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Dracoth

Leadership

D rexios. A name known to me, yet I have never met the Second to my noble father.

Said to be fiercely loyal but chaotic and brutal in his actions.

It shouldn’t surprise me. He has a strong claim—almost as strong as mine.

But still, the thought makes my blood seethe with molten rage, surging like the pools of bubbling magma before me.

The Rush is only now ebbing after my brief clash with Jazreal—a decent enough opponent.

Garzum turns to the immense statue of Arawnoth, which dominates the room.

“These are dark days for us, Magaxus,” he declares, his voice filled with solemnity.

“Arawnoth curses us for our weakness and foolishness. We grew too arrogant, too certain under your father’s rule as War Chieftain.

Once guided by three Magaxus Elders, now only I remain.

And here we stand, with a traitor and an outlaw both claiming the title of Chieftain.

” He swivels back, fixing his red, glowing eyes on me.

“There is no War Chieftain, young Dracoth. This is a new era—the era of High Chieftain Krogoth, who brings new ways that may yet allow our people to survive.”

His words disgust me, each one fouler than the last, twisting my lips into a sneer. Krogoth . That accursed name! The name that haunts my dreams and steals my every thought. Even now, he plagues me, poisoning the hearts of the Magaxus—hearts that should be stronger.

“You are the betrayer, Elder,” I snarl, aware of the crowd surrounding me, watching with interest.

“No, young Dracoth,” Garzum murmurs, his expression open despite the fury I direct at him. “Do you deny your father died during the Krak-Tok?”

“No,” I snap, biting back at his foolish question. “But the usurper broke the rite by summoning strange powers.” I do not say it—cannot say it—that he wielded gifts from the Gods. That they would bless him sickens me to my molten core.

Garzum’s gaze doesn’t waver. He paces slowly, then stops to face me, his eyes cold and hard. “And what of your father? Have you no thought of his corruption?”

“What corruption?” I demand, my fists clenching, rage simmering beneath the surface at this traitor’s vile accusations.

“Corruption most profane, young Dracoth,” Garzum replies, his voice level and unflinching.

“His body was more machine than Klendathian...” His calm delivery belies the savage sting of his words.

I feel my gaze drop, my heart twisting painfully in my chest. “He turned his back on Arawnoth, on the sacred words, defiling that which—”

“Lies!” I roar, my vision clouded by the fury spilling from my eyes. I lunge towards Garzum, my hands itching to rip his deceitful tongue from his mouth. The crowd of Magaxus closes in, many of whom I recognize, hands reaching to hold me back, to restrain my wrath.

“Begone!” I snarl, shoving them aside.

But more come—more hands gripping my arms, my shoulders—the weight of their numbers halting my frantic struggles to reach the loathsome Garzum. Some mutter that he speaks the truth, naming me brother, but their earnest, sincere words only twist the claws deeper into my chest.

No! What madness drove him to defile his own flesh—he who was mightiest among us?

My struggles weaken as my mind reels, trying to comprehend my father’s actions.

I silently plead with Arawnoth, praying that they are lying, but I see the truth in their solemn faces—Garzum speaks no falsehoods.

I stop my futile efforts to break free, and the crowd moves back, their expressions as troubled as I imagine my own must be.

“Bathe in the truth, young Dracoth. Let it wash away your weakness,” Garzum intones, quoting from the sacred words.

“High Chieftain Krogoth fought with divine powers, against the vulgar corruption your father embraced. Don’t you see?

It was Arawnoth’s will that he fell that day, so we might return to the old ways—reject the profane machines, reject the Scythians! ”

Machines, Scythians, the Sacred Words— I care not for these lofty principles. They are tools of control, nothing more.

Arawnoth’s wrath courses through my veins, a molten fury that cannot be quenched. He came to me in that dream, driving my rage, fueling my bloodlust. That is his will—not this pathetic submission.

Of course! It all makes sense now. My father sought strength at any cost. I am his noble son, the true War Chieftain, and we are of one mind. The universe will burn in our power.

“No!” I stand tall, my resolve returning like hardened arcweave.

“Arawnoth guides me. He rejects your so-called old ways.” I pound my chest, my eyes flaring crimson.

“I am the War Chieftain! Me! Do you understand? I will challenge this pretender, Drexios. I will break him and reclaim the birthright that was stolen from me!”

The throng of my clan brothers mutter among themselves, some with eyes blazing with fervor, others casting downcast looks. Garzum’s face remains impassive as he speaks.

“Dracoth, duty demands I report you to the Council as an outlaw,” he says, his eyes drifting into the distance.

“Bringing human females here as slaves is a blatant violation of our new laws.” He gestures to Princesa, who watches silently with surprising grace and intensity.

“But for the respect I once bore your father, I will not.”

“Then we are done here,” I retort, turning to leave.

“Not yet, boy !” Jazreal’s voice cuts through the air, stopping me in my tracks. “I abandoned the Ravager Berserkers because I saw that we had lost our way—that we were wrong to side with the Scythians!” His voice rises like an orator’s, carrying over the crowd.

“This shorthair pup!” He jabs an accusing finger at me, his eyes narrowing with disdain.

“He disgraced our clan by attacking Chieftain Krogoth on his own territory using unlawful technology—a damning violation and a pitiful failure given his overwhelming advantage. He gained nothing but Elder Zyraxis’s death,” he sneers.

