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Dracoth

Hate

H atred.

It seethes beneath my skin, scorching like molten rivers of lava.

A relentless fury flooding through my veins as it does through my native land of Scarn.

The rhythmic thrum of the Scythian Battlebarge’s engines resonates through the metal-plated floor, a background pulse that keeps time with my own burning rage.

I am the proud son of the mighty War Chieftain Gorexius, a hero and legend. The leader of a thousand battles, victorious in countless fights, a warrior who never knew defeat—until Krogoth.

The name twists my mouth, revealing my fangs. My hatred for the usurper burns with an unquenchable fury. He has taken everything from me: my pride, my honor, my father.

My fists shake with wrath, clenched so tightly that I feel the grit of sand between my fingers, a deliberate reminder of our harsh training arena on this massive, war-driven vessel.

The day I can reach the traitor Krogoth and tear out his throat cannot come soon enough. No claw is sharp enough, no plasma hot enough, to satiate the loathing that pours from my beating heart.

“You ooze fear.” “Live and grow from this shame. So one day you can stand before me with your head held high.”

These words—Krogoth’s words—haunt me. The memory of his arrogant voice echoes in my mind, mingling with the subtle whirr of machinery and the clatter of my opponents adjusting their thick arcweave armor.

I have ruminated on them, replaying that fateful day over and over.

Every syllable is emblazoned into my very soul, a constant reminder of my shame.

These arrogant words, too accurate, cut deep.

I carry them like a curse. They whisper in my ear when I awaken and mock me as I sleep. I won’t forget, and I’ll never forgive.

The Gods are cruel—if they exist; they exist to scorn me.

But I will show them, I will show everyone.

I am the son of Gorexius and I’ll continue his glorious legacy as the true inheritor of his noble blood.

The rightful title of Chieftain of Clan Magaxus and War Chieftain belongs to me.

I will reclaim it. Krogoth will suffer my vengeance, and our proud people shall bathe the stars in blood.

Just as my father desired.

Zirix’s feeble blow catches me in the midriff, drawing me back to the present. The sudden impact drives me a half-step backward in the sandy circle, scattering grains around my feet. The unwelcome interruption irks me.

I bear fangs and retaliate with a powerful punch to his face. His head snaps back like a cracked whip before his yellow eyes roll back and he collapses to the sand-covered arena.

Such weak contests they are.

My crimson eyes scan the others. Vexius and Reneth, almost as young as me, stand fearless, lacking any emotion, affected by a malady that’s a mystery to me.

The older warriors back in Scarn whisper that the Scythians have done this.

A troubling thought I push to the side. I will ally with anyone, do anything, if it delivers Krogoth’s neck into my clawed hands.

This contest, if it can be called such a thing, comprises wrestling.

I naively hoped the lack of weapons might even the odds in my opponents’ favor—how wrong I was.

Vexius and Reneth charge at me, grunting with effort as they clutch at my waist. They seek to unbalance me or eject me from the sandy ring.

I sigh with disappointment; they might as well be trying to push this Scythian Battlebarge.

We Klendathians are the greatest warriors the universe has ever known, towering over the lesser aliens.

I stand at the pinnacle of that strength, a titan—a mutant, some have called me, often behind my back.

I don’t care, I welcome it. Let them seethe in their inferiority.

Only my mighty father eclipsed me, and now he’s gone, his mantle falls to me.

I drive an elbow into the back of Vexius, relishing the satisfying crunch that echoes through the training halls.

His shoulder blade cracks, succumbing to my muscle and power.

He grunts before collapsing onto the coarse, unforgiving sand, stained with dried green blood and sweat.

I breathe deeply, savoring the acrid scent of musk and combat.

Only in these fleeting moments of battle do I feel a sense of relief, my rage and shame momentarily dissipating.

Reneth switches tactics, delivering blows into my stomach.

I hardly feel his strikes as I peer down at him, noticing the top of his head doesn’t reach my chest. My massive hand shoots out, covering his entire skull.

I smile and with a slight twist of my hips, I hurl him out of the arena ring like a plasma blast. Reneth crashes against the nearby wall, slumping against the blackened arcweave.

