Imril drifted silently over the clouds, watching for any trace of life below. The dense trees obscured his view of the land, but it didn’t matter.

He was hunting for vir, and even from up here, his sharp eyes wouldn’t miss even the slightest hint of a golden aura. He circled the spot where he’d picked up the creature, Esania, searching for any clues as to where the Vradhu and their brown-skinned companions might have gone.

Thanks to Esania, he was stronger now, strong enough to hunt without fear of the Vradhu. He’d found a suit of Drakhin scale-armor in Kunlo’s war room, and now the second scales covered every part of him from head to toe, leaving only his eyes and wings uncovered.

No Vradhu barb or war-spear would be able to penetrate his armor, and if he was unlucky enough to encounter a kratok beast, he would be well protected.

As he angled his wings, swooping down toward the forest, Imril growled, unable to get a certain face out of his mind.

Esania.

Such a bold female. It wasn’t just her vir that was addictive.

That piercing stare. Those mesmerizing, impossibly green eyes, the color of the new leaf-buds on the quinze trees, which he’d just seen dotted amongst the forest canopy. Impossibly, even as other parts of the Ardu-Sai died off, the spectacular trees were coming back to life after hundreds of revolutions in hibernation.

Just as he had come back to life—thanks to her.

This alien, this female… where had she come from?

She reminded him of something, of someone, of a time when he knew nothing about the world below and believed everything he was told.

But that was long ago, the memories buried so deep within his consciousness that they were barely a part of him anymore.

He dropped into the clearing, landing feet first, his scale-armor moving in perfect synergy with his body. From memory, Kunlo had been a head shorter than him and thicker in the torso, but Drakhin armor was designed to mold to the wearer’s frame, so it had stretched to accommodate his size.

He carried no weapon. He didn’t need one.

Power pounded through his body, and really, it wasn’t his energy but hers, a constant reminder that without vir, he was nothing.

He began to walk, folding his wings against his back and following the trail left behind by the Vradhu. Alone, the warriors were impeccable trackers and hunters, and they would have left no trace of their passing, not even a scent. But they had females with them, and they’d obviously left in a hurry.

Imril closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the forest. Flowers. Berries. Decaying leaves. Even the pungent smell of some small animal’s droppings. The cycle of life and death went on, accelerated now because the sun had appeared for the first time in over three hundred revolutions.

There.

His eyes snapped open as he caught it.

A trace of something otherworldly, easy to identify because it was similar to Esania’s scent. He swore he could even detect her scent mingled in with the others.

Imril walked across to the place where he’d first put his hands on Esania, a barren patch of land surrounded by straggly tchirrin bushes. Evidence of her struggle was still there on the ground; a small cloth pouch filled with bittersweet orange fruits lay in the dust.

The strap was broken. It must have snapped when he’d stolen her away.

Imril picked up the thing, knotted the strap, and hung it around his neck, taking care not to damage the fruits inside. Judging from their smell, they were just at the point of maximum sweetness.

Those who knew him would have shaken their heads in disbelief at the sight; Imril the Lightbringer, dressed in full Drakhin battle-armor, carrying a pouch of sweet tchirrin fruit around his neck.

But he’d always been considered strange; he knew the lesser lords had whispered such things behind his back.

The Overlord has been on this world for too long. Age has turned him mad, the same as his cursed brother. Abominations, both of them.

They never would have dared say a word of it to his face.

He’d been known to kill on a whim, and he was too powerful for any of them to seriously consider challenging him—or so he’d thought.

Following his nose, Imril moved across the clearing, heading for a thicket of trees.

His eyes snapped skyward as a familiar sound reached his ears.

Whoosh.

A dark shadow streaked overhead, and his gaze snapped toward the skies. He caught sight of a sleek black ship as it coasted overhead, disappearing into the distance. It was a Drakhin ship, the sort used to transport servants and cargo over long distances. Once, every Drakhin had owned a fleet of the black ships—another gift from the Ancestor’s collection of dark technology.

Two more ships streaked past, signifying that this wasn’t an ordinary transport mission.

Imril growled.

Deathkiss was supposed to have killed most of the Drakhin lords, and the Naaga couldn’t operate the ships on their own… could they?

Whoever it was, perhaps they were here for the same reason. There was a valuable prize in their midst.

He beat his wings, once, twice, three times, and shot up into the sky, gaining speed as a cool gust of wind buffeted him from below. Faster he flew, faster, until he caught sight of three black specks in the distance.

The ships.

His prey.

Imril caught them easily, soaring overhead, matching their speed. The three ships flew in a spearhead formation until they started to decelerate, slowly dropping until they hovered over a thick, twisting sekkhoi thicket. Imril swooped down and landed on the roof of the first ship, where he crouched and stuck his fingers into a narrow seam, hanging on tightly as hot wind swirled around him.

Instantly, he saw what they were looking for.

A golden glow drifted up through the trees. Vir.

He realized what this was—a hunting party. As the ship touched down on the ground, something noxious invaded his senses, making him feel lightheaded and nauseated.

Poison. Where is it coming from?

How did the Naaga have chemical weapons? The scent triggered powerful memories. Suddenly, he was back on the Hythra, locked in a testing chamber as noxious gas poured in from the vents.

Enraged, he dropped to his knees coughing, choking, cursing his sadistic father. He tried to summon his power, but he was too weak. Thick shackles encircled his wrists, his legs, his neck. His wings were pinned together by a metal wire that pierced through the taut membrane, causing agony every time he moved. Behind him, his broken tail hung limp, the poison barb gone. It had lodged nicely in the bastard’s neck, but then Acheros dematerialized, evading the poison by just a heartbeat.

And now he was here, shackled and tortured.

This was the price of defiance. Acheros wanted him broken.

He shook his head, fighting the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole, fighting the urge to destroy everything in his path.

Yes, chemical weapons were definitely an Auka thing. