Page 72

Dracoth

Hunt

S carn’s ashen winds tear through the gaps in my armor, whipping my short crimson hair and blurring my vision.

The landscape stretches before me—a vast, desolate expanse of cracked earth and sizzling lava, choked by blackened skies.

It is harsh, unforgiving, and magnificent.

This is home. Only the hard and the strong can survive here, and we, the Magaxus, are the strongest.

The same cannot be said for the feeble cowards cowering like varmints in the vast, mountainous holds I’ve visited. Every excuse is as pathetic and hollow as their frightened hearts. Pitiful. Only a precious few agreed to take up the call to follow my glorious destiny.

I am War Chieftain by blood and soon by law, yet they deny me.

Bah! I should have expected no better. These lands have been picked over like a carcass left in the sun, scavenged until little remains. Many have answered Krogoth the traitor’s call only some days ago, promising a new future of peace and regrowth.

Peace ? He lies, for what peace requires an army?

Krogoth craves war. He merely wishes to change opponent. It’s in our blood, burning like rivers of fire. To deny that is to spit in the face of Arawnoth himself. When I break Krogoth, it will not just be my glorious revenge—it will be divine justice.

I inhale deeply, drawing the searing, ash-laden air into my lungs.

It burns, but it fuels me, driving my relentless pace as I march back toward my holding.

A loathsome concern gnaws at the back of my mind and has only been growing stronger with each thudding footstep.

It’s the females—it always is. How they irk me endlessly.

Even when they appear submissive and pleasant something untoward erupts.

I long to see them again... if only to ensure they have not attempted any foolishness in my absence.

Princesa especially—her presence lingers like a shadow, always watching, always scheming, searching for weakness.

Her eyes, sharp as an arrohawk’s, miss nothing.

Admirable, if not for her maddening unpredictability.

She is a whirlwind, beautiful yet treacherous, a perfect storm of chaos.

And then there is Sandra. My heart clenches at the thought of her.

The memory of that moment in the geysers still burns in my blood—with passion, but also disgust. How did I allow her charm—her petite, fragile beauty—to slip past my guard and break the fortress of my resolve?

Yet what it revealed is something so disturbing I struggle to bear the shame even now—females repulse me.

A terrible curse, a maddening contradiction, that I’m simultaneously drawn to their beauty and recoil in revulsion the moment I act.

How is this possible? I’ve never heard of such a thing, meaning I must be uniquely defective in some way.

The shame of it festers, as though I am flawed in some deep, irreparable way.

It’s almost enough to turn me away from the females. But the Mortakin-Tok must be completed—no matter the cost. If I must swallow a throat full of bile and pinch my nose shut, then so be it. My will shall be done. The power promised is mine and mine alone.

I swear it on my noble blood!

As I near the immense stone jaws of my hold, looming in the distance like a predator awaiting its prey, I hope the females lie safely within, watched over by my aged brethren.

But suddenly, that gnawing concern lurking in my mind turns sharp as a claw slicing through my thoughts.

I halt in my tracks, eyes narrowing, perplexed by this strange new affliction.

A creeping numbness seeps into my extremities, slithering from the tips of my fingers and crawling toward my heart like some loathsome creature burrowing under my skin. I shake my hands, trying to force warmth and feeling back into them, but the cold persists—an unnatural, bone-deep chill.

What new curse is this? Or is it some kind of illness or viral attack?

Yet the physical sensations pale in comparison to the turmoil twisting my thoughts—emotions not my own invade my mind: fear, despair.

Foreign and repugnant, as unnatural to me as courage is to a Glaseroid.

I loathe it! My fangs bare in outrage, seeking to lash out and expunge that which shouldn’t exist in my mind—a place of unbreakable fire and resolve.

I will crush whatever dares assail me! I promise, my blood seething with Rush, expelling the reviled numbing chill from me. My mind turns to the source, somehow knowing it comes from far to the north, somewhere in Clan Virennix territory—Aroth.

I groan, the image of that endless frozen wasteland forming in my mind. The white, lifeless tundras. The howling wind, sharp and cold, anathema to my molten soul. And then a realization hits me like a hammer blow:

This is the bonds doing!