I want to rip this heart out for his words, but he strikes too close to the festering wound in my soul, giving me pause.

Flashbacks of that fatal moment flood my mind—Krogoth trapped in my arc blasters’ sights, pinned to the ground.

Then, my gilder spinning out of control, fire and chaos consuming everything.

My tears, his mocking words. Nothing I could do. .. Or was there?

“Krogoth has already pardoned young Dracoth for this incident,” Garzum replies, his words cutting through my troubled thoughts like plasma claws

Krogoth pardoned me? Why? For later humiliation? He will regret it!

“You misunderstand my meaning, Elder,” Jazreal cuts in, his voice dripping with derision.

“Do we want a shorthair boy, easily manipulated by obvious lies, to lead us? One who fails to hunt an easy target? Who now seeks to drag us into endless wars for allies that wish for our extinction? Our people cannot afford the luxuries of war. Now is the time to heal.” His words are filled with passion, igniting the crowd into heated murmurs.

A flicker of doubt gnaws at my mind, reaching for an answer just beyond my grasp.

I placed my faith in Zyraxis, for he bore the mantle of Elder.

.. but that was only part of it. Another part of me wanted to test myself against Krogoth in combat.

He was hailed as one of our finest leaders and warriors.

If I defeated him, maybe my father would have noticed me.

.. given me a position in his warband—the Ravager Berserkers.

Instead, it brought only our downfall and Krogoth’s rise.

“Dracoth is strong like his father, I grant you,” Jazreal continues, his gaze boring into me with a burning intensity, “but so is the aurodon—a dumb beast that knows only how to charge. That is what he offers!” He pauses, letting his words settle like a challenge to my very being.

“That is why I challenge him to Krak-Tok!”

Krak-Tok

The challenge hangs in the air like the charge before a thunderstorm, heavy with unspoken violence. For a moment, the weight of Jazreal’s words stalls my thoughts, but soon they sink in, igniting my blood.

Around me, my Magaxus brothers erupt into raucous debate, their voices and gestures wild, like beasts sensing blood. A slow, cruel smile curls across my lips as I lock eyes with Jazreal, his partially ruined face and glowing green eyes betraying nothing but calm resolve.

Can he sense it? The raw power radiating from my very being, the fire that pulses beneath my skin?

Already I see his broken form in my mighty hands, his body twisted and lifeless—the inevitable end for all who dare challenge me.

Jazreal, Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers, one of our mightiest. In another path, I might have served under him for a time, close to my noble father.

But now, he is nothing more than an obstacle to be shattered beneath my hands.

“Silence!” Garzum commands, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. He raises his hands, but I barely notice him, my gaze locked on my prey.

“Silence!” he roars again, louder, and the din of voices fades. “There will be no Krak-Tok!” His decree strikes like a sudden blow, disrupting the surging heat of my Rush.

“It is my right to challenge!” Jazreal snaps, rounding on Garzum, fury twisting the side of his face that still functions.

“Our people are dying!” Garzum meets his rage with a roar of his own.

“Look around!” He gestures broadly to the empty chambers.

“These halls were once filled with the voices of our kin—young and old. Now, they lie barren, with only the gray-hairs remaining. The rest...” He pauses, his eyes flicking toward the distant, shadowed ceiling.

“Die in distant lands, fighting a meaningless war.”

His words churn my stomach with disgust—the weak sentiments of one who has never known the joy of battle. “War is never meaningless, Elder,” I growl, my voice sharp as arcweave. “Only in its harsh embrace is our mettle tested, our wills forged. We who murder death embrace life.”

“Death begets death, young Dracoth,” Garzum counters, his tone surprisingly calm. “Only love brings life.”

“Love!” I spit the word like vipertail venom. Such feeble drivel. That he follows Arawnoth’s teachings yet spews such contradictory weakness sickens me. “It is you who should look around, Elder. There is nothing left to love but the glorious carnage of battle.”

“You are wrong, Dracoth. It is love that restrains me from declaring you an outlaw. It is love that moves me to deny this Krak-Tok.” Garzum exhales heavily, turning to face the molten statue of Arawnoth, the fire casting deep shadows across his features.

“But I see now, you are deaf to reason, just as your father was.” His eyes bore into mine as he turns back.

“I will allow a non-lethal contest. The victor may challenge Drexios for the title of Chieftain. The defeated shall forswear all claim to the title for two centuries.” His gaze flicks between Jazreal and me, awaiting our answer.

“Agreed,” I growl, my molten Rush stoked at the idea, having not a flicker of doubt of my imminent victory.

“I swear by the ancestors,” Jazreal nods, his fist striking his chest with solemn finality.

“Before Arawnoth, you have sworn,” Garzum intones, his hands rising, summoning forth the flames that erupt from the bubbling magma behind him.

“Tomorrow, atop this mountain, this matter shall be settled.” His burning gaze settles on me, unyielding.

“I pray to Arawnoth that you fall, son of Gorexius.”

I turn without a word, gesturing for Princesa to follow. From the dim shadows at the back of the chamber, I catch a glimpse of Sandra, her petite figure barely visible in the flickering light.

Prayers are for the weak. The Gods honor strength alone.