Varkul moved like a storm given form—not fast in the traditional sense, but every step devoured the space between them. His bare feet thundered against the stone floor, and with each powerful stride, the ground cracked and buckled beneath him, sending tremors through the warlord’s hall. The air thickened with pressure. The heat from Joran’s earlier spell still hung in the air, distorted and shimmering—but the real danger was the man now barreling toward him like a living siege engine.

  Joran’s heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t stand and fight—not here, not now. He didn’t have the advantage. Varkul was too strong, too unshaken by even his most devastating spell. There was only one option: escape. If he could make it beyond the fortress walls, vanish into the wilds, and get word to Lothara, his father would send a force capable of razing this pit of rot to the ground.

  This place needs to be destroyed.

  A flick of his wrist, a sharp command of will—Aegis Shell. A golden barrier of tightly woven arcane light shimmered to life between him and the charging warlord. The spell pulsed with energy, radiating heat from its edges. It should’ve held.

  It didn’t.

  Varkul didn’t slow. His fist collided with the barrier and shattered it with a sound like a thunderclap, the magical shards dispersing like embers on the wind. The force of the break sent a wave of recoil into Joran’s chest.

  He conjured another. Aegis Shell. Then another. And another.

  Each one collapsed in an instant beneath the warlord’s assault. With every broken shield, Joran felt a sharp tug at his core—a sudden drop in his energy, like water draining through a sieve. His breathing grew heavier. His vision blurred around the edges. He was burning through his reserves faster than he should’ve been.

  Why…?

  He wasn’t casting recklessly. These were practiced spells. Measured. He’d trained for this. He shouldn’t be this tired..

  Varkul was nearly on top of him. Desperation flooded Joran’s veins.

  He raised his arm. Magic surged up from deep within, cold and cutting. Frost spiraled around his hand, racing along his arm in jagged veins of rime. With a shout, he unleashed it.

  Frozen Embrace.

  A torrent of sub-zero magic burst forth, engulfing Varkul in a wave of bitter, biting cold. The warlord’s charge halted mid-step as the frost wrapped around his chest, shoulders, and legs. A sheen of solid ice spread rapidly, encasing him in a crystalline prison. In moments, he was locked in place—frozen from head to toe, his furious expression preserved like a statue in a tomb of frost.

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Joran stood panting, arms trembling as the numbing effects of the spell clung to his skin. His legs felt weak, his vision swimming—but he kept his posture tall. He couldn’t show weakness now. He had to look in control. In command.

  Dozens of eyes stared at him. Warriors, mercenaries, mythics, and slaves alike. No one moved. No one dared speak.

  Joran straightened his back, forcing strength into his voice.

  “Anyone else?” he shouted across the cracked and scorched chamber. “I still have plenty left in me!”

  It was a bluff. And a thin one.

  But the room remained still.

  Then—crack.

  Joran turned sharply. Another crack—this one louder. Splinters of frost spiderwebbed across the frozen shell containing Varkul. A fine mist of cold air hissed from a growing fracture near his chest. Joran’s breath caught.

  No.

  He took a cautious step forward, peering into the ice. Varkul’s eyes were still open behind the frost. And they were moving.

  “...Impossible,” Joran whispered.

  A deafening BOOM shattered the quiet.

  The ice prison exploded outward in a violent burst of shards. Joran threw up a reflexive barrier, barely managing to conjure a partial shield of golden light. It shimmered in front of him just in time to absorb the initial shock—just before Varkul’s fist slammed into it.

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  The shield held for a heartbeat. Then crumbled.

  The blow connected.

  Joran’s entire body lifted from the ground as the warlord’s punch drove into his gut like a battering ram. The force of the impact detonated through him. Pain erupted in every nerve, his lungs emptying in a choking gasp as the breath was punched from his body. A booming shockwave tore through the throne room, sending debris and splinters of stone flying.

  Joran’s body flew backward, crashing through the reinforced doors of the war hall. Iron hinges tore from their mountings. Stone cracked and crumbled. He hit the outer wall, bounced once, then tumbled violently down the dirt road beyond the hold’s entrance. Each roll sent fresh waves of agony through his limbs, until he finally skidded to a stop in the dirt.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  Then—drip.

  A droplet of blood slid from the corner of his mouth, painting the dust beneath him red.

  He pushed himself up on trembling arms, coughing as fresh pain flared in his ribs. Everything ached. His limbs felt like lead, his head pounding like war drums.

