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—it 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—his cloak, his belt, his dagger—all 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—?”

  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—

  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—except 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—mainly because she was a good fuck—” his smirk widened at Joran’s barely contained rage, “—I 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—or 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—or 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—to 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—this 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 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— on the smallest, most impossible chance —that 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—not 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—a 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—Varkul will regret underestimating me. and with that he fell asleep to his normal nightmares, but he didn't care too much at the moment.