The heavy iron door creaked open, and Joran was led—this time not to the cold stone cell he had grown familiar with—but down a new corridor. It was quieter here, the torches on the walls flickering with a softer, golden light rather than the oppressive red glow that filled the prison halls. Two guards flanked him, silent and watchful, but noticeably more respectful in their posture. Their weapons remained sheathed. Suspiciously so.

  He stepped through the open threshold and halted, blinking. The room before him was... different.

  Gone was the mold-stained cot and damp stone walls. In its place stood a surprisingly cozy chamber: a proper bed with a thick mattress and clean linen sheets, a wooden desk tucked into the corner with parchment and ink, and a narrow but elegant window that offered a sliver of the world outside. Through it, a dying sun cast warm orange light across the room, painting everything in soft hues of gold and blood.

  To the side was a door—slightly ajar—leading into what appeared to be a private bathing chamber. Marble-basin sinks, towels, soap, and even steam rising from a drawn bath. It was the kind of room one might expect in a noble’s private quarters, not within the bowels of a brutal warlord’s fortress.

  And standing in the center of it all, arms wide like a gracious host welcoming an honored guest, was Varkul.

  “There he is!” the warlord bellowed, his voice echoing with the usual gravel-and-fire bravado. “The Maw’s favorite warrior!” His grin was wide, his tone unnervingly jovial as if Joran were an old friend come to visit.

  Joran narrowed his eyes as the door shut behind him.

  “I hope you like the new living arrangements!” Varkul strode forward and clapped a massive hand on Joran’s shoulder, the weight of it forcing the prince to subtly brace his stance. The warlord then turned to admire the room beside him, his expression beaming like a proud innkeeper showing off his finest suite. “Private bath, fresh bedding, even a bit of sunlight. I had them scrub the whole place down. That scent of rot and despair tends to linger in the older cells.”

  Joran glanced around the room again, his body still aching from the duel with Sarrak, though his mind remained sharp. “Hmmm… It is nice,” he admitted cautiously, eyes scanning the window—bars were cleverly hidden in the frame. “But why the sudden upgrade?”

  Varkul’s grin widened, and he gave a hearty laugh, stepping away to pace around the room with exaggerated gestures. “Ah, straight to the point! I like that about you.” He turned with a theatrical flourish, arms spread again. “Truth is, I didn’t expect you to beat Sarrak. His ability has humbled some of my finest killers. But you—the Dragon Prince—managed to do what no one else could.”

  He leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “And I can’t very well have one of the Maw’s strongest champions rotting in some mildew-ridden dungeon, now can I? No, no. That won’t do. With every victory you earn, your accommodations—and privileges—will grow. Consider this... an incentive.”

  So that was their angle. Joran’s jaw tightened as the realization clicked into place. This wasn’t kindness. This was a gilded leash—an attempt to seduce him with luxury, with recognition, with power. If he played along, he would be rewarded. Celebrated. Elevated. And eventually, bound by the very system he sought to destroy.

  He turned toward Varkul, shrugging the man’s hand off his shoulder with cool defiance. “You mean privileges like freeing the slaves and considering my original offer?” There was a pause. Just a heartbeat. But Joran noticed it—the brief flicker in Varkul’s expression. His smile twitched ever so slightly, as if a hidden snarl had almost broken through.

  Then the warlord erupted with another booming laugh, this one laced with something hollow. “Of course! Of course! I am a warlord of my word, aren’t I?” He turned for the door, waving a hand dismissively. “But for now, you’ve earned some rest. You fought well. Very well.”

  He paused halfway through the doorway, inhaling softly through his nose. “Though... I’d recommend a bath,” he said with a smirk. “You smell like ash and desperation.”

  Joran rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

  Varkul reached for the door—then stopped again. His body turned slowly, and when he faced Joran this time, the warmth had bled entirely from his expression. His smile was gone. His eyes were dark and sharp like twin blades.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he said, his voice lower, colder—like steel dragged across ice. “Don’t try that Arcane Severance shit again.” Joran stiffened.

  “You’re lucky,” Varkul continued, “that the crowd was so enthralled by your little duel that no one noticed what else your spell shut down. Including those collars.” There was venom in his voice now.

  “I had to act fast to keep the slaves from realizing they were free, even for a moment. That kind of lapse could start a riot—and then all of this…” He gestured vaguely around him. “...would burn.” He stepped closer, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the room.

