King Without a Throne

Time seemed to slow to a near standstill, stretching into a thick, unnatural silence. To Kairan's fading consciousness, the sharp stone he had thrown seemed to crawl through the air, spinning elegantly in a vacuum of sound. The deafening roar of the Gravemaw, the panicked screams of the spectators, even the frantic beating of his own heart against his cracked ribs, all vanished. There was only him, the darkness creeping at the edge of his vision, and his final projectile, carrying all that was left of his life, flying towards an invisible thread in the middle of the arena.

On his balcony, Lord Valerius saw the stone and chuckled, a laugh that sounded more like a snort of disgust. A pathetic throw from a dying cockroach. The stone wasn't even aimed at his beast. A pitiful act of desperation, a fitting end to a show that was beginning to bore him. He raised his crystal goblet, ready to toast the death of the Nulla.

Then, the stone reached its apex.

There was no deafening explosion. No blinding flash of light. There was only a silent snap that was felt in the air, like a cosmic harp string breaking. For a split second, a thread of blood-red that only Kairan could see became visible to all—a flash of red light stretching from the lord to his beast—before it finally broke and vanished into a shower of energy that died like embers doused in water.

On the balcony, Lord Valerius's laughter froze in his throat. For the first time in his life of luxury and power, he felt pain. Not the physical pain of a wound, but a magical backlash that stabbed directly into the Blood Sigil on his neck. It felt as if an icy hand was squeezing his heart from the inside, forcibly pulling energy from its source. The Blood Sigil on his neck flared uncontrollably, emitting a red light so intense that the crystal goblet in his hand cracked and shattered into pieces. Red wine spilled onto his silk robe, looking like fresh, flowing blood.

"Argh!" A strangled groan escaped his pale lips. He staggered back, his hand clutching his neck, his eyes, once full of arrogance, now filled with shock and boundless rage. Something impossible had just happened. A Nulla... had hurt him. He had attacked him from across the arena, without a spell, without any visible magic. He had violated the very laws of nature.

Below, in the arena, the effect was far more dramatic.

As the magical thread snapped, the charging Gravemaw suddenly stumbled, as if an invisible support holding it up had been yanked away. It tumbled forward with tremendous momentum, its massive body slamming into the arena wall with the deafening sound of cracking bone and stone. It roared, no longer with focused anger, but with pure confusion and pain. The bond that had injected endless aggression into its brain was gone, leaving a sea of rage without a compass in its thick skull.

It was then that Kairan's body finally gave up.

Seeing the red thread break, seeing the shocked and furious expression on the lord's face, was his final victory. The remaining strength in his body evaporated. His legs gave way. The ocean of pain he had been holding back finally swallowed him. The world went black, and he fell unconscious onto the sand stained with his own blood.

A total silence enveloped the arena. The jeers that had echoed moments before were dead. The cheers had vanished, swallowed by confusion. Every spectator, from Silas, whose face was as pale as a corpse, to the gamblers with their jaws hanging open, stared at the nonsensical scene. A severely injured Nulla had just done the unthinkable: he had made a savage Gravemaw and a lord with a noble Blood Sigil react in pain at the same time, without touching either of them. They didn't understand what they were seeing, but they knew they had just witnessed a great taboo being broken.

In the midst of the chaos and confusion, only one person moved with purpose.

Torvek.

The former gladiator saw what others did not. He saw an opening. A narrow, dangerous window of opportunity that would close forever if he hesitated. The knights on the balcony were busy checking on their furious and humiliated lord. Silas was still frozen in shock, his cunning brain unable to process the financial loss and political implications of this event. And the Gravemaw, though injured, was now a wild and unpredictable time bomb.

"Now or never," Torvek muttered to himself, his voice hoarse with emotion. He remembered Silas's betrayal, his lost arm, his shattered dreams. This boy, this Nulla, was the first spark of fire he had seen in the darkness after years. He would not let it be extinguished.

With a roar that rivaled the beast's, Torvek leaped over the barrier and landed on the sandy arena floor. Ignoring the danger, he ran, limping, towards Kairan's motionless body. Each step felt heavy, his one remaining arm feeling insufficient to face the world.

He reached Kairan, knelt, and with great difficulty, tried to lift the thin body onto his shoulder. Kairan's body felt light, but the weight of what had just happened felt immense. "You're a real fool, kid," he whispered, his voice trembling. "And you're absolutely magnificent."

Across the arena, the Gravemaw managed to get back on its feet. It shook its dizzy head, its red eyes burning with rage, now without a target. It roared at the panicked crowd, then towards Valerius's balcony.

Then, its gaze stopped.

It saw two figures in the middle of the arena. One standing, the other limp. Its prey. The only thing left in its chaotic memory before the pain came.

As Torvek managed to lift Kairan and started to turn towards the exit gate, a low, deadly growl was heard right behind him.

He turned his head.

A pair of glowing red eyes filled with pure hatred had found their new focus. And this time, there was no magical thread to hold it back.