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“You voiding stop!” The last Tuskarian’s voice drips with barely contained terror.

I turn to face him, my blood still burning with rage.

He holds a weapon against the temple of my blonde female, her body rigid with fear.

“Or I’ll splatter this meat’s brains all over this cursed ship!

” My blood flares at this rank offense, at his cowardice.

The fierce female aims her gun at the Tuskarian, causing him to recoil, switching to face the two of us in frantic motions. “Put down the voiding gun!” he snarls at her, glaring. My warvisors reveal the extent of his terror, his heart pounding like thunder atop the Peaks of Scarn.

He’s weak and fearful. He will not survive.

I gesture for the fierce female to lower her weapon. She hesitates for a brief moment, eyes narrowed, then mutters under her breath, “ Cabrón .” The word is unknown to me, but the disdain in her tone is clear. She slowly lowers her gun.

The Tuskarian exhales, foolishly thinking he’ll live. He begins to back away, dragging the blonde female with him, his gun still pressed to her temple. He has no idea of the doom that awaits him.

A flick of my wrist, and my arc blaster hums to life, its menacing energy masked by the noise of his labored, panicked breaths.

“Let me go, you fucking asshole!” The pleasing, plump female cries out, squirming to free herself, almost distracting me with her ample breasts spilling from the improvements I made in her clothes.

“Stop moving, meat!” The Tuskarian snaps, jostling the blond female. “We’re going nice and slow. I’ll let her go once I’m back on my ship,” he says, more as a vain prayer to uncaring Gods.

I continuously judge the distance, knowing the shot is growing more difficult with each passing, blazing heartbeat.

My warvisor scans his vitals, highlighting his elated adrenals, sweat glands, pulse, following his frantic rhythmic breathing, waiting for just one distraction, one moment his finger loosens on the trigger.

“Dracoth, Carmen? Are you seriously just going to let him kidnap me?” The blond female’s voice cuts through the tension, filled with disbelief and offense, rather than terror.

The Tuskarian blinks, his attention faltering for just a fraction of a second, his gun wavering thirty degrees off-target. “Fucking typical, I’m always the one—”

Now!

My hand cracks straight like a whip, releasing a searing molten bolt of azure energy from my arc blaster.

I watch with satisfaction as the simmering blast consumes the Tuskarians’ head, turning his snouted face to liquidized gore, sending his body crashing to the floor, twitching in its death throes.

The blonde female shrieks in shock, instinctively curling into herself, hands clamped over her head.

“What the hell? What the hell?” She repeats like a mantra as she casts frantic glances around the gore-laden corridors, with only the flickering blue wrist consoles to highlight the multicolored blood which paints the interiors.

With my warvisor, I scan the area. Some groups of Whores Orphans are retreating to their ships, while another group appears to be engaging Zirix, Vexius, and Reneth near the engine room. Good . They will fall beneath the claws of my young warriors, honing their instincts in blood.

“Keth,” I send a thought through the warvisor’s link, my mind still pulsing with the remnants of my bloodlust. “What’s your situation?”

“Zero hostiles encountered,” comes the monotone response from Keth, like freezing water pouring on molten lava.

“Look who’s hamburger meat now? You dumb ugly alien cow!” the blonde female screams as she lashes out, kicking the mangled corpse of the Tuskarian, her furious revenge now stoked.

“Return to ship controls, fire on any vessels that attempt to flee. Demand surrender from any remaining captains,” I command, already savoring my victory, knowing the Whores Orphans will now be too few to pilot all their ships. Like parasites, their greed has led them into a trap they can’t escape.

Keth’s acknowledgement comes and I break communications. But movement to my left draws my attention. Carmen—the fierce one, stands with her gun pointed at me, held in quivering, bonded hands. Defiant. Amusing, she thinks she can stop me. Annoying too, that even now she doesn’t trust me.

“We’ll be taking that hijo de puta’s ship,” she spits at the fallen Tuskarian.

A disgusting human gesture. My claws twitch, yearning to be unleashed, sleeved deep within my fingers and hands.

The bloodroot burning in my veins. The urge to tear her apart rises—my body aches to feel her soft flesh split open beneath my fingers, to see what color her insides are.

But I force the compulsion back, exhaling slowly.

These females are mine, no matter how maddening their behavior.

“ Princesa ,” Carmen calls to the blonde, nodding toward a fallen pulsar rifle nearby. “Grab that gun. Let’s get off this jodido ship.”

Rush-fueled emerald-crimson mist leaks from my eyes as I watch the pair. I’m curious to see the depths of their resolve. Carmen’s strength is undeniable, but the blonde one... she falters. I can see it in her wide, silver eyes, which dart between us in stunned disbelief.

“Ship?” the blonde, whom Carmen calls ‘ Princesa ,’ stammers. “Ship!” she yells in disbelief, her gaze snapping toward Carmen. “Are you out of your mind? Have you ever flown an alien spaceship before? Because last time I checked, the DMV doesn’t exactly hand out licenses for that!”

Carmen, unfazed, keeps her gun trained on me, her dark-brown eyes sharp and unyielding. She’s brave. Foolish but brave. The other one— Princesa —is fearful, searching for logical reasons to justify her cowardice.

“And what if more of these...” Princesa hesitates, her gaze sliding toward the mutilated Tuskarian at her feet. “Space hobos show up? What then?” She shudders visibly, her disgust evident.

A flicker of doubt wrinkles Carmen’s face. Better for them this way. Even if I let them leave, they would merely drift lost in space. A waste. The fierce female’s eyes search mine, hidden behind my warvisor, seeing only relentless plumes of Rush spilling forth as my heart pounds furiously.

“This is locura ,” Carmen scoffs, lowering her weapon. Their resolve has proven fragile like the pathetic Whores Orphans whose broken, twisted forms litter the corridor. Yet, their submission pleases me. A sign of growing trust? This is perhaps the most words I’ve exchanged with the females.

I approach Carmen with slow deliberate movements.

“Is that... their bones on your belt?” Princesa’s eyes widen as she notices my jingling homage to Arawnoth, a declaration of my prowess. “I can see the stringy, bloody bits.” She holds a hand to her mouth.

“Yes,” I reply simply, extending a claw. Carmen flinches in terror, moving to aim her gun on me again, but I gesture toward her bound wrists tied with a length of metal wire. I struggle to control my breathing; the bloodroot demands more, pushing my titanic body to its limits.

“Eww.” Princesa recoils, her face contorted in disgust. “That is... FUC... KING... DIS... GUST... ING.” She draws out each syllable, emphasizing her revulsion. Amusing if not for the pressure building in my lungs and the gurgling, rumbling that’s twisting my stomach into knots.

Carmen lowers her weapon, extending her hands. Her brown eyes remain locked on me. My razor-sharp claw slices through her bonds with ease. She exhales loudly, flexing and rubbing her wrists.

The pulsing green fire in my vision grows larger, consuming my sight. My molten heart thunders against my broad chest like a star on the brink of going supernova. A heavy thud echoes at the precipice of my awareness. I’m vaguely aware it’s my knee crashing to the ground.

It’s too much. Arawnoth’s blood is tearing through me.

Even I, the strongest Klendathian, cannot fully satisfy his wrath.

I reach an instinctual hand toward Carmen, feeling my consciousness slipping away, my body trembling with searing heat as if I was bathing in the molten rivers that pulse beneath Scarn’s mighty crags.

A yawning abyss claims me.