THE KING WHO HAD NO MAGIC

CHAPTER 6: THE DRAGONS BREATH

The black tide of serpents hit me like a physical wave, but the moment my fingers locked around the hilt at the bottom of the well, the world slowed down. It was cold. Bone-chillingly cold.

"Jack! The fire head! Look up!" Silas’s scream echoed from the rim above.

I looked up just as the Hydra’s central head—the one that had exploded into serpents—reconstituted itself into a gargantuan maw of liquid flame. It wasn't just fire; it was compressed mana, white and screaming.

“Burn, little thief,” a voice hissed in the back of my skull. It wasn't the beast. It was a lingering magical imprint—Malakor’s signature.

The Hydra lunged. I didn't have time to pull the blade from the muck. I reached out with my left hand, my fingers splayed. My chest felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out.

"Void... Grasp," I mouthed.

The white flame didn't hit me. It hit an invisible wall of pure hunger. The fire bent, twisting in mid-air, spiraling into the center of my palm.

"What are you doing?" Silas yelled, his straw head popping over the edge. "You’re siphoning the breath of a Dragon-kin! You’ll explode!"

I couldn't answer. The heat was agonizing, but as the fire poured into me, the "hunger" didn't just eat the energy. I felt the beast’s mind.

Pain. Cold. Chains of silver piercing the heart. A century of being milked like a cow for the King’s mages.

"It’s hurting," I thought, the realization hitting me harder than the fire.

"Finish it, Jack! It’s charging the frost breath!" Silas warned.

The Hydra’s sapphire eyes flickered. It wasn't trying to kill me. It was begging. It wanted the cycle to end.

"You’ve been a battery for a hundred years," I whispered, the words rasping through my throat. I could feel the silver hooks Malakor had placed in its soul. "No more."

I yanked the hilt from the mud. It wasn't a sword yet—just a heavy, jagged bar of Star-Steel. I leapt from the bottom of the well, propelled by the stolen fire in my veins.

"He’s flying!" Silas cheered. "Look at the boy go!"

I landed on the Hydra’s central neck. The other heads snapped at me, but I didn't dodge. I thrust the Star-Steel deep into the creature's throat.

"Void Grasp... full release," I growled.

The fire I had just drained surged back out, amplified by my own internal void. There was no explosion. There was only a silent, blinding flash of golden-black light.

The Hydra froze. Its heads stopped thrashing. The sapphire glow in its eyes softened, turning into a calm, clear blue.

“Thank you,” the beast’s consciousness sighed into mine.

With a final, gentle heave, the Hydra’s massive form began to dissolve. It didn't turn into ash or water. It turned into pure, golden particles that drifted upward toward the canopy.

"You did it," Silas said, hopping down into the now-silent well. He looked at me with something like awe—or terror. "You actually gave it mercy. A Hollow showing mercy. That’s a new one."

I stood in the center of the well, the Star-Steel hilt humming in my hand. But the beast wasn't entirely gone. In the center of the pit, where the heart had been, lay a pulsing, fist-sized stone.

It was a Black-Iron core, swirling with the trapped mana of a thousand years.

"Don't touch that," Silas warned, his voice dropping an octave. "That’s a century of concentrated agony, Jack. If you take that in, there’s no going back to being 'Jack the Commoner.'"

I looked at the core. I looked at the golden crown on my arm, which was now pulsing in sync with the stone.

"I died in the arena, Silas," I said, my voice finally returning, low and jagged. "The commoner is buried in the mud."

I reached for the core.

"Jack, wait!" Silas shouted. "The seal! If you take the core, the well isn't just a forge anymore—it's a beacon!"

The moment my skin brushed the Black-Iron, a pillar of dark light shot straight through the forest canopy, piercing the clouds and signaling every mage in the kingdom.

"Well," Silas sighed, adjusting his straw hat. "I hope you like company."

In the distance, the sky began to turn a sickly violet. Malakor was coming.

"Let him come," I said, gripping the core.

The ground beneath us began to crack, and a low, guttural roar echoed from deep within the earth—something much older, and much hungrier, than a Hydra.

"Silas," I said, looking at the widening fissure. "What else was in this well?"

The scarecrow didn't answer. He was already pointing at the black claws climbing out of the dark.