Page 59

In the distance, I peer deeper into the lava, into the figure.

I see the flames spilling forth, filling the room, feel their heat scorching my skin, consuming my flesh.

Just like in the dream of flames, the cosmic entity stands before me, bathing me in its glorious fires like a blaze of love and destruction.

I wish it would take me—consume me entirely, so the abyss I carry can never find me again. But then the chanting dies down, and my senses slowly return, like I’m coming down from some drugged-out EDM party. Already I miss the intensity, the colossal presence of fire and life.

Two bare-chested Clown-dathians drag in a strange, unknown beast—a giant, pony-sized snail with a gray shell adorned with an array of bioluminescent patterns, speckled with blues, purples, and greens.

Normally, I’d recoil from seeing something so hideous, so grotesque, but instead, I feel rooted in place, my heart still soaring with steely resolve.

The creature moves with an eerie grace, its elongated tentacles probing the air ahead.

In its wake, it leaves a glistening trail of luminous mucus as it is brought before the central figure.

The cult leader sets aside his jeweled bowl and extends his razor-sharp claws, which glisten with the reflections of orange and yellow magma. A heavy silence falls over the chamber, hanging like a shroud, before he suddenly thrusts his claws deep into the creature’s center.

I should flinch in horror, but instead, I find myself enthralled by the gruesome spectacle, my gaze fixed on the light dimming in the creature’s eyes as its gray, slimy blood sprays forth like a grotesque artwork.

The cult leader reaches deep into its body, extracting a pulsing dark-violet organ and casting it into the geyser of molten lava. Liquid rock consumes the offering with a hungry roar, bursting into vibrant purple flames.

The chanting resumes, harsher and more powerful as the two bare-chested Clown-dathians continue to butcher the giant snail-like creature.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the carnage.

A part of me yearns to be awash in the creature’s blood, to feel its heat and life force drench me.

The aliens carve large chunks of meat and place them onto thick stone slabs, cooking them over the bubbling fountain of magma.

I consider turning back. The ritual seems to be winding down when the cult-like figure’s gaze shifts to me, and a slow smile curls his lips.

How long has he known I was here? I exhale deeply but feel no fear, only a bold curiosity as I step through the seated crowd.

The Clown-dathians focus remains locked ahead as I weave through them, my steps careful, my breath steady.

Scorching heat from the boiling pools of lava caresses my skin, and I’m drawn forward inexplicably. The figure’s smile widens as I approach, looming over me, beckoning like a loving parent I’ve never had.

“Welcome, lost child,” he says, his voice and expression open and warm. “A blessing for your journey.” He presses charred ashes against my forehead, the heat both pleasant and scalding. “May you blaze in Arawnoth’s glory,” he adds, handing me a thick slab of cooked meat.

“Thank you,” I murmur, accepting the makeshift plate, my heart pounding in my chest, adrenaline roaring in my ears. I’ve never felt this before—this raw, potent sense of strength and fearlessness. Almost invincible, like I could face anything.

“I shall release you, child,” the figure intones, his eyes narrowing at the metal collar around my neck.

He moves slowly, his coarse hands brushing against my skin, red eyes glowing with purpose.

I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I hear the scrape of metal and feel a tug at my throat.

At last, the collar snaps open, and I gasp in the scorching air of freedom, a tension I had forgotten lifting from my shoulders.

The figure uncoils the chain from my arm and casts it into the bubbling lava like a writhing serpent.

“Arawnoth has consumed your bondage, female.” The metal glows orange, then white, before sinking into the magma’s seething depths. I touch my neck, half-expecting to feel the cold weight still there, but instead find only smooth skin.

I meet the figure’s fiery gaze, framed by the immense molten statue behind him, a swell of gratitude surging within me.

As I turn to leave, I notice the Clown-dathians rising, one by one, moving toward the center to collect their portions and receive their blessings.

Some eye me with curiosity, others incline their heads, and a few remain indifferent.

I sit close to the center, basking in the sizzling heat radiating from the immense statue’s looming presence.

The meat on the stone plate still sizzles, its charred surface crackling in the warmth.

Part of me thinks it’ll be gross, that I should scorn it by throwing it away.

