“Never,” I reply, trying to keep a straight face.
But the sight of his overly serious expression, combined with this hazy heat and surreal situation, sends a strange giddiness through me. I can’t help myself.
“Actually, yeah, I do.” A grin spreads across my face as I raise my fists, rotating them in mocking maelstroms of destruction. “Bring it on!”
I inch closer, throwing out playful punches, making silly swooshing sounds. Dracoth frowns as I draw closer to his towering physique, feeling like a child.
“Take this!” I shout, surprised he hasn’t moved yet, my punch slapping against his rock-hard abs. “No match for me!” I add, and for a split second, I swear I catch the faintest flicker of a smile curling his lips. The shock of it stops my next punch mid-swing.
“Has fear gripped your fragile spine, female?” Dracoth rumbles, crouching suddenly with his enormous arms spread wide like he’s about to deliver the world’s biggest hug.
My heart skips a beat in excited panic as his hands dart out, jostling me like a beautiful ragdoll in a spin cycle.
“Ahh!” I shriek between laughter, forced to retreat from his immense ruffling. “Sandra, help!” I call out.
Sandra emits a high-pitched war cry as she joins the fray with a charge. She doesn’t make it far before Dracoth snatches her up, his massive hands effortlessly rendering her defenses useless as she squirms and giggles in protest.
Now’s my chance!
With Dracoth distracted, I charge at him again, my arms flailing, letting out a mock battle cry. But, in one smooth motion, he spins around, and once again I’m caught in his merciless poking and prodding.
“Ahh!” I giggle uncontrollably, trying to escape the assault, my limbs flailing as I stumble away to regroup. “Sandra, get him!” I shout, breathless.
Sandra, panting and flushed, smiles weakly but stops suddenly, her hand pressed to her sweaty forehead.
“Sandra!” I shout, my heart racing as her face pales and her eyes roll back. Before she collapses to the ground, Dracoth catches her with ease in his strong arms.
“Is she okay?” I rush over, panic rising in my chest.
Dracoth places a hand over her forehead.
“She wilts under Scarn’s embrace.”
Chapter 32
Dracoth
Contender
Thewindhowlslikethe roar of an unleashed venefex, carrying with it scorching ash that clings to my skin and stings my eyes. My nose burns with dryness, and each swallow scratches my throat raw. It isn’t fear—no, that pathetic weakness was burned from me the day Krogoth stripped the hair from my scalp, marking me with shame. This is my future, ripe for the taking. All I need to do is reach out—reach out and crush Jazreal’s throat.
The dark ash dances like fluttering spirits of vengeance, reminding me of how harsh Scarn is. It’s no wonder we Magaxus stand as the pinnacle of our great people. This land rejects the weak; only the strong can endure here—and I am the strongest.Soon, all will bear witness to this truth, as certain as the rising purple sun.
I glance toward the huddled crowd, their fur robes pulled tight, faces hidden behind veils to shield them from the biting wind. Meanwhile, I stand proud, bare-chested—a true son of Scarn. I do not wilt—I embrace it, defying weakness. The wind whips across the mountaintop like a malevolent god trying to sweep away all that is unworthy, while purple lightning splits the sky in jagged flashes, each followed by the thunderous boom of the heavens.
Even the Gods bear witness today. Yet, they are offered a poor spectacle. Jazreal is a fine warrior, one of the elites. As Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers, he is the zenith of their might and leadership. But I tower above him as he towers above the Prospects. I will break him for daring to block my destiny—a crime against Arawnoth himself, whose molten will flows through my veins. I am his chosen vessel of wrath. Jazreal will not endure the flames of my fury.
Still, the faces of the old veterans give me pause. They stand at the edges of the arena, just outside the circle of stone. It is an insult—unspoken, but clear. They distance themselves, watching with a mixture of fear and begrudging respect. They do not support me—not in their hearts. Those hearts have turned soft, corrupted by Garzum’s poison—Krogoth’s conceit.
I know them all. They are aging relics who once proudly guided me to spill blood and carve out victory in the name of the Magaxus. Now they turn their faces away from me. It twists my heart with rank betrayal, but I will not show it. They are old and broken in both body and spirit, denied a fitting death on the battlefield. They seek the easier path, a life of comfort—toothless and senile. That is their disgraceful future.
No, the true Magaxus—those awaiting my return above Argon Six, the young and strong whose hearts thunder for blood andglory—they will rejoice at my coming. I will lead them, as my father did before me, an unstoppable force scorching the universe with our power.
“Dracoth,” soft voices call out, faint as whispers carried through the howling wind and booming thunder.
Princesa and Sandra. They stand behind me, waving colorful volcanic mosses in their hands, leaping on the spot.
“Dracoth, Dracoth, if he can’t do it, no one can! Woo!” they cheer, their voices swallowed by the ash that sweeps over them, forcing them to bury their pretty faces deep into their fur coats.
