Flameheart soul of the frozen King

Secrets of the Core

Knowledge is the only shield that never breaks under torture.

"Lock the pit doors," Varek barked from his high throne, his loud voice shaking the dust from the cavern ceiling. "Bring that boy to my private quarters right now. If anyone speaks a word about what happened here today, I will cut their tongue out."

Ten minutes later, Soren sat on a heavy wooden chair inside Varek's dim command tent. Iron chains bound his wrists, but he did not struggle. Across the heavy oak table stood Varek, testing the edge of a curved iron dagger against his leather belt. Kaelen stood near the tent entrance, her arms crossed over her chest, watching every movement with tight vigilance.

"Every tamer who ever tried to eat a beast core directly blew up into meat scrap," Varek said, leaning over the table until his rough beard almost touched Soren's face. "I saw a high clan lord try it ten years ago. His blood boiled and his chest burst open like an overcooked sausage. So speak up, slave. How is your heart still beating?"

Soren felt a cold wave ripple through his veins. Deep inside his chest, the raw frost core of the bear was violently thrashing against his mana pathways. Frost was slowly creeping across his skin, turning his fingernails a faint, icy blue. His breath came out as thick white mist, but his expression stayed completely calm.

"You call it magic," Soren said, keeping his voice steady despite the freezing fire burning his lungs. "I call it structural alignment. A monster core is just wild pressure. If you absorb it all at once, you break. If you channel it through secondary pathways, your soul holds."

Varek narrowed his small eyes, tapping his iron dagger against the table. "Do not speak to me in riddles, boy. Tell me the technique. Give me the chant, or I will peel the skin off your arms until you sing it to me."

"Kill me then," Soren said softly. "Cut my arm off right now. But the moment my heart stops, the secret dies with me. You will remain what you are right now, just a runaway outlaw hiding in a cave, waiting for the noble clans to hunt you down."

"You dare threaten me in my own camp?" Varek growled, raising the dagger high.

"It is not a threat," Soren replied, leaning slightly forward against his iron chains. "It is a business offer. You want power to crush the nobles who put that iron collar around your neck. I know how to process beast cores without dying. You have three hundred armed outlaws. We need each other."

Varek paused with his dagger suspended in the air. His eyes darted to the iron collar resting heavy against his throat, a dark scowl twisting his scarred face.

"You know nothing about my collar," Varek muttered, lowering the blade an inch.

"I know it is an Iron Clan mark," Soren said, taking a short, cold breath. "I know only disgraced royal tamers are forced to wear them. You hate the noble bloodlines just as much as Kaelen does. Probably more."

Varek spat on the stone floor, slamming his heavy hand onto the table. "Those noble bastard lords took my home, branded my neck, and turned my brothers into bait for their precious dragon rituals! I would burn every Citadel in the north if I had the army for it!"

"Then build the army with me," Soren said smoothly. "I give your best tamers the secret to stabilizing lower beast cores. In return, you give us food, weapons, and shelter."

Kaelen stepped forward from the shadow of the tent opening. "He is telling the truth, Varek. He pulled me through an entire Iron Clan encirclement using methods no ordinary slave boy could ever know."

Varek looked between Soren and Kaelen, his heavy chest heaving as he weighed the offer. "You are playing a dangerous game, kid. If I catch you lying to me, I will throw you into the bear pit myself."

"Deal," Soren said.

"First, we remove those chains," Varek grumbled, cutting Soren's wrist restraints with a single swift flick of his dagger. "You look like you are about to freeze to death anyway."

As soon as the iron dropped, Soren quickly pulled his sleeves down over his hands. The internal temperature of his body was dropping fast. His heart beat once every five seconds as his ancient soul struggled to digest the unrefined, corrupted frost core he had swallowed in the arena. Small ice crystals were forming along his eyelashes, but he gritted his teeth, forcing his body to hide the agony.

"Drink this," Kaelen said, walking over and shoving a hot wooden mug of spiced wine into his numb hands. "Your skin looks like a corpse."

