Page 103

Dracoth

Will

“ A nother one?” Princesa asks, her small hand still tugging at my clothes for attention, though her voice lacks curiosity.

But my focus is fixed on the figure striding toward us—an Elder.

Bald, yet crowned by a long beard and bushy white eyebrows that rival the untouched snows of northern Aroth.

They frame a face lined with the weight of countless seasons—one of the ancients.

His smile is disarming, but his keen brown eyes miss nothing, surveying every detail with subtle, practiced precision.

“Do you know him?” Princesa prods again, her tone tinged with impatience, a match for the hushed breaths and murmured speculations of my Magaxus kin before us.

“I do not,” I reply curtly, my gaze narrowing as the crowd parts for him, granting passage deeper into my domain.

The Council of Elders is known to me by reputation alone; half their names escape me, and fewer faces I would recognize.

Yet there’s no mistaking his status—his aura of wisdom and white ceremonial robes speak for him.

Though, I note with a flicker of disdain, the pristine fabric is stained with muck up to his ankles.

“Now then,” the Elder exhales loudly, leaning dramatically on the towering sneachir skull he uses for support.

He feigns exhaustion, a theatrical catch of his breath.

“This beast nearly frightened the ancestors out of me!” he declares with a grin, rapping the blackened fangs of the monster with his knuckles.

“Let’s see... an adult male sneachir. A big one at that.

From the lands of Aroth—very impressive, young.

.. Dracoth.” His voice dips into something softer as he peers at me with unsettling familiarity.

“Gods, you’re the very image of your father. ”

Not just in appearance.

Beneath the layers of false pleasantry, the Elder’s intrusion grates at me like claws against rock, but I give no outward hint of it.

His presence taints the air of my celebration.

Only because of his status as Elder do I tolerate him for a second.

If he has come to name me an outlaw, then I will have to hasten to Argon Six without Ignixis and without learning Drexios’ location.

That, or bathe our entire planet in civil war’s blood.

“What do you seek, Elder?” I ask, dismissing him with a flick of my hand.

“What do I seek?” he echoes with amusement, turning his gaze to the looming molten statue of Arawnoth behind me. “Too many things to name!” he chuckles softly, a self-indulgent note in his tone. “But you mean in context to yourself, of course.”

His eyes drift to us once more, catching the detail of Princesa’s attire—her white-blue seared cloak, her defiant poise. His smile falters into a faint grimace.

“Elder Garzum?” he calls sharply, snapping his attention toward a hunched figure within the crowd. Impressive. That he could spot Garzum, who sits bowed among the standing throng, his head low, as though lost in some impenetrable dream of his own.

But then the intruders gaze shifts back to Princesa, his brow knitting in a brief frown.

“My apologies, little human,” he says in a softer voice, leaning closer as though to confide in her. “I’ve not had the honor of learning your name.”

Princesa steps forward, chin high, her cloak swishing as though to punctuate her pride. “My name is—”

“ Princesa ,” I finish with a grumble, growing impatient with this intruder’s time-wasting nonsense.

“Really, Dracoth?” she chides, silver eyes narrowing like blades as they cut into me. “Now of all—”

I silence her with a raised hand, my gaze never wavering from the Elder.

“Such a pride prick,” Princesa mutters under her breath for my ears alone. Her words land like rain on lava—ignored, inconsequential.

She is my Princesa. That is her name .

The intruder arches a brow. “A pleasure, Princesa. Now, where was I?” he mumbles, only to be interrupted by a sudden fit of spluttering coughs. The sound echoes through the cavern, each hacking spasm forcing him to double over, shaking as though his very bones were coming undone.

My lip twitches. Mockery? Or is this fool’s intent to goad me into action?

Princesa slips her small hands over mine. Her stern gaze—so steady, so knowing—bores into me, anchoring the molten fury echoed through our bond. The sight of her delicate face and the gentleness of her touch cool the fire in my chest. I force out a long breath, loosening the tension in my limbs.

“Gods, what a kink. Please excuse me ,” the Elder wheezes at last, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he straightens. “It’s this stuffy Scarn air. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but the ash really gets in your lungs, does it not?” he adds, lightly tapping his chest.

“No,” I growl, the word rolling out like thunder. This fool must hail from the softest corner of Klendathor—perhaps Draxxi?

“Elder Harkus,” Garzum finally speaks, his voice a low rumble as he rises to his feet.

