What could it be, then?
The second time my powers worked, I was just fuming with rage—some kind of need is the key?
Suddenly, Dracoth halts, jerking me from my thoughts. My eyes snap to attention with annoyance, scanning the frozen trees swaying, the twinkling fluttering ice crystals dancing like glass ballerinas.
“Draxxus hunter,” he mutters, nodding toward the trees ahead. I squint through the icy branches, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Still, there’s something in his voice—a cold edge that tightens my chest with unease.
“Get off and stay close,” he orders, his massive form already sinking down, kneeling onto the frost-covered red grass.
Draxxus? Great! They’re the bad guys, right?
Chapter 42
Dracoth
Hunter
Princesaclimbsfrommyback, taking her pleasant softness with her. She lets out a small, audible sigh—disappointment echoes through the bond between us. She grows more confident, more in tune with her nature—our glorious destiny.
But first comes the Draxxus hunter.
I spot him standing tall and proud upon his high branch, spear in hand, the bones of aurodons, hydraliths, and arrohawks lining the base of his perch. I stride toward him with Princesa in tow, making no attempt to hide. He already spotted us long ago. The warvisor donning his face leaves no doubt.
Still, the Virennix hunters didn’t dare stop me. Will this Draxxus hunter be any different? I’m no outlaw. By all rights,they should be bowing before me, the rightful War Chieftain. Soon, they will.
“Oh, I see him now,” Princesa says, shading her eyes as she peers up into the frozen canopy. “How the hell did he get all the way up there?”
She’s amusing with her inane questions, marveling at the simplest things.
“He climbed,” I reply, stating the obvious.
“No way,” she mutters in awe. “By himself?”
“Yes,” I say, eyes still fixed on the hunter. “The Draxxus live among the trees. They are decadent, surrounded by abundance.” My voice hardens. Clan Magaxus and Clan Draxxus have a fierce rivalry that goes back to a conflict before my time. I don’t hate them but see them for what they are—weak.
“You don’t say...” Princesa trails off, her gaze falling, likely plotting some fresh human madness.
“You’ve got that look again,” she says as I sense her eyes scrutinizing my face. “The ‘Mr. Frowny Face’ look. If you wait until we figure out these powers, I can help you,” she offers.
My eyes flick to hers in surprise, searching for some hidden barb or jest. But I find only sincere resolve in the depths of her mirror-like eyes. There’s a flutter of respect and something else soaring in my chest—a thing once foreign and unknown, which now torments me constantly. A softness, a need... desire. So abhorrent to my molten soul that every time I act upon it, I balk, almost retching.
How can Arawnoth bind us together yet fill me with revulsion that rejects such feelings?
“There is no need,” I grunt in answer, waving up at the Draxxus hunter, whose masked face follows us like a stalking venefex. He makes no move; his inaction speaks louder than any words. My fists clench in anticipation.
“If you say so,” Princesa mutters, frustration tingling at the edges of her voice. “Oh, look—he’s falling.” She gasps, pointing up at the hunter.
He’s not falling—he’s descending with deadly grace, moving through the enormous branches as if born and raised among these frosted trees. I sweep my arm, silently signaling Princesa to stand back. My blood stirs; the thrill of an impending fight sears my veins.
The hunter lands with a solid thud, armored boots crushing the frosted leaves beneath him. He straightens, standing tall with an air of pride, but he pales compared to me—as all do. Brave but foolish.
“You bar my path, hunter?” I challenge, gesturing toward his pathetic form.
“I do.” The hunter barks a brief laugh, as if this interruption is a trivial joke.
My frown deepens as he slides the warvisor from his face with a smooth, practiced motion, clipping it to his belt with theatrical flair.
This one plays the part of a warrior.
