“Beneath the frozen sheets of northern Aroth, I battled this sneachir,” I declare, my booming voice echoing through the cavernous hall, resonating like war drums. “With nothing but my claws and the divine gifts Arawnoth has bestowed upon me—his chosen avatar of war.”
The hunters advance, their faces taut with effort. From the crowd, cheers erupt, and a few rush forward to aid in carryingthe massive monster. The mood shifts to one of jubilant conquest, spreading like wildfire through the assembly and lifting my spirits with an uncharacteristic levity.
“This sneachir sought to devour me, thinking I was weak—a mere male,” I continue, my tone mocking as I let the pause hang for effect. “Perhaps it thought I hailed from Clan Draxxus!” The jest elicits uproarious laughter from the crowd.
“But I stand before you as one ofyourown—Magaxus, strong and proud. I fought, I bled, and I tore this beast to shreds to win my Mortakin-Kis.” I gesture toward Princesa, who no longer radiates annoyance but stands tall, regal as a goddess, a knowing smile of admiration lighting her face.
The sneachir’s immense body winds its way through the ritual chamber, its fanged head finally reaching the dais, while its tail still snakes through the entrance tunnel. Bending down, I retrieve the folded scale cloaks resting in its monstrous jaws—prepared for this moment, my declaration.
“Only I, the pinnacle of our Clan, could have triumphed. Only I can fulfill Arawnoth’s will!” With a flourish, I unfurl the larger of the cloaks. Its white scales shimmer with radiant blue hues, streaked with charred black lines that lash like frozen flames.
My clan looks on with expectant, eager eyes. They long for this, as much as I do—to be led by strength.
“I am—”
I sweep the cloak over my immense shoulders, clasping its metal fasteners to my arcweave armor. Its weight settles upon me like destiny made tangible, an extension of my very being.
“The War Chieftain!” I declare, pounding my fist against my chest, the scale cloak fluttering with my movement, its weight already familiar as if I had always worn it.
The veterans of my clan erupt into raucous cheering, their fists pumping the air with fervor. The wave of their radiant enthusiasm washes over me like searing lashes of flame. Armsraised to the heavens, I bask in their adulation, a living echo of the statue of Arawnoth that towers behind me. Good—they accept my inevitable rise.
Yet, one obstacle remains: the pretender Drexios. But there is no doubt—I will crush him.
“War Chieftain!” the crowd roars, their voices blending into a magnificent cacophony. Each cry is fuel to my molten heart, carrying me one step closer to claiming the mantle of my great father. My gaze sweeps across the mass of warriors, drinking in their eager expressions, swelling my pride.
But my eyes halt on Jazreal. Arms folded, his steely glare pierces through the celebration. No joy there, only judgment. Beside him, Garzum slumps forward, his downcast eyes searching the ground as if it holds the answers only I can provide.
Lifted by the moment, I turn to Princesa, her radiant smile lighting the molten cavern. I unfurl her cloak, its weight feather-light in my hands. She’s earned this, my beautiful, fierce, maddeningly clever female. Yet as I approach, a frown wrinkles her soft brows.
“Eww. Dracoth, I’m not wearing that...thing!” she exclaims, recoiling. Her gaze flicks between me and the scaled cloak, disdain clear in her silver eyes. “It’s filthy.” She raises her hands as if to ward me off.
Irritating female!
“You will,” I assert, brushing aside her feeble protests. Todd scurries from her shoulder to the safety of her arms, his many limbs a blur of motion. Even the bloated cyloillar understands—shewillwear this cloak. It is her destiny.
“Stop, Drac—”
“This cloak marks you as a chieftainess—myWar Chieftainess,” I cut her off, draping the shimmering white-blue scales over her supple shoulders. My fingers linger, savoringthe moment, the heat of our bond rising between us. “As I promised,” I growl, my crimson eyes blazing down at her.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so!” Her intoxicating smile returns, banishing her earlier resistance. She tucks the cloak snugly around her, hurrying to adjust it. “Hurry, I want to be Chieftainess-ified!” she titters, her laughter a melody that stokes the embers of my soul.
My fingers brush her scorched brand as I clasp the golden fasteners, leaving trails of stoked embers in their wake.
“Hmm,” she mumbles, grimacing as I step back, admiring her regal beauty. “Not bad... not bad.” She preens, swishing the cloak dramatically as she inspects it from every angle. “The colors are ugh, though. It’s going to be a nightmare finding a matching outfit.”
I frown, uncertain if she’s mocking me or being sincere—not for the first time.
“It isyouwho must match the cloak,” I challenge, my tone firm, hoping to instill in her the weight of this moment, this responsibility.
“Is that right, Mr. Frowny Face?” she retorts, her silver eyes flashing with mischief. “Don’t worry—you know there’s nothingIcan’t handle.”
She strides forward, confident and graceful, like a matriarchal venefex surveying her domain. Her posture is straight yet fluid, each step deliberate as she slowly scans the expectant crowd. Joy surges through me as I watch her command their attention with natural poise and leadership. It’s amusing how she can inspire such contempt in one moment and, in the next, intense admiration—at least in me.
My chaotic beauty.
With a playful poke of her finger, Todd scampers back up her arm to settle on her shoulder, his many limbs curling into a comfortable rest. Princesa flicks her shimmering cloak overone shoulder, her silver eyes sweeping the crowd. The restless murmurs fade into a heavy, expectant silence as her presence seems to fill the space.
“Warriors of Clan Magaxus,” she begins, her voice ringing out clear and commanding, drawing everyone’s attention, a stark contrast to her tiny size. “You look to him,” she says, gesturing toward me, “Your War Chieftain, as your leader. But you’ll find me beside him—no fragile human, no weakling to be coddled.”