Excitement explodes in my chest, my heart rumbling like a volcano ready to erupt. At last, the bond has revealed itself! The Mortakin-Tok can be completed! My power... my destiny... it’s within reach. But the emotions twisting in my mind—they mean only one thing.

My female—whoever she is—is in danger.

Without hesitation, I change course, racing toward the north, wishing I could go faster, not burdened by the stifling laws that prevent the use of gliders within clan territory!

Every second counts. If the sensations plaguing my mind are true, then my female is close to succumbing to the icy death grip of Aroth.

I set a blistering pace, my massive limbs tearing through the air, sweat glistening over my skin.

Each breath draws in the familiar, comforting heat of Scarn’s ash-laden winds.

Soon enough, I’ll be longing for this heat again.

Clan Virennix inhabits a land of treacherous sheets of white that burn the eyes to look upon and a bitter cold that seeps deep, freezing your very bones.

A place I’ve only visited once—and never wanted to visit again.

Time passes in a fevered blur, torn between the gnawing concern twisting my gut and the elation that soon I will have answers. Already, the landscape shifts beneath my feet. The mountains loom higher, their slopes cloaked in deepening layers of snow.

The wind howls like a beast, no longer carrying the scent of ash, but a sharp, biting chill that stings my lungs. My breath escapes in heavy clouds of vapor, the frigid air struggling to contain the heat radiating from me.

Ahead, the stone towers of Clan Magaxus hunters pierce the sky, their jagged silhouettes marking the border. Sentries stand motionless on their perches, long spears in hand, their arcweave armor gleaming beneath the muted sunlight. Their warvisors hang from their belts.

I hope the Virennix hunters are as lax with their warvisors—if not, my intrusion will be discovered in moments. Not that their detection would stop me—only delay the inevitable. But time is crucial. Pointless questions cannot be tolerated—nor will they.

A Magaxus hunter salutes as I pass beneath his tower, slamming a fist to his armored chest. I return the gesture with a single hard thump to my own. He recognizes me by the ashen hue of my armor, streaked with red and orange—the mark of my clan.

I forge ahead, the ground beneath my feet now blanketed in a thick layer of snow.

The wind grows fiercer, colder, and I struggle to recall the layout of the Virennix hunter patrols.

Soon, snow-capped cliffs loom ahead. From there, the Virennix hunters likely watch and wait, clad in their white armor.

Detecting them with the naked eye will be difficult.

I equip my warvisor. New awareness floods my senses as I shift through the vision spectrums. The world of ice and snow shifts through deep filters of blue, greens, and reds.

Three Virennix hunters flare into view, outlined in warm orange and red. Their breath—plumes of yellow mist—hangs in the air. Two crouch atop the cliffs as expected; the third lies buried beneath the snow, silent, patient, waiting for the perfect moment. Stealth. How I loathe to employ it.

If I crest the hills and cliffs, I will be detected.

There must be another way. I scan the terrain, shifting again through the light spectrums, trying to penetrate the frozen winds and swirling snow that obscure all.

In one warvisor filter, the fuzzy details fade away, leaving white outlines of paths heightened against an almost black background.

There!

An ice crevasse is revealed, narrow but cutting beneath the cliffs like a hidden artery.

It should take me under and through the cliffs.

Snow already coats my ashen armor, and beneath that, thin layers of ice are beginning to seep into my skin like a thousand tiny blades.

Still, I press on through the soft snow, each step dragging as my great weight sinks me deep.

Eventually, I reach the entrance of the crevasse, my nose wrinkling not just from the snow tickling but from a sour smell of something unfamiliar wafting from strange splotches of yellow mucus, frozen against the ice like ancient emblems. I push through the narrow gap, seeing towering sheets of blue ice like a frozen ocean pressing in from either side, forcing me into a tight, cautious path.

The smell grows stronger with each step, reminiscent of death, rank and fresh. The snow crunches underfoot, my senses on high alert, yet my warvisor shows no living creature nearby. My foot slides forward, and as I press down, the snow gives way, like there’s nothing solid beneath.

I almost fall forward, thrown off balance, but my clawed hand shoots into the frozen walls, anchoring me just as the ground crumbles away.

The ice burns the molten skin of my hand, but I hardly notice, distracted by the snow disappearing beneath my feet, falling off in clumps to a yawning black-blue abyss below.

Treacherous Virennix! This crevasse may contain dozens of such traps.