  “If you pull that stunt again… I will enter the arena myself. And then you’ll have two opponents to worry about.” For a moment, the room fell utterly silent. Joran didn’t flinch. He didn’t respond. But inside, he turned the warning over carefully. Something about Varkul’s tone wasn’t just about control—it was fear. Fear of that spell. Fear of what it could really do.

  Was it just about the collars? Or something more? Varkul seemed to sense the unspoken question but said nothing more. Instead, he exhaled and took a step back, his usual bravado slowly returning.

  “I’ll have food and drink brought up to you,” he said casually. “Your next fight is tomorrow. Rest up.”

  As he turned away, Joran added coolly, “Make sure it isn’t mythic.” The words were polite. The tone was not. Varkul stopped at the door, grinning wide with all his teeth.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know you don’t eat mythic… despite how delicious they are.”

  And with that, he stepped out and closed the door. Joran stood alone in the quiet room, the sunlight from the window dimming as dusk crept in. A gilded cage, he thought bitterly. But still a cage. The door locked with a solid click, followed by the sound of heavy boots fading down the hallway.

  Joran stood still for several long seconds, the silence in the room stretching thin. No audience. No chains. No mocking voices or cruel laughter. Just the gentle creak of the wooden floor beneath his boots, the quiet hiss of steam from the bath behind the door, and the dull ache in his body that hadn’t quite left him since the fight with Sarrak.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He slowly turned to take in the room again, but this time with the full knowledge of what it was: not a reward, not comfort, but bait.

  So this is what gilded captivity looks like.

  Everything in this room had been chosen with purpose. The warmth of the lighting, the illusion of freedom in that narrow window, the softness of the sheets. Seduction by comfort.

  They wanted him to feel safe. To feel seen. Respected. Rewarded.

  To forget the screams of that elven slave being cut down right in front of him.

  To forget the feel of blood soaking into the arena sand.

  To forget what he was fighting for.

  He moved to the window and leaned against the edge of the frame, looking out. Beyond the sliver of sky, jagged stone peaks stretched like teeth toward the dying sun. Smoke trailed upward from chimneys and forges. Somewhere below, someone was crying out—distant and muffled. A voice of pain. Or maybe rage. It was hard to tell anymore.

  They think if they dangle a few luxuries in front of me, I’ll forget what this place is.

  They think I’ll start craving the crowd’s roar. That I’ll want to hear my name screamed by bloodthirsty fools who wouldn’t hesitate to enslave the next child with horns or scales or wings.

  They don’t understand.

  He pushed off the windowsill and walked toward the bed, pausing beside it. The linens were clean. White. Almost too white. Like bones buried under silk.

  He sat carefully, ignoring the sigh of the mattress under his weight.

  This isn’t kindness. It’s strategy.

  Varkul is no fool. He knows how to dress up chains as garlands. He knows how to poison the soul while feeding the body.

  But he also slipped up.

  That warning—about Arcane Severance—had been more than bluster. It wasn’t just about the slave collars. There had been fear in his voice. Real fear. The kind that only powerful men feel when something threatens the structure they’ve built with blood and dominance.

  Joran closed his eyes.

  What exactly did that spell shut off?

  What is Varkul so desperate to keep hidden beneath all this strength and swagger?

  The thought was dangerous. But it lit a spark in his chest.

  He stood again, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed from where Sarrak had nearly torn the muscle open. He still needed to bathe. Eat. Heal. Prepare. Because tomorrow, the arena would call again. And he would go. But not for glory. Not for the cheers. Not for the promise of soft beds and warm food.

  I’ll fight. I’ll win. And when the time is right…

  I’ll tear this place down brick by cursed brick.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran can’t remember when he fell asleep. He had taken a long bath and a goblin slave had brought him food and drink only to hurry out without a word. He wasn’t sure if she was afraid or felt she wasn’t worthy to talk to him. After he ate he lied down in bed and passed out sometime after that but now he was awake. The strange thing was it wasn’t the nightmare that woke him. It was the feel of a presence within his own room. “Why did you spare him?”

  Joran sat up sharply, heart thudding in his chest. His eyes strained against the dimness, immediately settling on a figure standing calmly in the shadows by the far corner of his room. The man had made no sound, his very presence like a quiet whisper against the silence.