"I am fine," Soren rasped, taking a small sip. The hot liquid burned his frozen throat, but it bought his mana channels a few precious seconds of heat. "The core is just settling."

"You are insane," she whispered, leaning down beside his ear. "If Varek realizes your core is destabilizing your internal organs right now, he will realize you do not have absolute control over the technique."

"Then do not let him realize it," Soren replied under his breath, taking another gulp of wine.

Before Varek could speak again, the thick leather flap of the command tent was yanked open with violent speed.

Kaelen's primary spy, a thin young woman wrapped in dark white wolf furs, rushed into the tent. Her boots were caked in fresh snow, and her breathing was wild and ragged.

"Princess!" the spy gasped out, dropping to one knee before Kaelen. "I rode three horses to death from the pass! The Iron Clan is moving!"

"Report," Kaelen ordered, her posture instantly going rigid. "Did their siege army follow us into the lower valley?"

"No!" the spy reported, lifting her head. "They diverted their main force toward the Iron Gorge! Their third supply convoy is moving through the narrow pass tomorrow morning at dawn!"

Varek snorted, sitting back down in his wooden chair. "A supply convoy? Why do we care about iron armor and dried meat? We have enough rations in the stronghold for two months."

"It is not carrying meat, Varek!" the spy shouted, her eyes wide with frantic intensity. "My contacts inside the forge city confirmed the cargo! The heavy transport cage is guarded by forty elite spell-knights!"

Soren set his wooden mug down on the table, his pale eyes narrowing. "What is inside the cage?"

"An ancient dragon egg," the spy answered, her voice dropping to an awe-struck whisper. "It was pulled out of the deep frost ruins three days ago. It is black as night, cold as void ice, and completely unhatched."

Soren's heart stopped. The cold frost core inside his chest suddenly went completely still, as if frozen by the weight of her words.

"A black egg," Soren whispered out loud, his blood turning cold for an entirely different reason.

"A black egg?" Kaelen repeated, looking at Soren with deep confusion. "Black dragons were wiped out thirty-five years ago during the fall of the Royal Flameheart dynasty. That is impossible. There are no black dragon lines left in the world."

"It is not impossible," Soren said, pushing himself up from his wooden chair. His pale eyes burned with a dark, fierce flame. "The Royal Guard hid three black eggs in the deep frost vaults before the final siege. The Iron Clan found one."

Varek looked at Soren, a slow, suspicious grin spreading across his bearded face. "You seem to know a whole lot about royal eggs for a bait slave, kid."

"I know its value," Soren said quickly, turning his gaze toward Varek to hide his slipping composure. "If the Iron Clan hatches a black dragon, their lords will gain control over ancient soul magic. They will use it to crush every outlaw camp in these mountains, including yours."

"He is right," Kaelen agreed, her hand dropping back to her empty belt loop where her ice daggers used to sit. "If Commander Vane gets his hands on a royal dragon, the Northern Citadel will fall forever."

Varek slammed his giant fist onto the table, shattering the oak wood down the center. "Then we take it! We hit that convoy in the gorge tomorrow at dawn!"

"It is a narrow gorge," Soren said, his tactical mind immediately building the battlefield layout. "Forty elite spell-knights in a tight pass means an open charge is suicide. We need a trap."

"I have the outlaws," Varek said, pointing to himself. "You have the tactics, kid. You lead the ambush."

"I will take the crest," Kaelen added, looking at Soren. "If the egg is really from the old royal line, the crest Elder Orin gave us might be the only thing that can stabilize its magic case during the heist."

Soren looked down at his right hand. Beneath his sleeve, the royal mark throbbed violently, sending a warm surge of magic through his frozen body that completely melted the ice crystals on his skin. His old life was calling to him from the dark gorge.

"Get your men ready, Varek," Soren said, his voice echoing with absolute command. "Tomorrow at dawn, we rob the Iron Clan."