Page 65

Dracoth

Soak

P ain. Searing, relentless. It saturates every inch of my body, covering my chest and limbs in dark bruises and swollen welts.

Even the bubbling waters of the hot springs offer little reprieve from the torment.

But pain is fleeting. My superior Klendathian blood will ensure swift recovery.

These physical wounds are mere inconveniences—trivial compared to the gnawing emptiness hollowing out my soul.

A nauseating, bitter anguish I haven’t tasted since that cursed day. .. Krogoth’s so-called victory.

My victory. If such a poor display could be called such a thing.

It feels as empty as the void between the stars.

There were no grand cheers to greet me—only the oppressive weight of silence.

No epic triumph echoes worthy of my father’s name, just the palest semblance of success.

A simple stone—a fluke—a freak occurrence.

That is how close my destiny teetered over the abyss of disaster.

My blood seethes as molten and volatile as the rivers of lava surging through this chamber. I am a fool. Arrogance clouded my judgment, and it nearly cost me everything. Worse still, this isn’t the first time. I clench my jaw, baring my fangs through swollen lips.

That hateful day hunting Krogoth, my victory, almost certain, then turned to bitter ash that forever haunts me. Overconfidence in my strength once again nearly spelled my undoing.

I sink deeper into the hot waters of the geyser, letting it reach below my eyes, wishing it could wash away this nagging doubt.

Ignixis was right... perhaps I am still a boy, as he likes to remind me.

I despise this! What was once so solid, dependable, now feels tainted, flawed.

There must be something more. A stinging lesson Arawnoth sought to instill?

I blow bubbles in frustration, rising from the water as my lungs burn for air.

Was it arrogance? Or was it contempt—contempt for Jazreal—that nearly led me to ruin?

My abilities are superior. That much is undeniable.

Jazreal fought precisely as I anticipated: skilled, competent, but ultimately beneath me.

It was my scorn for him that blinded me—my refusal to see his cunning.

He used everything, even the ash beneath my feet, to his advantage.

And the bloodroot... a reckless act of self-destruction, a desperate sacrifice of life itself.

But in that moment, he proved the depths of his resolve.

As endless and unfathomable as the molten core of Scarn.

That is true power—not just strength of muscle and bone, but the will to sacrifice, the ability to outthink.

Yes!

I see it clearly now. Jazreal’s words echo through my mind, his form drifting like ash on the wind: “Only a fool fights his opponent where he is strongest.”

This is the lesson I must absorb. I was a fool, relying solely on brute force. An opponent of Jazreal’s caliber will always find ways to counter raw power. I must be more than my strength—I must become cunning, calculated.

Because in the end, it was cunning—not strength—that eked out my sliver of victory.

Ignixis often speaks of my father’s mastery of more than brute force.

He wielded a tactician’s mind, leading entire clans to crushing victories across the galaxy, as well as on the battlefield.

Pride blooms within me, lifting my spirit at the thought.

I will become like my father, for he is me, and I am him.

I carry his noble legacy, the true heir destined to lead our great people. All that remains is for me to seize it.

Soft footsteps break the stillness, snapping me from my thoughts. The musky, alluring scent of the human females wrinkles my nose. I groan, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the bubbling geyser.

How do they keep finding me?

A pointless question. I despise being seen like this—weakened, bruised, and vulnerable. My invincible aura now diminished. Who knows how the fickle females will react when only fear keeps them bonded to me?

No one fears the feeble.

And then there are the endless questions they bring. Grating, ceaseless. They almost surpass Ignixis in their gas-cloudiness. Where is that old fool? What would he make of these events?

“This place is massive!” Princesa’s voice echoes off the cavernous black walls, mixing with the dripping water and the distant sizzle of lava.

“Yeah...” Sandra starts, wonder filling her tone. “Oh no. There’s bloody lava in here too! No wonder it’s so hot!”

Their inane concerns are oddly endearing. Like they exist in a different reality—one untouched by the burdens I carry. Whimsical in their ignorance of the dangers that lurk all around them.

I keep my eyes closed, listening to their footsteps growing louder, picturing them as they draw nearer.

“It’s not that hot, and it’s really beautiful,” Princesa says, her voice softening as though she’s taking it all in.

“I swear, if you sat on the sun, you’d still say it wasn’t hot. Must be your lizard skin,” Sandra mocks, followed by a giggle.