Ungrateful, childish—that version of me gets me in trouble and exhausts me with unending stress.

I don’t know why, but that Lexie lurks somewhere in the far distance—at least for now.

“You dare interfere, Elder Garzum!” a voice booms from the end of the chamber.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere—Dracoth.

He storms toward us, eyes burning crimson, trailing mists of fury.

Despite myself, I smile, feeling a strange boldness rise within me.

A chorus of murmurs ripples through the chamber at his arrival.

The name “ Dracoth ” whispers on many lips.

“Ah, young Dracoth. It warms my heart to see you yet live,” the cult leader Garzum says, spreading his arms wide in mock welcome.

“Rumors spoke of your return, though I hoped they were just that—rumors.” His smile fades, twisting into a narrow-eyed glare.

“You’ve brought nothing but dishonor and hardship to our clan, son of Gorexius.

And now you dare return, dragging yet more shame with you.

” He gestures at me, but instead of feeling fear, my heart soars.

“Silence!” Dracoth roars, his face twisted into a seething sneer. “I’m the War Chieftain, and—”

A sudden blur of movement cuts him off, catching everyone by surprise. A hulking figure emerges from the crowd of Clown-dathians, slamming into Dracoth with such force that the red titan is hurled backward, crashing into the cave wall.

He straightens with an expression of cold indifference, but I feel a spark of eager anticipation—I long to see blood spilled.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” The attacker stands tall and strong, even by his people’s formidable standards.

His long black-gray hair hangs down his legs.

He glares at Dracoth with a stern face that I would consider handsome if not for the brutal scars that mar half his face, extending almost to the bone, leaving just thin patches of pale-red skin.

“A dead warrior,” Dracoth growls, flexing his neck as he steps forward.

The scarred fighter moves with a lethal, predatory grace, his bare chest glistening in the lava’s flickering light as he twirls a wooden staff overhead in a blur of brown.

The crowd begins to chant, and my heart soars with the rhythm, craving the violence, the raw contest of strength and skill.

Dracoth lunges with a swift, powerful strike, faster than I would have believed possible for his incredible muscular frame.

But the scarred fighter is quicker, weaving away in a blur of motion, almost floating back.

He lashes out with his staff, catching Dracoth across the knuckles with a loud crack that echoes off the cavernous walls.

“My name is Jazreal, Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers,” the fighter announces, stalking around his opponent with confidence.

Dracoth pulls his hand back as if bitten by a snake. He hesitates for a moment, studying his opponent carefully while sucking the back of his hand.

“Come, overgrown pup, and learn your place.”

Plumes of red escape Dracoth’s eyes. He adopts a crouched stance, inching closer, just outside the range of Jazreal’s spinning staff. They circle each other like predators jostling for position. The chants and drums mirror the frantic beat of my own heart.

Suddenly, Dracoth surges forward in a blur of crimson power, grasping for the smaller Jazreal, who dances sidewards, his staff whistling through the air like a falling bomb.

But Dracoth anticipates the blow, pivots, and seizes the end of the staff in his immense grip, yanking with all his might. Jazreal reacts quickly, letting go of the staff, but not before the force sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

Dracoth pounces, delivering a frontal kick into Jazreal’s stomach, launching him backward with a grunt. Jazreal crashes near the bubbling pools of lava.

“All will bow before me!” Dracoth roars, twisting the wooden staff into broken splinters in his powerful hands.

Jazreal rises slowly, his eyes leaking emerald mist. “Impressive, son of Gorexius,” he admits, rubbing a dark bruise forming on his stomach, a glob of green blood dripping from his lips. “You fight with strength and cunning. But I’m just getting started!”

Before he can attack again, Garzum raises a commanding arm.

“Enough, Jazreal,” he orders, his voice and eyes level as he studies Dracoth.

A wave of disappointment crashes over me—I wanted them to tear each other apart in a shower of blood and death, with only the strongest surviving. That seems right.

“You cannot claim the title of War Chieftain, Dracoth,” Garzum continues. “For another already claims it.”

“Who?” Dracoth sneers, as if the idea itself is beneath him.

“Drexios,” Garzum mutters.