King Without a Throne

In the suffocating silence of the hideout, the torch flame danced wildly, casting long, trembling shadows on the cold stone walls. To Torvek, the shadows looked like ghosts from his past: the fighters he had defeated, the comrades who were gone, and the image of his younger self, who still had two arms and a brightly shining Silver Sigil. However, all those ghosts vanished when he looked back at what was in front of him.

The mark on Kairan's chest.

It was wrong. Very, very wrong. Torvek had spent his entire life in a world governed by the laws of Sigils. Sigils were light, a blessing, or a curse that shone. They had color, shape, and emitted an energy that could be felt. But this mark… this was the opposite. A patch of inky blackness, like ink spilled on the very canvas of reality. Its shape was irregular, its edges blurry, and most terrifyingly, the mark seemed to absorb the light from the torch. Not reflecting it, not avoiding it, but pulling it into a bottomless void.

"By the forgotten gods," Torvek whispered, his voice hoarse. "what in the hells are you, kid?"

He got no answer. Only Kairan's shallow, irregular breaths were the only sound in the room, accompanied by his own racing heartbeat. He pushed aside his shock. The boy was dying. Mysteries could wait to be unraveled, but Death could not.

With a hand now steady, forced by purpose, he began to work. He tore a piece of cloth from his own tunic, poured a little of the remaining liquor from his leather pouch onto it, and gently began to clean Kairan's wounds. Every touch made the thin body flinch in pain even in his unconsciousness. His burns were severe, his skin blistered and blackened in some parts. But what was most worrying was the wound on his hip, where the Gravemaw's tail had struck him. It was a deep wound, and the blood was seeping out relentlessly.

Meanwhile, in an ocean of darkness, Kairan was floating. He felt no pain. He felt nothing. This wasn't sleep. It was… a homecoming. To the place that had always been inside him, the emptiness he had always thought was a flaw, a nothingness. Now he understood. It wasn't nothingness. It was something. Something silent, cold, and vast.

He could "see" again, but not with his eyes. He saw the world as an intricate and endless web of light threads. He saw the sharp silver threads of the knights hunting him in the corridors, the duller bronze threads of the frightened spectators, and the weak stone threads of the hiding slaves.

Then he saw it. A thick, arrogant thread of blood-red. The thread originated from a source of light so blinding and full of hatred—Lord Valerius. And that thread was connected to another chaotic and angry storm of red energy—the Gravemaw. He could feel the lord's arrogance flowing through that thread, injecting poison into the beast's natural rage and turning it into a weapon.

An instinct older than thought, deeper than consciousness, emerged from within his void. The instinct told him that the thread was wrong. The thread was a violation. A dissonance in the grand silence of his emptiness. And that instinct demanded one thing: Sever it.

He didn't know how, but he "grabbed" the thread with his will. It felt like pulling a very taut rope, which fought back with a hot vibration of magic. And as he pulled with all his might, he felt something inside him tear and open at the same time. The emptiness churned, and from its center, a darker darkness formed, hardening into something real in his chest. It was a sensation that was both painful and liberating.

Then, the thread snapped.

And the darkness swallowed him completely.

In the hideout, Torvek managed to stop the bleeding. He found a small wooden box in the corner—his emergency kit. A crude, curved needle and a thick thread he usually used to repair his leather armor. It would be painful, and it would leave a hideous scar, but it was better than letting the boy bleed to death.

Gritting his teeth, he began to stitch the wound on Kairan's hip. His large, rough hands, used to holding a sword and shield, now moved with a forced gentleness. Outside, he could hear the faint shouts of the knights and, occasionally, the distant, frustrated roar of the Gravemaw. The hunt was still on.

He remembered his past. He remembered how Silas had patted him on the shoulder before his final fight, giving him the same fake smile he had given Kairan. He remembered how he had believed in the promise of glory and wealth, only to be betrayed for a few bags of silver coins. He lost his arm, his Sigil, and his pride in that arena. He became a ghost, forced to watch others fight in the ruins of his own kingdom.

This boy… Kairan… he was different. He didn't fight for glory. He didn't fight for wealth. He fought with a cold, focused anger, the same anger Torvek had long buried within himself. Seeing the boy stare back at Lord Valerius, seeing him refuse to be a victim, had rekindled an ember Torvek thought had long since died.

"You're not dying today, kid," Torvek muttered, more as a vow than a statement. "I won't let you."

After finishing his rough stitches, he tore another piece of cloth to bandage Kairan's chest, covering the strange black mark. He didn't know what it was, and right now, he didn't care. It was a part of the boy, and he would protect it.

Several hours passed in tense silence. Torvek sat leaning against the wall, listening intently. The noises outside slowly subsided. The Gravemaw's roars were no longer heard. Maybe it had been caught, or maybe it had fled deeper into the tunnels. The knights' shouts also became less frequent and now sounded more distant. They must have widened their search area. For now, they were safe.

It was then that Kairan groaned.

His eyes opened slowly, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead. The first thing that greeted him was not darkness, but pain. An overwhelming, sharp, and total pain, which pulled him forcefully from the peaceful void. Every inch of his body was a symphony of suffering.

He tried to move, but a large hand gently held him down. "Easy, kid. You're safe."

Kairan turned his head, his blurry eyes finally focusing on Torvek's weary face, illuminated by the nearly extinguished torchlight. For a moment, his instincts screamed "danger," but then he saw something else in the old gladiator's eyes. Not pity. Not greed. But… concern. An emotion so foreign that Kairan didn't know how to respond.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry, painful cough. His hand instinctively moved to his chest, feeling the rough bandage. Underneath it, he felt something strange. Not his usual skin. There was a different texture, slightly raised, and cold. Incredibly cold, as if a piece of eternal night was embedded in his body.

He didn't understand what it was. But he knew it was his. It was the echo of the moment he pulled the red thread. The price he had to pay. Or perhaps, the prize he had earned.

As he tried to sit up, a low growl was heard from outside their stone door. Not a beast's sound. A human voice.

"I'm sure he passed this way. Check all the walls!"

Torvek's heart stopped. They were found. The knights hadn't given up.

He quickly extinguished the torch, plunging them into total darkness. He gestured for Kairan to be silent, pressing a single finger to his own lips.

Outside, they could hear the heavy sound of footsteps, getting closer. Then, the sound of metal scraping against stone as one of the knights began to check the walls, searching for a hidden mechanism.

The stone door vibrated slightly.

In the thick darkness, Torvek gripped the handle of the throwing axe he had taken from the arena, his only weapon. Kairan, with his broken body and held breath, stared towards the door, his eyes, now accustomed to the dark, could see the thin line where the door met the wall.

The hunt wasn't over. It had just arrived at their door.