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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. Mycrimson 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 withthis.” 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—”