My eyes flash crimson as I survey the aftermath.

My three opponents lie defeated. Disappointing and pathetic.

How I long for a real contest to test me.

In his arrogance, Krogoth dared to cut my hair, marking me as a defeated warrior, branding me with shame.

I spit on his conceit and misplaced superiority.

The memory of that fateful day, each hateful nanosecond, is etched deep into my mind.

My mocking penance for the indignity and weakness that overcame me.

Krogoth saw my tears. He saw me beg for my life. He must die!

The thought shakes me with fury, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

Only his blood will wash away the stain of my dishonor.

It’s infuriating to think about those events.

Even now, I see Krogoth in front of me. After he fell from that great tree, helpless, crashing into the soil.

With my arc blaster raised, I was ready to deliver the final blow.

The glory of his death was mine to claim.

Then, as if the Gods themselves protected him, a freak occurrence happened.

So strange I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t been the target.

A brutonous , a legendary creature most thought extinct, destroyed our glider, leaving me trapped under the wreckage.

I let out a sardonic laugh, reliving each agonizing moment for the umpteenth time.

This is Krogoth’s “ victory .” This is how he deems me a defeated warrior.

A fluke event that defied fate. It boils my blood to think he dares to believe he bested me in a fair contest.

I know I could have crushed him then, as easily as I crushed these three beneath my feet now, just like all the others foolish enough to test me. I will slaughter him soon. It’s my destiny to right this injustice and avenge my father.

Vexius’s breathing sounds labored, and I frown, already picturing the disapproving look of the disgraced Elder Ignixis when he learns I’ve sent another warrior to the healing pods.

“You two,” I gesture towards the slowly rising forms of Zirix and Reneth, “take Vexius to the healing pods,” I command.

Next time, I’ll invite the last two warriors, Nexarn and Keth, taking my opponents to five. But who’ll fly the ship? Ignixis? Ah, he can figure it out. Maybe then, I’ll have something resembling a challenge.

The three warriors limp out of the room, Vexius supported by the others.

I exit after them, making my way to the bridge.

The only sounds are my heavy footsteps upon the metal floor and the low hum of the engines.

My eyes are drawn to the black, dusty interior, noticing the flickering and failing purple lights, almost hiding the splotches of scratched paint and rust.

Such a heap of junk this old Scythian Battlebarge is.

I feel a pang of shame that we were forced to steal it, driven by desperation.

Returning to Klendathor will be difficult now.

Ignixis and I reached out to several mercenary ships offering all the credits we could muster—they all turned us down.

Useless cowards. Their sweet words and promises were as hollow as Krogoth’s victory.

The duplicity of inferior aliens makes me sick to my stomach.

Left with no other option, we snuck into Star City and found this decommissioned Battlebarge, lightly protected. A relic from past wars, it bears the wounds of many battles, but most importantly, it’s still functional with enough Elerium for a round trip to this planet called Earth.

From such humble beginnings, my vengeance takes flight.

Stepping onto the bridge, I marvel at my fortuitous timing. Out of the viewport floats the glowing blue-green planet known as Earth. It spins almost imperceptibly, framed by the void of space and glowing golden sun.

“Pretty,” I mutter.

“A pale comparison to Klendathor,” Ignixis scoffs, his hands working tirelessly over the central control holographic projection.

I examine the old grump, dressed in his former white robes of an Elder, which he dyed to the blackest black, mirroring the empty abyss of space.

Like me, he carries shame. A shame that haunts him like a hemovyrn .

We’re an unlikely pairing: lava and snow, old and young, strength and weakness. But I don’t care; I will use him to achieve my goals.

“This better work, Elder . After all this time and effort spent.” I glare down at him, lingering on the word Elder, his former honorific now a stinging reminder of his dishonor.

I sought Argon Six, to claim my rightful position as War Chieftain, defeat the so-called High Chieftain Krogoth and lead my warriors to brutal victory over the Nebians. But Ignixis convinced me to seek another path. A path he swore would bring me great power—the power to defeat Krogoth.