  He stood tall and composed, his stance balanced and serene, exuding the controlled stillness of someone utterly at peace with violence—yet not defined by it. His dark robes hung loosely from broad shoulders, meticulously kept yet visibly worn, whispering of journeys taken and battles quietly endured. The garment bore faded traces of some foreign elegance, now dulled by travel and hardship, mirroring perhaps the faded nobility of the wearer himself.

  Long black hair, touched lightly with silver, was tied loosely behind him, framing a face carved from quiet strength. His features were calm, almost serene, yet his eyes were hauntingly empty, carrying a sorrowful depth. Even in the faint, uncertain moonlight filtering through the small window, Joran could clearly see the sadness etched into those dark, unwavering eyes—eyes of someone burdened by loss.

  At his hip hung a strange curved blade, beautiful yet lethal, bound within a simple sheath, worn smooth by years of careful handling. His hand rested gently near the weapon, not in threat, but almost in a quiet, reflective gesture.

  “Why did you spare him?” the stranger asked again, his voice soft, deep, like the distant rumble of thunder. The words carried no hostility, only calm curiosity tinged faintly by regret.

  Joran stared blankly at the stranger for several moments, confusion clouding his thoughts. Finally, it dawned on him who the man must be referring to. "Sarrak?" he ventured cautiously.

  The stranger's dark eyes flashed subtly, a quiet confirmation. Joran exhaled softly, shaking off his initial unease.

  "He wasn’t like the warlord or any of the others I've encountered here," Joran explained thoughtfully, his voice calm but firm. "The only reason Sarrak came here was to find someone who was actually a threat to him, someone who could match him in fair combat. I granted him that wish, and I defeated him. There was no reason to take it further by ending his life."

  The stranger tilted his head slightly, his gaze deepening as he considered Joran’s words. "And what if he had attacked after his power returned?"

  Joran hesitated, eyes drifting to the small window as he mulled over the possibility. After a contemplative silence, he shrugged with an honest resignation. "Then I would've died or been forced to submit. That spell takes a lot of mana—I can’t cast it again quickly."

  Silence filled the room, heavy and lingering, before the stranger spoke again. His voice, low and composed, carried a quiet melancholy. "I am not of this world," he began slowly. "I was born and raised in another realm, trained in the arts of the blade and spiritual balance. I had a master, but more in the sense of a mentor than someone who controlled me. One day, my master was slain, and I was unjustly accused of his murder."

  The man paused, his gaze drifting into shadowed memories. "They stripped me of my honor, labeled me ronin—a warrior without purpose or master—and banished me to this realm."

  Joran stared at him in quiet astonishment. "I thought all realms had been sealed away after the Dragon War," he murmured, unable to fully hide the fascination in his tone.

  The stranger shook his head slowly, a sorrowful smile ghosting his lips. "My world had a one-way gate. We could send things to your realm, but never return."

  Joran frowned slightly, uncertainty tugging at the edge of his thoughts. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

  At last, the stranger’s eyes rose to meet Joran’s directly, sadness etched deep into their depths. "I heard about why you challenged the warlord. You are a prince and a man of honor," he said with quiet respect. "I am to be your opponent tomorrow, yet I have no right to fight someone like you. When our match begins, I will forfeit and declare you the winner."

  "Wait," Joran protested immediately, sitting up straighter, urgency sharpening his voice. "You shouldn’t do that. You have just as much right as—"

  "I am beneath you," the stranger interrupted softly but firmly. "Not only are you royalty, but you deserve to face someone better than a dishonored ronin. I am unworthy of your blade."

  Joran opened his mouth to protest again, only to be silenced by the man’s quiet but unyielding gaze.

  "You can’t—"

  "It is not up for discussion," the stranger said gently, his voice leaving no room for argument. "This is what’s happening."

  He turned without another word, footsteps as silent as his entry had been, and opened the door. Only then did it creak slightly, breaking the profound silence that had enveloped them. He paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder.

  "Sleep well, Prince Joran," he said quietly, the sadness in his voice evident. "I am sorry to disappoint you."

  With that, he stepped through the door, closing it softly behind him and leaving Joran alone, bathed in pale moonlight.

  For a long moment, Joran simply stared at the closed door, his mind racing. He could accept the stranger’s decision, let him surrender and take the victory without struggle. It would certainly make things easier, simpler. But the thought of allowing this warrior—this man burdened by shame he clearly did not deserve—to live on believing himself worthless was unbearable.

  Joran sighed deeply, closing his eyes and shaking his head softly to himself.

  ...Nah, fuck that.