Rise Of The Mage King

Chapter 3

Drogo held on. He closed his eyes and clamped his jaws tighter, grinding his teeth. Blood poured into his mouth and down his chin.

Felix reacted fast. The heavy guard rushed forward and swung his heavy boot. The steel toe of the boot hit Drogo right in the ribs.

Crack.

The sound of Drogo's ribs breaking was loud in the room. The pain was blinding white. The force of the kick threw Drogo through the air. He crashed against the marble wall and slid to the floor, coughing up blood and spit. The seven copper coins scattered across the room.

"My hand! The filthy rat bit me!" Vargus shouted. He was holding his bleeding hand against his chest. His face was no longer handsome. It was twisted with pure, hateful rage. His eyes burned with real fire. Small flames began to jump from his shoulders, turning the air in the room hot.

Drogo lay on the floor, breathing heavily. Every breath felt like knives stabbing his lungs. But as he looked at Vargus’s bleeding hand, Drogo smiled. His teeth were completely stained red.

"You... don't... touch her," Drogo whispered, smiling through the blood.

Vargus stared at Drogo. The noble’s chest moved up and down quickly. The disgust on his face was total.

"You are broken," Vargus said, his voice shaking with anger. "The slag has gone to your brain. You are completely full. A broken bucket is useless to me." Vargus turned to Felix. "Take him to the Chasm. Now. Throw the trash away."

"Yes, my Lord," Felix said.

Felix walked over, grabbed Drogo by his dirty hair, and dragged him across the floor. Drogo tried to fight back, but his body was done. The black veins were pulsing too hard. The kick had broken him. As Felix pulled him out of the dungeon, Drogo watched the copper coins sitting on the floor. His mother’s medicine. He left it behind. A single tear mixed with the blood on his cheek.

Felix dragged him out of the palace and into the open air.

The Vargus Estate was beautiful. The sun was shining brightly in the blue sky. The grass was perfectly green. Beautiful statues of old heroes made of white stone stood in the gardens. Water sprayed from clear fountains. In the distance, Drogo could hear the sound of noble children laughing as they played a game.

It was a paradise. And it was built on the broken backs of people like Drogo.

Felix pulled Drogo across the soft grass. Drogo left a trail of dark blood behind him, dirtying the perfect garden.

They reached the edge of the estate. Here, the beautiful grass stopped suddenly. There was no fence. There was only a straight drop down into nothing.

This was the Chasm of Forgotten Gods.

It was a massive, dark hole in the earth. It was so wide you could not see the other side, and so deep there was no bottom to be seen. Thick, gray mist swirled slowly inside it. The smell coming from the pit was terrible. It smelled like rotting meat, old rust, and dead air. This was where the city threw its garbage. Dead bodies, broken tools, and dead magic. Nothing that went into the Chasm ever came back.

Felix threw Drogo forward. Drogo rolled in the dirt and stopped right on the edge. Half of his body hung over the endless, misty drop.

Lord Vargus walked up behind them. A servant was wrapping a white bandage around his bleeding hand. Vargus stood over Drogo, looking down into the gray mist.

"It is a shame," Vargus said coldly. "You held a lot of slag, boy. But a dog that bites its master must be put down. Do not worry. I will send my men to collect your sister tomorrow. I will make sure she remembers you every time she serves me."

Drogo tried to push himself up. He wanted to jump at Vargus again. He wanted to tear out the man's throat. But his arms collapsed. He had nothing left. The poison, the broken ribs, the bleeding—it was too much.

Vargus lifted his shiny leather boot. He placed it against Drogo’s chest.

"Goodbye, rat," Vargus said.

He kicked hard.

Drogo slid off the edge. For a single second, he seemed to hang in the air. He saw Vargus’s cruel face, the bright blue sky, and the perfect green grass of a world that was never made for him.

Then, gravity took him.

He fell. The wind roared in his ears. It was cold, so cold. The gray mist of the Chasm rushed up to swallow him. The light above grew smaller and smaller, a tiny dot of blue fading into deep, crushing black.

He was going to die. He knew it. He would hit the bottom, or he would starve, or the monsters in the dark would eat him. He had failed. His mother would die in pain. Tiana would become a toy for a monster.

Most men would pray in their final moments. They would beg the gods for mercy. They would ask the heavens to catch them, to save them, to grant them peace.

But as Drogo fell deeper into the absolute dark, feeling the toxic magic burning in his veins, he did not pray. He did not cry.

He opened his bloody mouth to the wind, and with his last breath of rushing air, he cursed them. He cursed the nobles. He cursed the mages. And he cursed the gods who had made a world so cruel.

"I hate you," Drogo whispered to the dark. "If I survive... I will eat you all."