THE KING WHO HAD NO MAGIC

CHAPTER 3: THR KING OF STRAW

The shadow-self lunged, but the scarecrow holding me suddenly yanked me backward. The black blade hissed through the air, inches from my throat, slicing a clean line through the mist.

"Not yet, little reflection," the scarecrow hissed. The red glow in its eyes flared. "He hasn't paid the toll."

The shadow-Jack dissolved into a puddle of ink, vanishing back into the fog. I gasped for air, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs. The hundreds of hanging figures around us stopped laughing. They just watched.

"Who are you?" I demanded, clutching my broken wooden hilt. "What kind of sick magic is this?"

"Names have weight, but you can call me Silas," the scarecrow said. Its burlap face leaned in so close I could smell the ancient straw and dry earth. "And this isn't magic, Jack. It’s the leftovers. The things the wizards like Malakor couldn't digest."

"I don't care about your philosophy. Let me go."

"Let you go?" Silas chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Look around. The hounds are circling again. They can smell the 'human' on you. To them, you’re a beacon of hot blood in a cold world. You’ll be bones before the moon rises."

I looked toward the tree line. Dozens of pairs of glowing blue eyes were blinking in the dark. The pack had returned, and they were larger than the first.

"What do you want, Silas?" I snapped.

"A trade. I’m bored of whispering to the trees. Give me your voice—the physical weight of it, the essence of your speech—and I’ll give you a gift. I’ll show you the Null-Pattern. I’ll show you how to kill a wizard with your bare hands."

"Give you my voice? You want me to be a mute?"

"A small price to pay for the head of the man who put you in the dirt, wouldn't you say?" Silas’s grip tightened. "Or you can keep your voice and scream while they tear your throat out. Your choice, Jack."

The hounds began to creep into the clearing, their low growls vibrating in my marrow.

"How does it work?" I asked, my eyes darting between the beasts.

"I take the sound, you take the power. You’ll still speak, eventually... but it will be a different kind of tongue. Do we have a deal, little knight?"

The lead hound coiled its muscles to spring.

"Deal," I growled.

Silas pressed a straw finger to my lips. A sensation like freezing needles shot through my throat. I tried to shout, but only a silent puff of air escaped. My vocal cords felt like they had been replaced with cold velvet.

"Good," Silas whispered, his voice sounding suddenly clearer, more resonant. "Now, don't blink. The hounds don't see you with their eyes, Jack. They see the mana you displace. You’re a ripple in their pond. To survive, you must become the pond."

"How?" I mouthed.

"The Null-Pattern. Move exactly where the mist flows. Don't fight the air; let it pass through you. Left foot on the rhythmic beat of the earth... now!"

I moved. It felt wrong—counter-intuitive. Instead of tensing for the attack, I let my muscles go slack. I stepped into the path of the lead hound, twisting my torso in a slow, languid arc.

The hound flew right past me. It didn't even turn its head. It was as if I had become a ghost.

"Again!" Silas commanded from his rope. "Three steps right, pivot on the heel. Stay in the dead space!"

I followed his instructions, dancing through a swarm of snapping jaws. Five hounds lunged at once, colliding with each other in a chaotic pile of limbs and blue sparks. I stood in the center of the carnage, untouched.

"They can't see me," I thought, a surge of adrenaline masking my pain.

"They can't see what isn't there," Silas called out. "You’re learning, Jack. The world is made of patterns. Malakor thinks he’s the weaver, but he’s just a fly caught in the threads."

A massive hound, twice the size of the others, skidded to a halt and sniffed the air. It was confused. It could smell my blood, but its magical sight was coming up empty.

"Finish it," Silas urged. "The Null-Pattern isn't just for hiding. It’s for the strike."

I gripped the broken wooden hilt. Silas’s voice echoed in my head, guiding my hand. "Between the second and third rib. That’s where the mana-core sits. It’s the only solid thing in a ghost."

I didn't rush. I drifted. I walked up to the side of the giant beast. It looked right through me, its eyes glowing with frustrated mana.

I slammed the jagged wood into its flank.

The wood didn't just pierce the skin; it felt like it hit a pocket of high-pressure air. There was a violent pop, and the hound’s blue light rushed into the wooden hilt. The branch didn't break—it glowed. It turned hard as diamond, the grain of the wood shimmering with a dark, iridescent sheen.

The hound vanished into a cloud of ash.

"Look at that," Silas remarked, his voice dripping with my stolen tone. "A commoner with a hunger. How very dangerous."

I looked at the remaining hounds. They weren't attacking anymore. They were backing away, their heads bowed. They weren't afraid of my skill; they were afraid of me.

I turned back to Silas. I wanted to ask him what he meant by 'hunger,' but my throat remained silent.

"You’re wondering why the mist is clearing around you, aren't you?" Silas asked, swinging gently on his rope.

I looked down at my hands. The thick, grey Death-Mist was swirling toward me, but it wasn't passing through me. It was being pulled into my skin. Every pore felt like a tiny, starving mouth.

I reached out and touched a nearby tree. The blackened bark turned to white dust instantly. The energy, the cold, dead magic of the forest, was flowing into my veins.

"The deal is done, Jack," Silas said, his red eyes dimming as he settled back into a lifeless pose. "But I should have warned you. Once you start eating the world, you can never stop."

I tried to take a breath, but I didn't need to. The air didn't feel like oxygen anymore; it felt like fuel. My cracked ribs snapped back into place with a sickening series of thuds. The wound on my head closed.

The pain was gone, replaced by a hollow, gnawing void in my gut that screamed for more.

I looked at the clearing. I looked at the hanging scarecrows. I didn't feel fear anymore. I felt like I was looking at a buffet.

The mist was receding rapidly, fleeing from me.

"What am I?" I mouthed to the empty air.

A voice that wasn't Silas’s and wasn't mine echoed from the depths of the forest, ancient and cold.

“You are the end of the feast, Jack.”

I looked at my arm. The black ash from the broken blade in the arena hadn't disappeared. It had formed a tattoo, a mark of a crown made of thorns, and it was beginning to glow with a terrifying, golden light.

I wasn't just surviving the Death-Mist. I was consuming it.

And somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of a horn—the Royal Hunt was coming to check on my corpse.

I gripped my glowing wooden shard and smiled. It was a sharp, predatory expression that didn't belong on a human face.

"Come and see," I whispered in my mind.

The void in my chest growled. I wasn't the prey anymore. I was the vacuum.