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“Join me, Jazreal,” Dracoth says suddenly, his pride soaring within our bond like my credit card debt. He extends a clenched hand, his crimson eyes gleaming. “Retake your place as Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers. Serve me as you served my father.”

“Your father...” Jazreal’s laughter fades as his gaze drops, his expression darkening with thought. “No, Dracoth,” he mutters, shaking his head like a man waking from a heavy dream. “Never again will I serve the Scythians, or anyone who brings about our extinction.”

Scythians.

The name sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. There’s something about that word—it clogs the air like a stinky curse. Among the Klendathians, it’s spoken in hushed whispers, accompanied by wary glances over shoulders, as if the mere word might summon some evil spirit.

Dracoth had told me bits and pieces about them.

How his people served the Scythians as mercenaries.

But for some unknown reason, they took his people’s females to control their population.

It sounded more like slavery than employment.

But I never questioned him further. Even he seemed unsure of the full truth, calling it his father’s wish.

Ugh ! If I listened to my father, I’d have done nothing—the prick never spoke a word to me.

“What I bring is our glorious destiny!” Dracoth snaps, crimson eyes flaring with an almost feral intensity.

“Promise me you’ll forsake the Scythians,” Jazreal fires back, his voice heated and raw. “Do that, and I’ll bow before you here and now, War Chieftain. I swear it on our ancestors.” His emerald eyes gleam with conviction, his expression pleading yet unyielding.

Dracoth’s gaze falls—a rare moment of hesitation from my fiery dragon.

“I will not,” he declares, lifting his head once more. His voice is steady, his lip curling to reveal the gleam of fangs. “No matter the cost, I will have the strength and revenge that was promised!”

I almost laugh at his silly, overly dramatic display. It’s endearing, really! That’s why he needs me to smooth out those sharp Mr. Frowny Face edges.

“I mean,” I interject, hoping to salvage the moment, “in time, we could reassess—”

“The zarberries have fallen close to the bush,” Jazreal cuts me off, the smug prick. He shakes his head, sending his stupid long hair flapping like vulture wings. “In two hundred years—if any of us remain—I will challenge you again, Dracoth, son of Gorexius.”

He grins, and I see it: the fire in his eyes, the hunger for the fight yet to come. “May you die a glorious death.” With that, he turns and stalks back into the crowd, every step radiating dramatic flair.

“That was... intense,” Sandra says after a long pause, wiping sweat from her brow as she exhales loudly.

Tell me about it!

“All part and parcel of being a Chieftainess,” I shrug, attempting to appear casual.

“Disappointing,” Dracoth grumbles, a hand against his chin appearing thoughtful for a change. “I need great warriors such as him.”

“There’ll be others,” I say with a reassuring smile, though glancing at the chatting crowd of maimed grandads makes my words ring as hollow as my mother’s love.

“You’ve changed so much, Lexie,” Sandra says suddenly, judging me like I’m a model strutting down a runway.

“Oh! You really think so?” I beam, warmth flooding my chest. I flutter my new super-important cloak for effect, the fabric catching the molten seams as I absentmindedly twist my wedding ring.

Maybe it’s the cloak. Or maybe it’s the ring that caught her eye.

“Ah, of course I have! So much has happened since we last spoke. Honestly, I hardly believe half of it myself!”

“Wait!” My excitement screeches to a halt as I scan the crowd. My eyes narrow. “Where’s Celutok?”

I lean closer to Sandra, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Why are you still with that farmer guy?” The words hang between us, a reminder of an unfinished agreement.

“I haven’t forgotten our promise, Sandra.

We’ll get you back to Earth—or at least somewhere not covered in snail poop.

Just say the word, and we’ll get this...

” I wave a hand over her muck-streaked brown leathers. “Mess cleaned up.”

Sandra recoils as if I’m the one covered in giant monster snail crap, her face shadowed with annoyance for some reason.

“Celutok’s a really nice guy, Lexie,” she snaps, her blue eyes sparking with unexpected anger.

“After you... disappeared, I was terrified. I had no idea what happened to you—no idea where to go.” She gestures sharply at the bubbling molten geyser behind us.

“Even this bloody volcano was too warm for me.”

Yep, Stockholm Syndrome. Definitely Stockholm Syndrome.

“So, yeah, Celutok let me stay with him,” Sandra continues, her voice softening as she looks down, fidgeting with her thumbs. “He looked after me. Even took me to Star City!” Her sweaty, tired face brightens with sudden enthusiasm. “Ack, it was so much fun!”

“You don’t say,” I mutter, glaring at Dracoth. Jealousy burns low in my chest. She gets a luxury vacation to Star City while I’m dragged through alien Antarctica and the Amazon rainforest.

“When we got back to Scarn,” Sandra adds, her grin wide and infectious, “we heard you were here after completing the Mortakin-Tok.” Her excitement is almost childlike as she leans closer.

“Crazy, right? So, what the hell happened? Oh, and congrats, by the way!” She giggles, glancing meaningfully between Dracoth and me.

“It was crazy!” I burst out, the words tumbling over each other. “We were on this massive spaceship, and—”

“Enough!” Dracoth roars, stiffening my spine like that horrible etiquette training I endured in boarding school. “It is forbidden to speak of with the uninitiated,” he growls with an extra-intense Mr. Frowny Face glare.

“Alright, jeez.” I mutter, trying to rein in my breathing. My pulse is hammering. “Maybe tell me these rules beforehand? ” I shoot him a pointed look, but his face remains unreadable. “Anyway, Sandra, trust me—it was completely insane.” I lean toward her, dropping my voice back to a whisper.

“What of Ignixis?” Dracoth interrupts, his focus zeroing in on Sandra like me spying a beautiful dress. “Did he come to you?”

Sandra frowns. “Ignixis?” She pauses, as if tasting the name before grimacing. “No... I haven’t seen him since that bar in Star City.”

“That creepy Demon Egg-Head!” I sneer, my annoyance echoed by Dracoth through our bond, though his face remains as expressionless as a thrift-shop outfit.

“I asked him nicely,” I titter, once again savoring the memory of his panicked face as my divine barriers nearly flattened him like a syrupy pancake. “To keep you safe.”

Sandra’s face softens, a warm smile blooming. “Ack, that’s so sweet of you—both of you—to think of me.” Her tone is genuine, almost glowing with gratitude, a sharp contrast to my own exasperation. “I’m sure Ignixis heard I was safe with Celutok and decided he had better things to do.”

“Yeah, like creeping under beds, the freaky weirdo,” I mutter darkly.

Next time I’ll crush him from above, force him to crawl on his belly like the snake he is.

My vindictive musings fizzle out almost immediately. I still need the slippery bastard to teach me the Sacred Words of great Arawnoth.

“Hey, Celutok!” Sandra’s warm greeting jolts me from my thoughts. I glance up to see the returning farmer. His weathered face splits with a grin as he carries sizzling stone plates. They’re loaded with charred white meat carved from the fanged monstrosity snaking through the cavern behind him.

“Hail,” Celutok says, his voice hearty and full of cheer.

“An impressive and generous feat, great War Chieftain,” he adds, offering Dracoth a steaming plate.

“I can’t remember the last time these halls hosted Sneachir meat,” he adds, laughing as he passes Sandra and me our portions. “It might be the first!”

Ugh, I hope he washed his hands.