Page 32

Dracoth

Meek

S andra and I travel through the dim, purple-lit corridors.

My eyes remain focused ahead, while hers scan every detail, a look of wonder on her face.

It’s a relief to see something other than despair in her expression.

She walks close, perhaps seeking my protective presence from the unknown. But she has nothing to fear—for now.

Her smallness is amusing to me, little more than half my height.

Could Arawnoth truly bond me to one such as her?

These human females are all undersized, with Princesa being the tallest and most robust. Yet even she is eclipsed by me—like all sentient beings.

It’s an impossibility, finding a female to match my stature.

Perhaps, if our Klendathian females still lived.

.. But the older warriors speak of how they were taken from us by the Scythians.

Something my noble father supported, his reasoning a mystery to me.

I cannot deny Sandra is pleasing to look upon—her hair kissed by an Earth-like sun, her exotic skin so pale it’s nearly white.

She smiles, and her blue eyes sparkle with curiosity.

These human females are the least alien to my eyes, their facial features much like ours, albeit more delicate and undersized.

Like a beautiful blooming flower that could snap in a strong wind.

“Where are we going, Dracoth?” Sandra asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her tone is curious, not fearful.

“Your clothes,” I reply, glancing down at the pink, bloody ribbons that struggle to hide her petite curves. “Need replaced.”

“Class,” Sandra exclaims with sudden excitement.

It’s difficult to understand these human females with their different accents and strange words that don’t quite translate or match the context, but the tone is unmistakable.

“You caught me in my pajamas. If I’d known, I would’ve worn something less embarrassing,” she giggles—a sweet, foreign sound to my ears.

Another word unknown to me—one of many. “P ajamas ?” I inquire as our footsteps echo through the distant hum of the ship’s engines.

“Oh,” Sandra scrunches her face. “They’re, like, sleeping clothes, or nightwear. Don’t you... wait, what are you?” she asks, her gaze now studying me with newfound curiosity.

I am the fire that will consume Krogoth.

“We are Klendathians from the planet Klendathor. This ship’s destination,” I answer, relishing the look of surprise spreading across her pretty face.

“We’re heading to your home planet?” she asks, eyes wide.

I nod.

Her eyes light up as she exclaims, “Class!”—that strange word again, used for joyous approval. “What’s it like there?”

Images flash in my mind: rivers of molten lava burning through twisted crags and that stretch to skies bursting with purple lightning; lush, forested lands of red, with creatures and trees as large as battlebarges; vast waters stretching as far as the eye can see; endless dunes beneath a scorching sun; northern sleets of immense ice.

Its frozen tundra's abhorrent to my molten blood.

Too many words. “Primordial,” I utter, the single best word to describe it.

“Primordial?” Sandra repeats, her eyes gazing off into the distance.

We arrive at the cramped replicator room—or what’s left of it. Many of the devices have been torn from the walls, likely looted from the decommissioned ship, repurposed, resting in the dens of the dishonorable.

Dotted between the gaps rest a few, covered in dust, their black metal frames speckled with rust. I’m doubtful they remain functional.

But I persist, activating my wrist console. Sandra glances around, confusion etched on her face. “There are really clothes here?” she asks, skepticism in her tone.

“If Arawnoth wills it,” I reply. My wrist console scans the locale for a functioning replicator. My God must favor Sandra, as a nearby device sputters to life. Blue lights, which trim the black metal, flicker on, casting a dim glow over the decrepit room.

I extend my wrist console projection. “Select,” I offer for her to join me.

“Oh!” Sandra exclaims, rushing closer, her softness brushing against me in her eagerness. “Do I just... cycle through them with my hand?” she inquires, to which I nod in affirmation. “Exciting!” She waves her dainty fingers through the blue light, bathing the dingy room in a soft, simmering glow.

An image of Sandra’s likeness rests in the center, with each selection showing a new outfit onto her digital form.

But this is a ship of battle and war, not the merchant streets of Star City.

The options are limited, no doubt lacking for the materialistic-minded human females.

Most are a series of simple furs and leathers, function over form, intended to accommodate the harsh, diverse temperatures and climates of alien worlds.

