THE KING WHO HAD NO MAGIC

CHAPTER 2: INTO. THE DEATH -MIST

I hit the forest floor hard. The impact rattled my teeth and sent a fresh jolt of agony through my cracked ribs. The smell of damp rot and ozone filled my nostrils. This was the Death-Mist, the place where the kingdom threw its trash to be eaten by the things that didn't exist in the light.

"Move, peasant," a voice barked from above.

I looked up through the haze. A squad of royal guards stood at the edge of the ravine, their silver armor gleaming even in the gloom. They had dragged me here like a carcass.

"You’re really doing this?" I coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the roots of a blackened tree. "Ten years of service, and you drop me in a kennel?"

"Service?" The lead guard, a man I’d shared drinks with last month, sneered. "You’re a stain on the uniform, Jack. Malakor was right. A commoner thinking he’s a knight is a sickness. This is the cure."

"Give me a sword at least," I rasped, reaching out. "Give me a fair shake against the hounds."

The guard laughed, reaching into his belt. "A sword? For a dog? Here." He tossed something down. It wasn't steel. It was the splintered remains of my wooden practice blade from the trial. "Kill them with your 'pure skill,' hero."

"You’re a coward, Miller," I said, my voice steadying.

"And you’re a corpse. Let’s go, men. The mist is thickening."

They vanished. The silence that followed was worse than the insults. It was the silence of a tomb, broken only by the low, guttural growl vibrating through the earth.

Grrr...

I scrambled to my feet, leaning against a tree as my vision swam. My left arm was useless, hanging like a dead weight. My right hand gripped the broken wooden hilt. Six inches of jagged oak. That was it.

"Great," I whispered. "Physics don't fail me now."

The first Mana-Hound stepped out of the fog. It was the size of a pony, its skin translucent and pulsing with a sickly blue light. It didn't have fur; it had mana-veins that throbbed like exposed nerves. Its eyes were nothing but glowing pits of hunger.

"Come on then," I provoked, backing away slowly. "I’m lean, but I bet I taste better than the last guy."

The hound snapped its jaws, a crack like a whip. It was testing the air. It knew I was bleeding.

"You want the blood?" I wiped my mouth and smeared it across a low-hanging, razor-sharp branch of a 'Thorn-Weaver' tree. "Here it is. Come and get it."

The beast lunged. It was fast—a blur of blue light—but it was heavy. I didn't try to block. I didn't have the strength. Instead, I threw myself to the left, rolling over my good shoulder.

The hound slammed into the tree, its snout catching on the bloodied branch. It let out a high-pitched yelp, more mechanical than animal.

"Step one," I grunted, forcing myself up. "Gravity and momentum. You’re too big for your own good."

The hound turned, its blue light turning a furious violet. It prepared for a massive leap. I didn't wait. I scrambled toward a fallen log propped up against a rock face, creating a narrow triangular gap.

"Over here, you overgrown glow-stick!" I yelled, slamming the wooden hilt against the stone.

The hound roared and charged. It was a straight shot. As it closed the distance, I didn't move until the last microsecond. I dived into the gap under the log. The hound, committed to its kill-strike, tried to pivot, but the mossy ground gave way.

Its front paws slid. Its own massive weight carried it forward, neck-first, into the jagged stump I’d positioned myself behind.

CRACK.

The sound of the hound’s neck snapping echoed through the mist. The blue light in its veins flickered and died.

I crawled out from under the log, gasping for air. I looked at the dead beast. "Pure physics," I breathed. "Who needs mana?"

I didn't have time to celebrate. The mist began to swirl aggressively. The scent of the kill was attracting more. Many more.

"Can't stay here," I muttered.

I began to trek deeper into the woods, using the broken practice sword as a cane. The trees grew closer together, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. The mist grew so thick I could barely see my own feet.

Then, the trees ended.

I stumbled into a wide, circular clearing. The air here was still. Too still.

"What the...?"

I looked up. Dozens of ropes hung from the towering canopy above. At the end of each rope was a life-sized scarecrow. They were dressed in tattered remnants of different uniforms—some were commoners, some were knights, and some wore the robes of scholars. Their heads were stuffed with straw, their faces stitched into permanent, wide-eyed expressions of horror.

They swayed in a wind I couldn't feel.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding thin. "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

I walked toward the center of the clearing, my heart hammering against my ribs. One of the scarecrows, dressed in a tattered squire’s tunic, dangled just inches from my face. I reached out a trembling hand to push it aside.

The straw under the tunic shifted.

"Jack..." a voice rasped.

I froze. "Who said that?"

"Jack... you’re late for the ceremony..."

The scarecrow I was touching slowly lifted its head. Its stitched mouth didn't move, but a sound began to bubble up from its chest. It wasn't a cry for help.

It was a laugh.

A high, wheezing, hysterical laugh that started with one scarecrow and began to ripple through the entire clearing.

"Who's there? Show yourself!" I shouted, swinging the wooden hilt wildly.

The scarecrow’s burlap eyes suddenly turned a vivid, glowing crimson. Its straw hands reached out and gripped my shoulders with the strength of iron bars.

"The trial isn't over, Jack," the scarecrow whispered, its voice sounding exactly like Malakor’s. "It’s only just beginning."

Then, every single one of the hanging figures—hundreds of them—turned their heads in unison to look at me. Their laughter grew into a deafening roar that shook the very ground.

"Let go of me!" I screamed, slamming the wooden hilt into the creature’s chest.

It didn't flinch. Instead, the scarecrow leaned in closer, its burlap face stretching into a grotesque grin.

"Do you want to know why you don't have mana, Jack?" it hissed. "Do you want to know what’s really inside that 'commoner' heart of yours?"

The ropes began to lower. All of them. The hanging army was descending.

"No," I gasped, struggling against the iron grip.

"Too late," the scarecrow cackled. "Look behind you."

I twisted my head. The mist at the edge of the clearing was parting, and something far larger than a Mana-Hound was stepping into the red light of the scarecrows' eyes.

It wasn't a beast. It was a mirror.

A tall, dark reflection of myself, holding a blade made of pure shadow, stepped out of the fog.

"Kill the original," the hanging things chanted in a terrifying, rhythmic drone. "Kill the original! Kill the original!"

The shadow-Jack raised the black blade.

I was unarmed. I was broken. And my own face was smiling at me with a hunger that surpassed the hounds.

"Time to die, Jack," the shadow said, its voice an echo of my own.

The scarecrows dropped from their ropes, surrounding us in a wall of straw and red eyes.

I gripped my six inches of broken wood and prayed for a miracle I didn't believe in.