The name lands like a stone in the cavern, its weight rippling through the crowd. A murmur of disapproval builds, spreading like a poisonous miasma.

Harkus .

Even I know that name—a stinging reminder of Elder Zyraxis’ loss and the Council’s punishment of my clan.

“This is an insult !” Zelarn, a grizzled ancient warrior, roars from the crowd. “The Council sends a weak Draxxus to mock us!” he spits with fists clenched, moving menacingly toward Harkus.

But a figure cloaked in a brown hooded robe moves swiftly, halting Zelarn with a mere outstretched hand and a subtle shake of their head.

“Silence!” Garzum cries, raising his hands high, but the crowd remains restless—muttering, pointing, their anger bubbling like magma.

The Draxxus Elder, to his credit, stands brave and proud, his gaze flicking among the attendees with no shred of fear.

“ Silence! ” Garzum roars louder this time, his voice cutting through the uproar like a plasma claw through bone.

“You all bring shame to the Magaxus!” Garzum spits, his narrowed crimson gaze sweeping the assembly like fire. “Like a pack of mad hydraliths without a lick of sense among you.”

His gaze fixes on Zelarn, the ancient warrior’s defiance wilting under the Elder’s scrutiny. He looks away, his shoulders sinking in quiet submission.

“To attack an Elder—any Elder—en masse would condemn our entire clan!” Garzum continues, his voice shaking with unyielding intensity. “Is that what you want? To invite ruin upon what’s left of us?”

The heated murmuring stops.

“My thanks, Elder Garzum,” Harkus says with a solemn nod, his voice calm and measured.

“I did not come to stir up old hatreds, nor did the Council send me as an insult to you all.” He sweeps a hand across the muted crowd.

“Although, perhaps it was meant to punish me.” He chuckles softly at his own joke, the sound hollow in the cavern’s tense silence.

“No, I have come to fulfill another duty.”

He turns deliberately, his gaze locking onto Princesa and me.

“To verify the happy couples, Mortakin-Tok. ”

Harkus begins his approach toward the raised stone dais where we stand, an open smile plastered across his face.

I do not return it. My eyes track his every step, untrusting.

His distaste for our cloaks had been plain when he first noticed them, but now he holds his tongue.

Whether out of fear or calculation, I cannot tell.

Beside me, Princesa releases an audible sigh of exasperation, throwing her hands up.

“We’re doing this again? ” she groans, silver eyes rolling heavenward.

“Listen, space Santa, we’ve already been through this with Garzum over there.

” She flicks a dismissive wrist toward the awkward Magaxus Elder like the regal War Chieftainess she is.

Harkus maintains his faint smile, though his gaze lingers on her. “You are... most peculiar. Much different from High Chieftainess Rocks,” he muses, stroking his long beard thoughtfully.

My hands tighten into fists at that title— High Chieftainess . A mockery. It should not exist. It will not exist, not when I’m finished.

“ Ugh ! Rocks. Rocks. Rocks,” Princesa snaps, the words tumbling out in a rush. Her pretty face twists into a sneer. “I’ve never met the woman, and I’m already so over her.”

“Yes.” Harkus nods slowly, as if pondering some private revelation. “I see,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking between Princesa and me. “Forget I mentioned her.” He waves a weathered hand, the gesture sending his pristine white robes fluttering—a jarring brightness in this cavern of ash and obsidian.

“Elder Garzum,” Harkus turns toward the black-red robed Elder, who, despite his expression shrouded by tattoos, looks like a warrior awaiting his deathblow. “Did you verify their Mortakin-Tok? ” he asks, his faint smile remaining, though his piercing brown eyes hold no warmth.

“Not... exactly... Elder Harkus,” Garzum replies, squirming like a vipertail caught by its stinger. His hesitation fills me with disgust. His lack of resolve shames my clan.

“Because last I checked,” Harkus continues, activating his wrist console.

An azure glow illuminates the molten cavern as a holographic display flares to life.

“You haven’t completed the Mortakin-Tok yourself, have you?

Unless you’ve been very busy since last we spoke.

” He chuckles, his finger trailing lazily through a list of names.

“Ah, sadly not. No, Elder Garzum,” he drawls, his theatrics testing my patience.

Before I can speak, Princesa steps forward.

“So what if we’re not on your naughty list?

” she scoffs, her fingers absently stroking the resting cyloillar on her shoulder.

“Garzum saw the truth,” she adds, her voice lowering into a menacing purr.

“They all did.” She grins, eyes flashing like mercury stars.