If Sandra is disappointed, she hides it well. “This one,” she declares, sounding proud. Her choice glows in the projection: a simple brown leather skirt and tunic, framed by gray furs that bunch around her neck and shoulders, dangerously close to a cloak.

The slightest smile curls my lips—almost like a cloak of a Chieftainess—a bold prediction or mere happenstance? This synchronicity sends an eerie sensation tingling down my spine.

Are you watching Arawnoth? Is this your doing?

My hands dart over my wrist console, making the selection, praying the device does not fail after our efforts.

Both our eyes are drawn to the replicator, which vibrates slightly, its blue lights blinking erratically.

How it functions inside, what mechanisms are being performed, are a mystery to me—like all Scythian technology.

My wrist console beeps and a compartment within the machine opens. “My clothes!” Sandra squeals with joy, rushing over to hold them aloft like a war trophy. “This is amazing,” she says, studying the leathers before brushing a hand through the plush gray furs.

The likeness the replicator produces is impressive, but it’ll never hold the soul of the genuine article. My armor, each dent, each blemish, is a battle, a struggle, a piece of living history infused into the very arcweave.

Sandra moves to undress, distracting me from my thoughts with her surprising openness.

My pulse quickens—molten, fiery —as the torn fabric of her pajamas falls, revealing her pale, silken skin.

I’ve carried these females naked when they first arrived.

But this feels... different. It’s a deliberate action from the female who’s willing to bare herself in my presence.

A loathsome churning in my stomach forces me to avert my gaze. This perplexingly foreign situation is unnerving. What is this? It’s maddening! I’m a warrior, the War Chieftain, familiar with blood and death. Yet I falter before something so benign?

“I wait outside,” I growl. This weakness, my softness —it’s unbearable.

Outside the replicator room, I curse myself for a coward.

This is too akin to retreat, to surrender.

The rage streams through my blood like rivers of boiling lava, soon washing away the weakness.

This loathsome feeling reminds me of when.

.. I groveled before Krogoth, pleading for my life.

... Even thinking about it sickens me to my core.

Arawnoth give me the strength to cleanse myself of this shame!

“What do you—” Sandra’s voice pulls me from my seething thoughts. I didn’t hear her approach. Her smile falters as she takes in my appearance—crimson Rush seeping from my eyes, fangs bared, my whole frame trembling with barely contained fury.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.

“I will be,” I grind out through clenched teeth. When I have Krogoth’s head . My unspoken vow seethes within me, each iteration another stone laid for his tomb.

Sandra doesn’t seem convinced. Her gaze drops to her hands, fingers fidgeting in a restless, nervous dance. She stands before me, so small, her eyes clouded with thoughts she can’t seem to voice. Then, almost as if shaking off a burden, she looks up again, forcing a broad smile.

“So, what do you think?” Sandra twirls in a quick circle. The leathers look strange on the human, so used to her wearing those strange, loose, pink clothes. These leathers cling tight, highlighting her feminine shape, with the furs at the back giving her an almost regal appearance.

But she’s just a na?ve, tiny female playing dress up, making a mockery of my noble people. The sight of her now irks me. The weakness she evoked in me, sickening me to my stomach.

“It will suffice,” I say gruffly, turning away toward the healing pods.

“Oh,” Sandra replies, her voice a weak murmur. She follows behind, her tiny foot-patter joining my pounding ones. “Where are we going now?” she asks, her voice now lacking her earlier excitement.

I fight the urge to sigh. Her constant stream of questions, grating on my nerves, compelling me to speak when I’d prefer to remain silent.

“To heal your wounds,” I say curtly, gesturing toward the diminutive female’s arms.

“These?” Sandra asks, examining the scrapes along her wrist and forearm. “Ack, these little scrapes are nothing to worry about.”

I halt, peering down at the human. Strange.

After what Princesa said, I’d thought these humans would be begging to use the healing pods.

I clutch Sandra’s wrist, startled by how absurdly soft and tiny it is within my mighty grip.

Her arm is lined with a multitude of cuts—shallow ones.

Little scuffs that wouldn’t bother the rawest Prospect.

But who knows with these fragile females?

“What of this... human stroke or swollen brain?” I ask, turning over her dainty wrist, searching for signs of more serious injury.