Page 96

Dracoth

Mortakin-Kai

I stand in the ritual chamber, deep within the volcanic bowels of Scarn, the heart of my clan.

The air thrums with heat and purpose, the anticipation in my chest rising like the molten geyser hissing at the room’s far end.

Pride straightens my shoulders as my Magaxus brethren pack the chamber, their expectant gazes fixed on me.

Anticipation moves me to clutch Princesa tighter. She turns her gaze away from the packed attendees of my Magaxus brethren to look at me, a tired smile painting her full lips. She’s excited too, yet beneath that, I can sense the faint tremor of doubt through our bond.

“Have no fear,” I rumble, peering down into her eyes that shimmer like beautiful pools of mercury, seeking to bolster her resolve.

Amusing she would show fear now, after everything.

Together we achieved the impossible—the Mortakin-Tok.

A vision that was a trial unlike anything I would’ve ever expected, a strange twisted reflection of my people battling against the Machine God.

A grotesque mockery of Magaxus strength, an affront to our noble bloodline.

What lesson did the Gods seek to instill? What meaning lies hidden in its bitter scorn? Perhaps it was simple: we must always remain strong, in body and soul. My fists tighten at the thought, fangs creeping out of sneering lips.

Yes, it’s obvious. Those so-called Klendathians were softer than snarlbroc jelly. This is our future if we choose the path of peace—Krogoth’s path—a destiny of decadence, decay, and disgrace.

Princesa resumes her anxious glances through the busy crowd of the old and crippled Magaxus, as if searching for something or someone.

“I’m not afraid,” she says, though her gaze drifts, while stroking the sleepy, bloated cyloillar curled on her shoulder. “I was just... hoping Sandra would be here for this.” Her voice lowers, stabbing me with an icy claw of regret for my Mortakin-Kis.

Sandra, the pleasant female with hair like the glowing lava that threads these blackened cavern walls.

It’s a shame she isn’t here—for Princesa’s sake.

Familiar companionship might ease her doubt with comfort.

Yet the only information regarding her location was that she sought to explore Klendathor with the aid of a snarlbroc farmer—a weak male—churning unease in my gut.

In truth, I no longer need Sandra, but still, some buried part of me wishes for her safety.

My gaze sweeps over the crowd, towering above the chatter of my brethren, hoping to glimpse Sandra.

Instead, I see the eager faces of my Magaxus warriors, talking amongst themselves.

It pleases me to see their spirits raised higher, unlike after my battle against Jazreal.

That memory still lingers like a raw wound, the hollow silence that greeted my victory threatening to ignite the Rush in my veins once more.

Near the colossal statue of Arawnoth that dominates this ritual chamber, I spot Elder Garzum and Jazreal seated together, their postures stiff, their eyes sharp as swooping arrohawks.

They watch me, their whispered words a silent challenge.

I know their hearts—no love burns there for me or the future I bring.

Should they dare challenge me here, on this day of all days—the celebration of my Mortakin-Tok—I will twist their spines into shattered fragments and hang their broken remains on my rattling belt of bone.

That Jazreal appears hale is a surprise. His hands and wrists, once shattered, now appear completely restored—likely the work of a healing pod.

As our eyes meet, his emerald gaze hardens, mirroring my own resolve. It stirs a conflicted feeling within me, a bitter brew of admiration and unease. What a boon it would be to win him to my side. Or perhaps I have been a fool, letting a deadly vipertail slither too long in my midst.

The uncertainty irritates me, fueling my growing impatience. “Come, Princesa,” I rumble, clasping her delicate hand in mine. “It’s time.”

The crowd parts as we move through them, whispers and quiet murmurs falling to reverent silence. Respect radiates from the gathering, though it is mixed with unease.

The heat from the bubbling fountain of lava warms my molten skin, the simmering hues dancing over our features like we are the flames of creation itself—the glorious rebirth of my people.

Above, the towering figure of Arawnoth looms. His veins of jagged stone pulse with glowing magma, and his eyes—great orbs of searing fire—bear silent witness to the masses. Fitting, for it was the Molten God who led us to this moment, to this precipice of rebirth.

Princesa’s fingers drift absently over the scored blessing etched into her skin, the mark faintly aglow in Arawnoth’s presence. Her posture is regal, her silvery gaze sweeping over the crowd with measured precision. She radiates strength, the War Chieftainess she will soon become.

“This is going to be like ruling a retirement home,” Princesa comments with a hint of distaste, squeezed through a tight-lipped smile. “Or on second thought, maybe a nursing home,” she adds, her gaze lingering on an unfortunate disfigured warrior missing three of his limbs.

