Chapter 166 - 164:Ingnite My Flames.

Chapter 166: Chapter 164:Ingnite My Flames.

The challenges just weren’t challenges anymore.

Even the soldiers –and friends –who once posed a decent threat crumbled under him, or were sent to walk different paths.

​And the challengers slowly stopped coming for him. And any that did just weren’t worth his time anymore.

Maybe it was because he was a prince, and they didn’t want to harm him; didn’t want to slight his family by challenging him.

Maybe it was because he was so terrifyingly strong, and they didn’t truly think they could win.

Either way, none of them were fast enough, skilled enough, or believed in themselves enough to ever get his blood pumping or his heart racing the way he wanted them to. And if they couldn’t even do that, then they certainly couldn’t give him a reason to put in even an ounce of effort into fighting them.

​He still beat them, though. Obviously. But it never felt like triumph.

​It felt like a chore.

​Gone, the excitement, out of the thing that had bought him the most joy. Like the wild in him had just gotten tired of raging unchecked; like without something to feed it, the fire had burned itself out.

He’d hungered for it so desperately; something --anything --to keep him alight.

​Through the years he’d tried to find something else to replace it, something else that would feed the flame slowly withering inside him, but no one, and nothing, even with all the men, women, and wine in the world, had ever even come close.

​He could’ve skipped this tournament, just like he’s skipped countless ones before him. But he didn’t.

​He hadn’t seen, not at first, because he hadn’t been looking. Because he’d stopped looking.

​And then came the whispers about Khobi Frost and his fire. And those whispers had made him start to wonder.

​Then he’d fought him; felt that fire first hand, and wondered some more.

At first he had been nothing more than another one of Gurdet’s dumb ideas. A hot one, that was for sure. But he’s had plenty of hot ones, and none of them had been enough.

​This Khobi though. He was...different. Not at first, no; at first, he had just been just like all the others.

Something to fuck around with until he got bored. But unlike the others Khobi hadn’t been game for that, which while unusual, hadn’t been nearly enough to classify as interesting.

​And then the rumours had blown in and made him interesting; at least, far more interesting than anyone else Gurdet had thrown at him.

Sure, still entirely fuckable, should opportunity presented itself, but by the time they stepped out into that arena together, it had ceased to just be about that, and more about what else he might have to offer.

​Because that nagging little wondering had quietly begun its tentative metamorphosis into hope.

​That maybe Khobi Frost could give him what he’d long since given up looking for.

​A challenge.

​Someone to chase. Someone who could not only light a fire under him, but burn with him.

​And Khobi Frost had done just that. Not only had he stoked the flames of the wild within him, but he had demanded with his blade, and with fire just as fierce, that he fight unrestrained, and to his heart’s content.

​Fighting Khobi Frost had been like being able to breathe again, for the first time.

​But he’d forgotten how rotten it could feel in the days following.

Not just in the places where he’s bled, or in the limbs he’d forced beyond breaking point, but in his chest too, deeper than can be seen or cut.

More than pain, it’s an ache that makes him sick to his stomach. So much so that all of the food and the wine he’d tried to drown himself in turned to ash in his mouth.

​He hasn’t suffered a loss like that in so long he’d forgotten what it felt like. How terrible it felt, kneeling in the dirt, bleeding and alone, with his throat filling with blood and bile.

It was a miracle he hadn’t thrown up.

​Even now, hours later, he feels off. Warm, despite the night’s cool air –warmer than he’s felt in years, even. And his hands itch.

​He should be exhausted. He should be unconscious.

​Yet for some reason, he’s still restless.

​Staring at his reflection, he eyes the fresh marks on his face, and then traces them, one by one.

They look grim, but don’t hurt. Probably won’t even scar. It’s strange. He knows with certainty that Khobi put them there; can remember each stroke as it fell, and the face Khobi was wearing when they landed, but he doesn’t remember feeling any pain.

Not until that last strike, at least.

​(After that, everything had hurt.)

He remembers smiling, though. Laughing, even. It had come welling up from deep within and spilled out into the world before he knew it himself.

​Khobi was laughing, too, like he hadn’t been able to help himself either.

​Loac had forgotten what that felt like, too.

​And he wants to feel that, again.

​It’s not over until I say it is.

​The lips of the reflection staring back at him start to curl up at the corners at the memory. It cracks open one of the cuts, and it starts to bleed again.

​When he’s done with the fresh scores on his face he moves to the ones on his arms. The only other marks there are old.

Very old. So old he can barely remember where or how he got them, let alone who gave them to him.

His hands move to the bandages wrapping his chest; the ones binding the ugly gash that ended it all.

It’ll heal fine, the medics had said, but would probably scar. For some reason, that sits just fine with him.

He presses on it, just a little, and even though it aches, it feels so much better than not feeling anything.

​The sickening feeling in his stomach grows; a deep, swirling dissatisfaction.

The reflection’s smile returns to a grimace.

​He’d lost.