I want to rip this heart out for his words, but he strikes too close to the festering wound in my soul, giving me pause. Flashbacks of that fatal moment flood my mind—Krogoth trapped in my arc blasters’ sights, pinned to the ground. Then, my gilder spinning out of control, fire and chaos consumingeverything. My tears, his mocking words. Nothing I could do... Or was there?
“Krogoth has already pardoned young Dracoth for this incident,” Garzum replies, his words cutting through my troubled thoughts like plasma claws
Krogoth pardoned me? Why? For later humiliation?He will regret it!
“You misunderstand my meaning, Elder,” Jazreal cuts in, his voice dripping with derision. “Do we want a shorthair boy, easily manipulated by obvious lies, to lead us? One who fails to hunt an easy target? Who now seeks to drag us into endless wars for allies that wish for our extinction? Our people cannot afford the luxuries of war. Now is the time to heal.” His words are filled with passion, igniting the crowd into heated murmurs.
A flicker of doubt gnaws at my mind, reaching for an answer just beyond my grasp. I placed my faith in Zyraxis, for he bore the mantle of Elder... but that was only part of it. Another part of me wanted to test myself against Krogoth in combat. He was hailed as one of our finest leaders and warriors. If I defeated him, maybe my father would have noticed me... given me a position in his warband—the Ravager Berserkers. Instead, it brought only our downfall and Krogoth’s rise.
“Dracoth is strong like his father, I grant you,” Jazreal continues, his gaze boring into me with a burning intensity, “but so is the aurodon—a dumb beast that knows only how to charge. That is what he offers!” He pauses, letting his words settle like a challenge to my very being. “That is why I challenge him to Krak-Tok!”
Krak-Tok
The challenge hangs in the air like the charge before a thunderstorm, heavy with unspoken violence. For a moment, the weight of Jazreal’s words stalls my thoughts, but soon they sink in, igniting my blood.
Around me, my Magaxus brothers erupt into raucous debate, their voices and gestures wild, like beasts sensing blood. A slow, cruel smile curls across my lips as I lock eyes with Jazreal, his partially ruined face and glowing green eyes betraying nothing but calm resolve.
Can he sense it? The raw power radiating from my very being, the fire that pulses beneath my skin? Already I see his broken form in my mighty hands, his body twisted and lifeless—the inevitable end for all who dare challenge me. Jazreal, Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers, one of our mightiest. In another path, I might have served under him for a time, close to my noble father. But now, he is nothing more than an obstacle to be shattered beneath my hands.
“Silence!” Garzum commands, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. He raises his hands, but I barely notice him, my gaze locked on my prey.
“Silence!” he roars again, louder, and the din of voices fades. “There will be no Krak-Tok!” His decree strikes like a sudden blow, disrupting the surging heat of my Rush.
“It is my right to challenge!” Jazreal snaps, rounding on Garzum, fury twisting the side of his face that still functions.
“Our people are dying!” Garzum meets his rage with a roar of his own. “Look around!” He gestures broadly to the empty chambers. “These halls were once filled with the voices of our kin—young and old. Now, they lie barren, with only the gray-hairs remaining. The rest...” He pauses, his eyes flicking toward the distant, shadowed ceiling. “Die in distant lands, fighting a meaningless war.”
His words churn my stomach with disgust—the weak sentiments of one who has never known the joy of battle. “War is never meaningless, Elder,” I growl, my voice sharp as arcweave. “Only in its harsh embrace is our mettle tested, our wills forged. We who murder death embrace life.”
“Death begets death, young Dracoth,” Garzum counters, his tone surprisingly calm. “Only love brings life.”
“Love!” I spit the word like vipertail venom. Such feeble drivel. That he follows Arawnoth’s teachings yet spews such contradictory weakness sickens me. “It is you who should look around, Elder. There is nothing left to love but the glorious carnage of battle.”
“You are wrong, Dracoth. It is love that restrains me from declaring you an outlaw. It is love that moves me to deny this Krak-Tok.” Garzum exhales heavily, turning to face the molten statue of Arawnoth, the fire casting deep shadows across his features.
“But I see now, you are deaf to reason, just as your father was.” His eyes bore into mine as he turns back. “I will allow a non-lethal contest. The victor may challenge Drexios for the title of Chieftain. The defeated shall forswear all claim to the title for two centuries.” His gaze flicks between Jazreal and me, awaiting our answer.
“Agreed,” I growl, my molten Rush stoked at the idea, having not a flicker of doubt of my imminent victory.
“I swear by the ancestors,” Jazreal nods, his fist striking his chest with solemn finality.
“Before Arawnoth, you have sworn,” Garzum intones, his hands rising, summoning forth the flames that erupt from the bubbling magma behind him. “Tomorrow, atop this mountain, this matter shall be settled.” His burning gaze settles on me, unyielding. “I pray to Arawnoth that you fall, son of Gorexius.”
I turn without a word, gesturing for Princesa to follow. From the dim shadows at the back of the chamber, I catch a glimpse of Sandra, her petite figure barely visible in the flickering light.
Prayers are for the weak. The Gods honor strength alone.
Chapter 30
Alexandra
Preparations
“Wait,Sandra!”Icallout after my friend—at least, I hope she still is. But she pretends not to hear me, rushing down the cavernous tunnels like we’re on an angry ghost ride. It’s a struggle to keep up with her. The green haze from the ritual still muddles my mind with strange thoughts. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to clear my head. It doesn’t help.
Is she mad at me? I mean, I was kind of a bitch yesterday... “Are you angry with me?” I shout, my voice cracking a little as I navigate the dimly lit, simmering passageways. Sandra doesn’t respond, but I see her shaking her head, her long red hair swaying over her black leather tunic. My stomach sinks tomy garish shoes. Have I crossed the line, pushed her too far? Wouldn’t be the first time.
Ugh, friends are always so bitchy, but as soon as you give a little back, they can’t handle it.