  The taste of iron filled his mouth.

  And still... he couldn’t understand it.

  Why was he this weak?

  He wasn’t out of magic. Not completely. But something had drained him far more than the spells should have.

  Varkul landed beside him with a resounding thud, the ground itself trembling under the weight of the warlord’s arrival. Dust rose around his feet in a slow, rippling cloud as his presence consumed the space like an avalanche about to bury its prey. His laughter followed—low, guttural, and soaked in cruel satisfaction. It echoed through the alleys and crooked walkways of Korr’s Maw like a challenge.

  Joran lay sprawled in the dirt, gasping for breath. Each inhalation sent a lance of fire through his ribs. His limbs felt like they were stuffed with sand—heavy, sluggish, barely responsive. He could feel blood trickling from his mouth, warm and metallic as it slipped down his chin. But still, he moved. He forced his hands into the dirt, fingers curling into the dry earth as if he could anchor himself to it. Bit by bit, inch by agonizing inch, he pulled himself to his knees.

  A ring of onlookers had begun to gather. Mercenaries and slavers. Arena fighters and cutthroats. Dirty-faced vagrants with empty eyes. All drawn by the promise of violence—and the rare sight of someone who dared stand against Varkul and lived.

  The warlord watched him rise with a wolfish tilt of the head, his broad arms loose at his sides, the muscles in them flexing with anticipation. His green eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

  “So much for the mighty Dragon Prince of Lothara,” Varkul said, voice dripping with mockery.

  Joran raised his head, golden eyes blazing despite the grime and blood smeared across his face. He wobbled slightly, but he didn’t fall.

  “These… people,” he rasped, voice raw but steady, “the ones you enslave… the ones you use for sport… they still deserve to live free. Not because they’re strong. Not because they can fight. But because they matter.”

  For a moment, silence held the street.

  A few scoffed. Others sneered. But not all. Some stood quiet, unreadable. Watching.

  Varkul chuckled—a short, cruel sound, like a boot grinding into something soft. “You have strong convictions, little prince,” he said. “But tell me…”

  He moved.

  The punch came like a battering ram.

  Joran barely registered the blur of motion before the warlord’s fist collided with his face. The world spun. Bone met flesh with a crack that reverberated down the alleyway. Joran’s body slammed into the ground with a whud, the force of the impact sending tremors along the dirt. Beneath him, the earth cracked in spiderweb patterns.

  Pain exploded through his jaw, his vision flaring white for a heartbeat before it faded into a wash of shadow. He coughed, blood spraying from his mouth as he rolled onto his back, stars dancing across his eyes. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Varkul speak again.

  “How are you going to defend them,” the warlord said coldly, “when you can’t even defend yourself?”

  Then—a hand. Massive, brutal. It fisted in Joran’s hair and yanked him upright, dragging him from the ground like a ragdoll. A groan of pain tore from Joran’s throat as his feet dangled helplessly, the warlord’s strength holding him suspended before the crowd.

  He struggled, limbs twitching, but his body felt like wet rope. His magic—his strength—it was all gone. His vision blurred, his head lolling forward slightly as he tried to focus on anything other than the blinding ache spreading through his skull.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Varkul murmured, his voice low now, intimate—almost gentle in its mockery. “That’d be too easy.”

  Joran twitched, trying to raise a hand. Nothing. His body simply refused.

  “No,” Varkul continued, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “I have something better planned for you.”

  He hoisted Joran higher, arm extended now, so the entire crowd could see the battered prince.

  “I’ll throw you into the arena,” Varkul announced, his voice booming across the settlement like a war drum. “Let’s see how long the Dragon Prince survives against real warriors.”

  A cheer erupted from the gathered throng. They roared with approval, slamming fists into palms, stomping their feet, jeering and calling for blood. Some began placing bets already, shouting odds and challengers.

  Joran closed his eyes, trying once more to summon his magic. Just a spark. Just a flicker.

  Nothing.

  His core was dry. Hollow.

  Varkul’s grin widened. “Oh, and don’t worry,” he said, his grip tightening painfully in Joran’s hair. The prince hissed, another sharp pang lancing down his neck.

  “I’ll even let you keep your gear.”

  The warlord’s other hand curled into a massive fist.

  Joran opened his mouth, whether to protest or scream, he didn’t know.

  He never got the chance.

  Varkul’s fist came down like a hammer, and the world went black.