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“Fifty thousand credits...” he declares after a moment, something akin to joy or perhaps relief surges through me—a pleasing amount. “And what is it you hope to buy with this, Captain?”

“I... we... wouldn’t dare presume to buy anything,” Balsar stammers, his eyes darting to his fellow pirates.

An astute answer. We Klendathians are warriors, not greedy, honorless merchants.

“We just thought...” He takes a large gulp of air, the scent of his fear clogs the air, swirling like mists of despair. “You’d let us be on our way.”

“Oh?” Ignixis raises a hairless brow, his glowing emerald eyes flicking to me for a heartbeat.

I renew my pacing behind the trio, my heavy arcweave plate armor clanging, the bones of his former comrades jingling like a macabre wind chime.

The sound melds with their frantic breaths and the thudding of their terrified hearts.

Ignixis, the old dramatist, loves to draw these moments out, while my hands itch as the Rush roars, scalding my veins, craving release—craving carnage.

“I find these gifts more pleasing,” Ignixis rummages through the pile of emblems, all frayed and crusted in grime. “This means more than you realize... Captain.” The old gas-cloud begins shredding the patches with his claws. “You no longer serve the Whores Orphans. You serve us now.”

“You?” Balsar recoils as if stuck—not by me—he’d not survive my power. The Argorians mutter anxiously, whispering the word Klendathians like a frightened prayer.

“Klendathians?” Balsar echoes, a frown creasing his brow. “But... you... fight for the...” He stumbles, struggling for the right words—but there are none. “We’re just simple mercenaries, not soldiers piloting great battleships—”

My patience is at its end. Listening to this defeated fool prattle on endlessly, as if he has earned the right to speak or choose. I have more important matters to attend to—the females. I step closer, letting my shadow fall over them, forcing them to bask in my glory and strength.

“You serve or die,” I declare, voice cold and final.

Balsar’s eyes drift to my belt, his beady brown eyes widening in horror as they settle on the macabre collection of spines.

I almost smile, savoring his terror. “Organize the remnants of your forces, tow the un-crewed ships, obey my commands.” My eyes flash crimson as I imagine the glory to come, the Rush burning in my veins. “Serve well and you may be rewarded.”

My words hang heavy in the air. I glare at the three, as unyielding and imposing as the Peaks of Scarn. Balsar jolts upright, his body trembling.

Good. Fear will keep them honest.

“We... will obey,” he stammers, bowing his head in submission. The two Argorians quickly follow suit, mimicking his gesture, their movements hesitant but ultimately conforming.

Ignixis glances up at me with a smirk—approval or disapproval, I cannot tell, nor do I care. “You may leave, Captain,” the old gas-cloud says, waving them off with a dismissive hand.

The trio exhale in unison, hastening to exit—to escape their shame.

“Wait.” My command freezes them in their tracks, their spines stiffening like they’ve been doused in icy water.

“You serve me, Dracoth the War Chieftain, now bound by the customs of us Klendathians.” I slowly extend my claws, their razor-sharp tips gleaming ominously in the dim purple light, mirroring the terror widening in their eyes.

“And you carry shame.” The word shoots from my lips, twisted with contempt.

“Please... please,” Balsar begs, crumbling before me, his feeble hands raised in a pathetic gesture of surrender. Let this be a scathing reminder to the cowards. Let it harden their resolve as it did mine—my gift to them.

My face remains expressionless. This must be done. A wrong being righted. I seize Balsar by his oversized lapels, yanking the squirming coward from the ground with ease.

“No, great War Chieftain. I obey!” he pleads, voice trembling.

I cut crudely through the tufts of his flaxen hair, each handful fluttering through the air like golden leaves. Balsar whimpers like a whipped borack, his eyes squeezed shut, too terrified to even look.

Fear...

It revolts me, his pathetic sniveling. Was this how I looked when Krogoth stood over me? Weak, pitiful? The very thought twists my stomach, bile rising in my throat. I release my molten grip, letting the coward fall to the ground like a discarded sack of meat.

A grimace mars my face as my eyes shift to the two remaining Argorians. Their milky white eyes wide, their scaled heads covered in spikes and ridges—not a single strand of hair to be found.