Her lack of respect for once-proud warriors irks me. But her words echo my own thoughts. These are the broken remnants of an honorable people. Their hearts now beat feebly, lulled by defeat and the false songs of peace. A hollow hymn started by Krogoth, maintained by pathetic Elders like Garzum.

“Above Argon Six await the true warriors of Klendathor,” I whisper, leaning close to her ear, savoring the brush of her silky blonde hair against my face. “Our future destination,” I promise, feeling the rush of excitement swell within me.

Her lips curl into a pleased smile as she nods, her beautiful silver eyes gleaming with approval.

Satisfied, I raise my arms high, commanding the crowd’s attention. The murmurs cease, every eye fixed on us, breaths held in anticipation. I am no orator, and I need not be. My authority speaks louder than any words.

“Hear me, Magaxus warriors!” I roar, my voice booming through the chamber, echoing against molten-veined walls. My crimson eyes blaze like the rivers of fire flowing around us. “We return!”

The crowd stirs, and I reach down to lift Princesa into the crook of my arm. She squeals softly, startled but not displeased, settling instinctively into what has become her second home.

“From the great temple of Lanaisor—victorious,” I proclaim, my voice ringing with triumph.

But instead of the jubilant roar I expect, a ripple of confusion spreads through the crowd. Whispers and uncertain murmurs sweep over the warriors, their expressions clouded as if a virus bomb had detonated among them.

My frown deepens, disappointment digging within. “We completed the Mortakin-Tok!” I declare, my voice a molten growl. “The Gods bless our union—our coming glory.” My arm tightens around Princesa as if to shield her from their doubt.

At last, the hesitation breaks, replaced by thunderous cheers. Fists pound against armored chests, and cries of “Dracoth!” and “Magaxus!” resound through the chamber. A few even dare to shout “Chieftain!”—a title that sends pride surging through my veins like molten fire.

But then, Garzum rises.

The Elder’s scaled black-red robes flutter in the steamy haze as he raises his hands to quiet the crowd. My molten gaze locks onto him, and I watch the old fool approach like a vipertail slithering from the shadows. He stands before me, daring to challenge me here—now!

“Young Dracoth,” Garzum inclines his partially blackened face. “You sully the ancient traditions with this .” He spits the last word, his arm sweeping toward Princesa and me as if to erase us with a single gesture.

The crowd stills, their roaring jubilation evaporating into a thick, oppressive silence.

“Your Mortakin-Tok claims,” Garzum continues, his ruby-red eyes simmering with outrage, “must be verified before any declarations can be made.”

The audacity of his challenge stokes my fury. My lips curl into a snarl, and I loom over him, crimson eyes burning with murderous intent. “You dare name me a liar?” I rumble, my voice a warning growl. “You dare question my—”

“Verified by who?” Princesa injects, her voice sharp and unwavering, flashing me a knowing look before returning to Garzum.

The tension in the air shifts. All eyes fall on her as she sits upright in my arm, her gaze fixed on Garzum with cold, calculating precision.

“By you?” she asks, her silver eyes narrowing. “By them?” She gestures toward the crowd, her tone dripping with disdain.

Garzum falters, a flicker of doubt rippling across his runic face. “No,” he admits reluctantly, his voice quieter now. “By those who have already completed the Mortakin-Tok.”

“Oh, really?” Princesa snaps like a hunter’s trap. A surge of pride swells in my chest at her strength, her resolve—once my burden—now my cutting weapon.

It pleases me. She pleases me.

“And the last were Krogoth and Rocks, weren’t they?” she presses, her fingers absently stroking the clacking Todd perched on her shoulder. “And they’re gone now, right?”

I nod, my silent confirmation sending murmurs rippling through the crowd.

“Seems—”

“There are others,” Garzum interrupts, desperation creeping into his voice. “Some aged ones among us still, child.”

“I am not your child, Elder,” Princesa snaps, sneering as she shifts forward in my arm, nearly slipping free in her fury. “I’m blessed by Arawnoth himself!”

With a single motion, she unclasps the ties of her tunic, fully baring the glowing brand on her chest and neck. The runes pulse like molten coals, a reflection of her righteous fury and my blazing adoration.

Her voice rises, thunderous and commanding. “This is his mark,” she declares, her fingers trailing over the burning runes with deliberate, almost seductive precision. “He chose me to lead your people. I am his blessed daughter—not yours, Garzum. Arawnoth’s !”