Page 297 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I glance down. She smiles up at me.
We step inside. My footfalls echo through the opulent hall. All eyes turn. Chieftains straighten—uncertain, watching, whispering. Even Sandra... evenRocks.
Except Krogoth. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Arms folded. Purple eyes glowing like twin forge fires. Rocks lounges across his lap, watching me like an arrohawk. Whispering into his ear.
What does she see? What does she say? When even my own thoughts feel like mud and mist?
I gently lower Princesa to the polished floor, though her hands linger on me a moment longer. Her breath is tight.
“Sandra...” she whispers, our bond flashing with bitter sorrow. I give her hand a quiet squeeze.
Then I raiseStormcleaver.
The sharpened arcweave edge still marred in Krogoth’s blood, its shaft etched with our shared handprints—a relic of our shared suffering, power, and impossible resolve.
The Chieftains stir. Tension bleeds into the room like fog.
I keep my eyes locked on Krogoth as I slowly turn the axe, presenting it sideways across my arms—a gesture of peace.
“My thanks, Chieftain Vorthax,” I say, lowering my head, returningStormcleaver. “A brutal weapon... in the right hands.”
“It never sang sweeter than in yours, young Dracoth,” Vorthax rumbles, voice raw with feeling. He steps forward and crushes me in a fierce embrace, whispering low: “Hold your head high, son of Gorexius. You honored your father—and our people.”
We break. My eyes shimmer.
Words Iyearnto believe. Need to believe. But they wilt under the harsh truth.
I lost. I failed Princesa. Failed Vorthax. Failedeveryone.
He claps a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me. His pale-gold-eyed face creases with a gentle smile—one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And forgives me anyway.
“Keep it,” Vorthax says, gently pushingStormcleaverback into my grip. “Let it sing sweetly again. I’m sure your father would like to hear it.”
He sighs—long and heavy—eyes drifting toward Krogoth. “Seems the Gods have spoken. They demand change. My days of battle are done. I return to Klendathor... to lead the Astranix from hearth and home.”
“I... don’t deserve this,” I mutter, the weapon trembling in my hands.
“Youdo!” Vorthax laughs, deep and hearty. “It belongs to you now. Perhaps it always did.”
“My... thanks,” I nod, voice strained. I dare not say more, lest I shame myself further.
With care, I layStormcleaveracross the jagged throne of sparking obsidian—the seat of Clan Magaxus.
“Come,” I growl, gripping Princesa’s soft hand. Together, we move toward Krogoth and Rocks. Their faces—blank, unreadable. Sandra stands beside them, hands clasped tightly, a warm smile blooming like a sunflare that seems to brighten the world.
“Oh, you got another present,” Princesa whispers, eyes alight with mischief. “Must be your lucky day.”
Krogoth rises from his tree-like throne with liquid grace, his furred cloak shifting as he gently ushers Rocks behind him—not out of fear, but as a warrior poised for any outcome.
I halt, glancing down at him. Not with rage, vengeance, or hatred. But with acceptance. With shame. And with profound respect.
My knee bends.
My head lowers.
Gasps erupt across the hall—none louder than Princesa’s.
“Krogoth Star-Eyes,” I growl, voice steady, words flowing as if from someone else. “The rightful High Chieftain. I acknowledgeyour strength and skill, and hereby rescind any challenge or grievance against you.”
