“Um... Dracoth?” Sandra replies, like the answer is so obvious it doesn’t even need saying. “And I think we should figure out what’s going on so we can help him.”
I fight back the urge to shake her—Sandra’s far too kind and riddled with severe Stockholm Syndrome for her own good. Instead, I opt to shake my head.
“Sandra, he’s using us. He just wants us for this stupid marriage thing. You’ve seen the way he is—the way he rages... the way he kills...” My words trail off, distracted by images of dark corridors and blood-curdling screams flickering in my mind.
Sandra stares at the simmering floor, her hand covering her mouth.
“Do you really want to be around when he finally snaps for real?” I ask, my voice dropping.
“He’d never hurt us,” Sandra whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
“Like when he locked us in a cell? Or when he slapped collars on us and nearly yanked my head off?”
“That’s because you were acting up.”
“For fuck’s sake, Sandra!” I snap, struggling to keep my voice from shaking with frustration. “Do you hear yourself?”
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the disgusting sound of Sandra gnawing on her nails.
“I still trust him,” she says finally, with the kind of misplaced conviction that lands people on TikTok’s toxic relationship reels.
I throw up my hands in disbelief, feeling like I’m the only sane person in a universe full of crazies.
“He’s been lying to us this whole time!” I press, desperate for my friend to see sense. “Hello, I’m Mr. War Chieftain. Me give you great power,” I mock, dropping my voice into a poor imitation of Dracoth’s growl. “Please! You heard those aliens. Hisdadwas the War Chieftain, not him. He’s just a confused boy pretending to be something he’s not.”
“He’s not a boy!” Sandra’s eyes snap to mine, blazing like heated sapphires. “And he will be Chieftain once he wins this fight—and the one after.”
She’s missing the point! He still lied!
My anger boils beneath the surface, urging me to lash out. It’s maddening listening to her delusions—she’s constructed this fantasy around him, and even if the truth hit her like a slap across the face, she’d refuse to see it.
“Okay...” I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my anger down. “Just promise me, when a better opportunity comes along, we leave together?”
I stare at her, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. It’s buried in her downcast gaze. Her eyes drop, avoiding mine, the gears turning in her head. And then I know the truth. She won’t leave. She’s in love with Dracoth, and nothing I say will change that.
“Sandra?” I press, my voice a little softer. “We stick together like we agreed, right?”
Her hesitation says it all. Any words she might offer now are meaningless. “Yeah... until he picks one of us,” she says finally, nodding.
I sigh, feeling the weight of resignation settle in my chest. “Come on; let’s go help the giant bore, then.” I turn to leave his cavernous chambers.
“But... he’s training?” Sandra falls into step beside me, fanning her flushed face. “What can we do?”
A good question—not much.
“We’ll get the pom-poms out and cheer him on, of course.” I smile at the absurdity of it, and to my surprise, Sandra grins too.
Together, we walk down the winding tunnels of this mountain—or volcano, or whatever this place is. The pulsing crystals embedded in the walls cast an eerie light over the sizzling, rocky surfaces. Hazy steam rises around us, the colors shifting like strange beacons in the dark. I try to memorize the hues; they are the only thing helping me keep my bearings in this place.
I remember how Dracoth had stalked out of the ritual room, his molten eyes flashing with rage. He’d brought us to the entrance of a training room, before sending us back to his chambers to await his return. I was amazed he didn’t tie us up or lock us away somewhere, but I think he was too angry to care.
We stop suddenly as a gray-haired Clown-dathian with a stone peg leg limps toward us. My heart pounds in my chest, and I wonder if we should turn back.
“What should we do?” Sandra mutters, her tone as tight as my mother’s purse.
“Um... let’s see what he does,” I suggest, trying to sound braver than I feel. It’s unlikely he’s going to hurt us... but Dracoth might have sent him to check on us.
So we stand still awkwardly waiting, like we’ve been caught with our hands in the cookie jar, while this bare-chested granddad approaches.
