Dracoth’s gaze lingers on me, his expression unreadable. Normally, his silence would irritate me, but through our bond, his sense of resolve stokes higher—my words taking root, his determination burning brighter.
I squeeze myself closer against his chest, loving that he listens to me, that he’s strong enough to face his burdens instead of running from them. Not like those loser ex-boyfriends I wasted my time on.
He doesn’t respond, his focus returning to the path ahead, his claws slicing through the underbrush with ease. Above us, the bird-dog circles back, letting out another high-pitched bark as if chiding us for being too slow.
“Alright, alright, we’re coming!” I call after it, rolling my eyes.
The forest grows quieter as we follow. The dense foliage thins with every step, the vibrant red leaves giving way to patches of bare earth. A strange stillness settles over the air.
“Dracoth, do you feel that?” I whisper, the hairs on my arms standing on end. There’s a weight here, pressing down on us, like the world itself is holding its breath.
He grunts in agreement, his strides slowing. “The Gods are near.”
The trees finally part, revealing a wide, unnaturally clear ring of land. My jaw drops as I take in the sight before us.
The Temple of Lanaisor rises like a monolith from the barren ground. My eyes trace the spiraling central tower at the building’s heart, so immensely tall it reaches such heights that it vanishes into the clouds above. Its moss-covered statues smile serenely, as if welcoming us into their ancient embrace. The intricate stone patterns of its windows catch the faint light filtering through the purple clouds above, casting eerie yet beautiful shadows across the clearing.
“Whoa,” I breathe, the sheer presence of the place stealing the words from my mouth. It’s not just enormous—it’s alive, pulsing with an energy that’s both primal and ancient.
Dracoth stops, jostling me, his massive frame stiff as his eyes roam the temple. “Time to embrace our destiny,” he rumbles, his voice low and reverent.
High above, the bird-dog lets out one final bark, circling the soaring tower before perching on one of the mossy statues, its head tilted as if expecting us to follow.
“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself. My heart pounds with excitement. “What are we waiting for?”
Chapter 47
Dracoth
Mortakin-Kai
Istandintheritualchamber, 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.”
