“Easy, you creepy bug,” she mutters, her fingertips barely brushing his segmented body like she’s afraid of catching something. “Eww, he feels like jelly!” She yanks her hand back as though Todd stung her.
“The feeling is mutual,” I laugh, watching Todd recoil in fright. His many legs blur into motion as he skitters to my shoulder.
It’s strange. I thought Sandra, of all people, would have found him adorable, like I do. But whatever, I kind of like that he’s loyal to me alone—more loyal than the real Todd ever was.
I grab some of the now cold Sock-Chair meat from my plate, ripping it into tiny pieces. “I hope he’ll eat this,” I mutter, offering the morsels, knowing it’s a slim chance. Todd’s mandibles tap the shreds of meat hesitantly, but the little scamp refuses to grab hold.
Vegetarian, just like Dracoth said.
“I’m going to have to find something he can eat while we’re stuck on that spaceship again,” I sigh, my concern growing.
“Are you taking him—” Sandra starts, but I cut her off with a raised hand.
Something’s happening.
A ripple of commotion spreads from the far end of the cavernous hall. The cheerful murmur of the crowd fades, replaced by hushed mutters. I can’t see over the towering Klendathians, their crimson heads all turned toward the disturbance.
“What is it?” I tug on Dracoth’s black leather tunic impatiently, knowing my towering pole of man meat can easily see over the masses.
His steely gaze remains locked ahead, his voice a low, warning growl.
“An Elder comes.”
Chapter 51
Dracoth
Will
“Anotherone?”Princesaasks,her small hand still tugging at my clothes for attention, though her voice lacks curiosity.
But my focus is fixed on the figure striding toward us—an Elder. Bald, yet crowned by a long beard and bushy white eyebrows that rival the untouched snows of northern Aroth. They frame a face lined with the weight of countless seasons—one of the ancients. His smile is disarming, but his keen brown eyes miss nothing, surveying every detail with subtle, practiced precision.
“Do you know him?” Princesa prods again, her tone tinged with impatience, a match for the hushed breaths and murmured speculations of my Magaxus kin before us.
“I do not,” I reply curtly, my gaze narrowing as the crowd parts for him, granting passage deeper intomydomain. The Council of Elders is known to me by reputation alone; half their names escape me, and fewer faces I would recognize. Yet there’s no mistaking his status—his aura of wisdom and white ceremonial robes speak for him. Though, I note with a flicker of disdain, the pristine fabric is stained with muck up to his ankles.
“Now then,” the Elder exhales loudly, leaning dramatically on the towering sneachir skull he uses for support. He feigns exhaustion, a theatrical catch of his breath. “This beast nearly frightened the ancestors out of me!” he declares with a grin, rapping the blackened fangs of the monster with his knuckles. “Let’s see... an adult male sneachir. A big one at that. From the lands of Aroth—very impressive, young... Dracoth.” His voice dips into something softer as he peers at me with unsettling familiarity. “Gods, you’re the very image of your father.”
Not just in appearance.
Beneath the layers of false pleasantry, the Elder’s intrusion grates at me like claws against rock, but I give no outward hint of it. His presence taints the air of my celebration. Only because of his status as Elder do I tolerate him for a second. If he has come to name me an outlaw, then I will have to hasten to Argon Six without Ignixis and without learning Drexios’ location. That, or bathe our entire planet in civil war’s blood.
“What do you seek, Elder?” I ask, dismissing him with a flick of my hand.
“What do I seek?” he echoes with amusement, turning his gaze to the looming molten statue of Arawnoth behind me. “Too many things to name!” he chuckles softly, a self-indulgent note in his tone. “But you mean in context to yourself, of course.”
His eyes drift to us once more, catching the detail of Princesa’s attire—her white-blue seared cloak, her defiant poise. His smile falters into a faint grimace.
“Elder Garzum?” he calls sharply, snapping his attention toward a hunched figure within the crowd. Impressive. That he could spot Garzum, who sits bowed among the standing throng, his head low, as though lost in some impenetrable dream of his own.
But then the intruders gaze shifts back to Princesa, his brow knitting in a brief frown.
“My apologies, little human,” he says in a softer voice, leaning closer as though to confide in her. “I’ve not had the honor of learning your name.”
Princesa steps forward, chin high, her cloak swishing as though to punctuate her pride. “My name is—”
“Princesa,” I finish with a grumble, growing impatient with this intruder’s time-wasting nonsense.
