Rise Of The Mage King

The pain was not like a fire. Fire was too clean. Fire burned and then it was gone. This pain was heavy, thick, and dirty. It moved under his skin like a million angry insects made of broken glass and hot acid.

Drogo Payne opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He forgot how to scream ten minutes ago. His throat was too raw, too dry. Instead, he just bit down hard on the dirty piece of leather they had put between his teeth. He bit down until his jaw ached, until he tasted his own blood mixing with the dust.

He was hanging by his wrists. Thick, cold iron chains held his arms high above his head. But the room he was in was not a dark, dirty cave. It was beautiful. The floor was made of smooth, white marble. The walls were painted with bright gold and deep blue colors. Soft, sweet-smelling candles burned in the corners, hiding the smell of sweat and sickness. It was a gilded cage, a pretty dungeon for a very ugly job.

Drogo was a "Null." In the Empire of Solara, magic was everything. Magic was life. If you had strong magic, you were a noble. You ruled. If you had weak magic, you were "Dross"—common trash, born to work in the dirt and serve the strong. But to be a Null meant you had zero magic. No spark. No core. Nothing. A Null was a black hole in a world of light. To the rich nobles, Drogo was not even a person. He was a bucket. A living sponge.

Lord Vargus stood in front of him. Vargus was a Fire Mage of the high court. He was tall, handsome, and wore clothes made of the finest red silk. Rings made of gold and rubies covered his fingers. He looked like a king, but his smile was the smile of a cruel child playing with a broken toy.

Right now, Vargus had his hand pressed flat against Drogo’s bare chest.

Vargus was glowing. Beautiful, bright orange and red flames danced around his shoulders. But the magic he was pushing into Drogo’s chest was not bright. It was black. It looked like thick, boiling oil. This was "Mana Slag."

When powerful mages used too much magic, or lived too richly, their bodies built up toxic waste. It was the poison left over from too much power. If a mage kept the waste inside, it would make them sick. They would go mad or their hearts would stop. So, they found a way to clean themselves. They bought Nulls. They pushed their dirty, poisonous magic into the empty bodies of people like Drogo.

"Hold still, rat," Vargus said. His voice was smooth, annoyed. "You are moving too much. It ruins my focus."

Drogo could not help it. His body shook wildly. He looked down at his own chest. His skin was very pale, but right now, ugly black lines were spreading out from where Vargus touched him. The black lines moved up his neck, down his arms, and across his ribs. His veins were filling with the noble's poison. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of boiling agony through his body.

"Almost done, my Lord," said Felix, a guard standing near the door. Felix wore shiny silver armor. He watched Drogo with pure disgust. "The boy is taking a lot today."

"I had a heavy training session yesterday," Vargus said easily, not looking at Drogo’s terrified eyes. "I burned down half the western forest practicing my new spell. The slag buildup was terrible. I woke up with a headache. A headache! Can you believe it, Felix?"

"Terrible, my Lord," Felix agreed, nodding.

Vargus sighed. "It is the burden of being great. We have so much power, and it leaves so much dirt behind. Thank the gods for these empty creatures." He pushed his hand harder against Drogo’s chest.

Another wave of black sludge entered Drogo. Drogo’s back arched. His eyes rolled back in his head. The leather gag in his mouth ripped as his teeth locked together. He felt his lungs burning. He felt like his blood was boiling into steam.

“Don't pass out,” Drogo told himself. “Stay awake. If you pass out, they do not pay you.”

He closed his eyes and forced his mind away from the rich room. He thought of the slums. He thought of the tiny, broken wooden shack he called home. The roof leaked when it rained. The wind blew right through the walls.

He thought of his mother. She was lying on a thin blanket on the floor right now. Her skin was gray, and she coughed up dark blood every morning. The sickness was eating her from the inside. The medicine to stop the pain and slow the sickness cost six copper coins. Six coppers. To a noble like Vargus, six coppers was nothing. It was the dirt on his shoe. To Drogo, six coppers was the difference between his mother living another week or dying in the dark.

Then, Drogo thought of Tiana. His little sister. She was ten years old. She had big, bright eyes and a smile that made the ugly slums look a little less sad. She was smart, too smart for the dirt streets. 

Drogo endured this living hell for her. If he could buy the medicine, his mother could live. If his mother lived, Tiana would not be taken by the Academy. The Academy was where they took orphaned children to turn them into soldiers or worse. He had to protect Tiana. He had to be the shield.