“This was no act of the Gods,” Harkus mutters wearily, his ancient face seeming to age a century in mere moments. “This was the recklessness of youths wielding powers they shouldn’t have.” His expression softens into pathetic pleading. “No different than babes with arc blasters. Can’t you see that?”
“No,” Garzum snaps, his face twisting with disdain. “It is you who are blind! The Gods move through them! They are divine instruments, their will made manifest.” He sweeps his blackened, scarred arm toward Princesa and me, his conviction radiating through the chamber.
“And what of High Chieftain Krogoth’s will?” Harkus counters, stepping forward. “Was he not also aided by the Gods? And now you move to undo all that progress by naming them War Chieftain against the expressed wishes of the Council?” His eyes bore into Garzum, searching for a glimmer of understanding. “Don’t let zeal blind your better judgment, brother.”
Garzum stiffens, his voice steady and deliberate. “I do not claim to know the will of the Gods, Harkus,” He turns his gaze to the towering statue of Arawnoth, its magma-filled veins casting flickering orange-red light over the blackened crags and the hushed faces of the assembly. “Only the heart of the molten Arawnoth. I will not turn my back on him again. I will heed the sacred words—the runes of strength and dominance scorched into my flesh!” His eyes flash like sparkling rubies as his fingers scrape down the runic scars on his face. “Not the soft whispers of your Draxxus Gods, nor their favored.”
Harkus halts as if stuck, his shoulder sagging as the realization burns deep into his soul—my coming is inevitable. Slowly, he turns away from Garzum, his narrowed eyes locking onto mine. The intensity of his glare only fuels my fire, and I meet it with a gaze as unyielding as the Peaks of Scarn.
“This is truly your wish, young Dracoth?” he demands, his voice rising with passion. “To drag us back to the ways of the Scythians? Back to extinction?”
His question implies inevitable defeat. Typical of the old and feeble—clinging to sophistry, spinning the air with time-wasting bleats.
“My wish,” I growl, my voice low and steady, “is for our eternal glory, Elder.”
“Nothing is eternal,” Harkus replies, his tone shifting to that of a teacher addressing a naïve student. “Glory fades, Dracoth. Your strength, your fire—it will all die, as we all will. What then?” He sweeps his arms wide, encompassing the crowd’s muted faces. “What will the Gods care when there is no one left to remember?”
I suppress the urge to groan at his absurd arguments. “You twist my words into farcical conclusions.”
“I merely ask questions,” Harkus presses, his gaze unwavering. “Perhaps you’ve not thought deeply enough about what truly drivesyou.” He points a wizened finger at my heart.
His words land like hammer blows, cracking the surface of my certainty. My gaze falters, dropping downward as his icy shards of doubt dig deep, driven by a truth I’ve neglected beneath my rage. My vengeance—my glory—has always been enough.
Hasn’t it?It must be.There is nothing else.
“Vengeance drives me, Elder!” The words erupt from me, my fury spilling like molten lava through clenched fangs. “Glorious battle sustains me. Our people’s dominance over the lesser aliens is our destiny.” My voice rises in a heated tirade, my blazing eyes locking onto his. “This is my divine gift—death. Let our enemies be reborn in strength!”
The cheers of my Magaxus clan ripple through the chamber, their fists pounding against their chests in a thunderous chorus. Pride swells in my chest, but it’s fleeting. Harkus remainsunmoved. No fear, no doubt—only a nauseating resignation etched across his ancient features. His thick brows droop, as if mourning me already.
“Tell me,” he begins, his voice low, heavy with something I cannot place, “what remains after the flames of your vengeance die, leaving only ash and ruin? When the fire consumes not just the galaxies, but your very soul?”
His words slice through the reverberating cheers, cutting me from the moment like a Nebian laser.
“I see the hurt and the rage in your eyes, young Dracoth,” Harkus continues, stepping toward the raised stone dais. There’s no malice in his tone, only weary understanding. “You’re not like the others. Not like the corrupted youths who came before you... What do you remember of your childhood? Before Klendathor, before this endless cycle of blood and fire. Did you have a mother? Do you recall your father? Do you remember anything?”
My hands tremble at my sides, a churning dread clawing its way up from the depths of my being—long-buried fragments of a life I’ve willed myself to forget. They tear through my mind like plasma claws.
“A white room,” I murmur, the memories slipping free unbidden. “A female with hair like flowing gold... her sad green eyes. She sings to me sometimes, until the red giant comes. He watches us but never speaks.” The words spill from me, each one an icy dagger stabbing into my molten heart.
Harkus’s brow furrows, and a flicker of something—recognition?—passes through his eyes. “Sounds almost like my Aerith,” he murmurs, his tone distant, as though speaking to himself. A glint of pain flickers in his ancient gaze. “Could the universe be so cruel? Perhaps implanted memories...” His voice trails off into a heavy sigh. “The Scythians may have tampered with your mind, amplifying your aggression. Come with me, son.Together with the Council, we’ll uncover the truth—and get you help.”
He rests a hand on my arm, his touch tentative yet firm, his gaze searching mine for acceptance.
I recoil, a chaotic maelstrom of emotion roiling within. Am I merely the puppet of the Scythians? Altered and defective? My very life—a lie? Memories not my own, nesting in my brain like parasites? Despair rises, hot and heavy, threatening to consume me.
“No,” I whisper, the word more plea than declaration. “My memories are real.” I force myself to meet his gaze, trying to project certainty, but my voice falters. The words feel hollow, echoing back as though they question themselves.
They must be real.How else could they evoke such dread, such unbearable sadness within me?
“Then we can find your mother—and perhaps our other females—by defeating the Scythians!” Harkus urges, his tone fervent. His ancient face contorts with hatred, raw and unfiltered. “It’s what those bastards deserve for what they’ve done to us!”
His gnarled hand tightens on my arm. “Krogoth saw something in you, Dracoth. That’s why he spared you. I was a fool not to see it sooner. The strength in your eyes, the fire in your heart, the questions you yearn to answer.” A warm smile softens his craggy features. “Renounce the tainted Scythian title of War Chieftain. Stand with us as the rightful Magaxus Chieftain—beside Krogoth and the others. Together, we’ll destroy their mechanical filth and restore our people’s honor.”
Krogoth... The name stirs my seething hatred. Yet now, there’s something else, something that threatens to shatter my divine purpose to jagged splinters. Could he truly have spared me to embolden me, not to humiliate?
“Live and grow from this shame. So one day you can stand before me with your head held high.” Krogoth’s words echo in my mind, their meaning shifting like solar winds.
But honor demands retribution. He killed my father—a father I never knew… an undefeated titan corrupted by machines.