“A conundrum, to be sure!” Ignixis mocks, noticing my hesitation. “This is but one of the many reasons the lesser aliens should not—”

“Silence,” I command, keeping my eyes locked on the pair, struggling for a solution. “Do they regrow?” I ask, turning to Balsar, who runs a hand through the few ragged tufts left on his head.

“Regrow...” he mutters, disorientated, still reeling from his own shaming. “Their spikes?” He glances at the Argorians, comprehension dawning slowly, as if he’s just waking from a nightmare. “I have... no voiding idea.”

Tiresome.

Perhaps, then, they will carry this mark of shame for the rest of their lives.

I seize the first Argorian by his grimy polymer jacket.

He trembles, avoiding my fiery gaze, but he does not resist. My claws saw through his tough head spikes.

Unlike his captain , he bears his shame with quiet resolve, so I cut only the first two head spikes, leaving the rest intact.

The second Argorian surprises me. He drops to his knees, bowing his head in submission. Perhaps there is some scrap of honor among these junkers, after all. I make quick work sawing through his two frontal head spikes. When I’m done, I help him to his feet.

“Go now. cleanse the shame from the others. You are Whores Orphans no longer—but my proud warriors.” My crimson eyes blaze with intensity as I stand before them, a titan of death.

Balsar looks up at me, his eyes wide with fear, yet there’s a flicker of something else—a glint of awe, perhaps admiration. The trio bows their heads deeply and they hasten from the war room.

I do not expect much from these junkers, yet they shall serve as irregulars and auxiliaries until I bolster my forces with true warriors—Klendathian veterans.

And at the pinnacle of these ranks stand my father’s personal warband—the Ravager Berserkers.

I long for the day when I command that legendary force.

If my noble father had not fallen, I might already be among them, leading the charge to bathe Argon Six in glorious ruin.

“Cleverly done, young Dracoth,” Ignixis chimes in, disrupting my joyous musings.

“Though you taint our sacred blood with their inclusion.” He sneers, his face twisting with disdain.

I expected this—another reason to keep the junkers around: to irritate Ignixis.

The old gas-cloud often rants bitterly about the weakness of other species, desperate to distance ourselves from them.

To me, these junkers and the females are merely tools—weapons to be honed and wielded. Idealism and philosophy serve no purpose in the brutal reality of war. Those petty concerns are the fruits of victory, indulgences of the weak.

“What do these... riffraff know of our ancient customs? Of the history that birthed them or the Gods who keep them?” I suppress a groan, already weary of the old gas-cloud, and turn toward the exit.

“Nothing is the answer! Heed my words, young Dracoth. The Gods will only tolerate so much offense before their rage will consume us all. Yes, yes, I see it now! Klendathor will burn for our sins, our cowardice, our decadence!” He cackles madly as the door whooshes shut behind me.

“You follow the path of the profane, just like your foolish father.” His muffled voice reaches me.

That he dares besmirch my father’s name, twists my mouth with fury and halts my steps as I consider turning back to render brutal punishment upon him.

But the old fool is half-mad and unworthy of attention.

As I continue down the corridor, my heavy footsteps echo off the metal and marble walls nearing the training halls.

I consider checking on the females—it’s strange that I’ve heard and seen so little of them in the past day.

Even the young warriors I assigned to watch over Carmen reported nothing of note.

The image of the fiery female glaring at me flashes through my mind.

She who attacks at every opportunity, she who dared to fire her gun on Ignixis—even she is silent?

A flicker of doubt gnaws at me. Why are they so quiet?

Before I can change direction, my ears twitch at the sound of soft footsteps—approaching quickly.

One of the females is running down the passageway.

I grimace, bracing myself for another round of strange human madness.

It’s not long before the fire-haired female comes into view, still wearing the leathers I gifted her—Sandra.

Her expression gives me pause—not fear, not joy, but something else. Concern . It spreads, infecting my mind like a poison.

“Dracoth!” Sandra yells, breathless. I march toward her just as she crashes into me with a thud, clinging to me, gulping in air, exhausted.

“I can’t find the other women.” Her eyes lock onto mine—blue as the ice that tries to harden around my molten heart.

“I think they’re gone!”