowed over her rising screams. “The law of domination! If you don’t have it—”

  The elf shrieked as a sharp crack echoed through the hall.

  “—you are nothing!”

  With one final, casual squeeze, her skull caved in like wet parchment.

  The room froze.

  Blood and brain matter splattered against the stone. Her limp body dropped from Varkul’s grasp like a broken doll and hit the floor with a sickening thud. One of her fingers twitched.

  Joran didn’t move.

  He couldn’t.

  He stared at her shattered corpse, at the empty look still frozen in her eyes, at the glistening blood on Varkul’s hand.

  “You…” Joran whispered.

  Varkul shook off the gore with a flick of his wrist and turned back to Joran, grinning ear to ear. “Go on. Let it out.”

  “You fucking… MONSTER!”

  The heat hit like a tidal wave.

  Joran’s rage ignited—no longer contained. His magic surged up from within him like molten fire forced through his veins. The air warped, the temperature spiked, and gold-crimson sparks licked at his fingertips.

  Varkul stepped forward, grinning wider. “Yes… Show me. Show me that power.”

  You don’t think I can hurt you. Joran’s teeth clenched. Then I’ll break you.

  With a shout, he slammed his hands together.

  A golden shockwave erupted from his body, shattering the floor beneath his boots. Flames exploded outward in a furious ring, tearing cracks through the obsidian stone. The air vibrated with violent heat, the scent of ozone and magic bleeding into the room.

  Above his hands, a brilliant sphere formed—searing gold at the center, wreathed in threads of crimson lightning. It pulsed like a sun forced into existence, throbbing with raw power, casting jagged shadows across the throne room.

  Gasps echoed from the crowd as the oppressive heat drove them back, faces shielded against the blaze. Some dropped their drinks. Others took several steps away from the epicenter of magic.

  Even the slaves looked up now—eyes wide with something like… hope.

  Joran’s voice thundered through the chamber as he thrust his arms forward.

  “INFERNAL JUDGEMENT!!”

  The sphere detonated into a pillar of divine flame.

  It roared across the floor like the wrath of the gods, slamming into Varkul with explosive force. The stone split, the walls cracked, and the room became a crucible of fire. Light engulfed the warlord’s body, swallowing him in a maelstrom of golden inferno. Flames spiraled up toward the high ceiling, scorching it black.

  Everything else disappeared in the chaos.

  The heat was suffocating. The scent of scorched stone and burning fur choked the air. Metal screamed as rings and chains warped in the flames. The crowd retreated in panic, warriors shielding themselves behind columns or diving for cover.

  And through it all, Joran stood, sweat streaking down his face, every muscle trembling with exertion.

  The flames began to die.

  Smoke choked the air, thick and heavy, curling across the broken floor. Cracks glowed faintly with residual heat, like veins of lava running through the stone.

  Joran gasped for breath, hands still raised.

  It had to be enough. It had to.

  He squinted into the smoke.

  No sound.

  No movement.

  Please let it be—

  A deep, guttural breath echoed through the haze.

  Joran froze.

  Then came the chuckle.

  A low, amused, unscathed laugh.

  “No…” Joran whispered.

  Out of the smoke stepped a silhouette.

  Massive. Unyielding.

  Varkul.

  Not a scratch on him.

  His lion-pelt cloak was blackened and aflame at the edges, so he tore it off and tossed it aside with a growl of annoyance. His bare chest gleamed with sweat—but there was no wound. No burn. No blood.

  Only fury.

  And amusement.

  He cracked his knuckles, bones popping like war drums, and his emerald eyes shone with manic delight.

  “While a disappointing attack,” he rumbled, “I still believe…”

  He stomped forward—his bare foot slamming into the stone hard enough to crack it.

  “…that was a challenge for my throne.”

  Then he charged.

  Like a boulder hurled by a titan, the warlord surged toward the prince with devastating force—each step shaking the ruined hall.