“Very funny, GREG!” Princesa snaps, her voice tight. “It’s not lizard skin; it’s called not being a ginger.”

“Ouch! That’s low, even for you, Lexie,” Sandra grumbles.

“Don’t mess with the best,” Princesa retorts, sounding smug.

They’re close now. I can hear every step, every breath, the beat of their hearts. The urge to submerge beneath the waters returns, stronger than before. But hiding is for cowards. So, I remain motionless, listening to their frivolous chatter, wondering if they’ll ever stop.

“God, I’m already sweating,” Sandra groans.

Princesa halts. “You want to go back to the entrance?” she offers, concern edging her voice.

I recall the training chamber, when Sandra collapsed, overcome by heat exhaustion.

Unable to bear the scorching heat from Scarn’s molten veins.

Few outsiders can. This land rejects the weak, like Elerium filtered from rock, leaving only the strong and the useful.

I carried her then to this mountain’s entrance, where the wind howls free from outside, away from the magma below.

There she recovered and now spends most of her time.

“No, I’m fine...” Sandra says, and the sound of their footsteps ceases. A pause lingers. “No, really, I’m fine. I learned my lesson last time.”

“If you say so,” Princesa sighs, and the soft scuffs from their absurdly small feet resume. “Where’s the big bore, anyway? Didn’t that guy say he was down here?”

A betrayer?

“Dracoth!” Sandra gasps, excitement breaking through her tone. My eyes snap open, and I see her small hands fly to her mouth, her shock unmistakable. “Oh God, you’re hurt,” she exclaims, rushing to the edge of the geyser, her wide blue eyes full of concern.

“I’ll live,” I say, gritting my teeth as the words whistle through swollen lips and busted nose.

Princesa turns, not showing concern like Sandra, but a grimace, taking in my battered form.

A fresh blessing of Arawnoth pressed into her forehead.

Interesting. She attends the rituals while Sandra does not.

It’s difficult to imagine Princesa sitting quietly in reverence without her usual scornful mocking.

“You look like you’ve been playing naked paintball—with boulders instead of pellets,” Princesa says in a contemptuous tone, though her unfamiliar words mean little—as usual.

I sit up in the steamy water, forcing myself to project strength, already disliking their concern and derision. Let them bask in my power—my aura of divine destiny radiating out in waves.

“Yep, bruised like an old banana,” Princesa sighs, shaking her head.

Banana?

Pah! Even with her new strength and devotion to Arawnoth, she shows no respect. Disappointing.

Sandra kneels closer, peering down at me. “Ack, look what he did to your face,” she says softly, concern widening her blue eyes. “Aren’t you in pain? Maybe we should get you to one of those pod things.” She glances at Princesa, who only shrugs.

Their presence stirs conflicting emotions in me, more uncomfortable than my injuries.

Sandra’s pity disgusts me—as if I’m some helpless newborn borack calf yelping to be coddled.

Yet, at the same time, her concern for my well-being is alluring and oddly.

.. pleasing. An enigma like everything these females bring.

“I heed the sacred words. No healing pods.” I lean my head back against the edge of the pool, my eyes drifting up to the stalactites above, jagged like the fangs of a great beast. To use healing pods on Scarn is frowned upon, forbidden, except in the direst situations.

Such as Jazreal's injuries.

“That’s so dumb,” Princesa scoffs. “Are you seriously telling me you could use one of those pods right now and be completely healed, but you won’t because... reasons?”

My eyes snap to hers, catching the disbelief etched on her face. “You attend the rituals. You know my reasons,” I reply, my voice firm.

“No, I don’t!” Princesa blurts her lie out shamelessly, touching the mark on her forehead as her gaze flickers to Sandra, before snapping back. “I warned you about that guy, and you were all like, ‘ YOU DOUBT ME, FEMALE ?’” she finishes, mocking my voice in that annoying tone of hers.

As if her warning would have changed anything. It was my destiny to battle Jazreal, as inevitable as Arawnoth’s wrath.

“I was victorious,” I remind her, my voice hard.

“Well, your victory looks a lot like you got hit by a bus,” Princesa retorts, folding her arms beneath her large breasts.

Infuriating female!

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Sandra interjects softly, her eyes warm, sparkling with the flickering glow of the molten lava. “Sorry we missed the end. I... I couldn’t handle the choking wind.” Her gaze falls to her hands.

Her concern surprises me—soft and unusual . Have these ancient mountains ever echoed words so sweet and heartfelt?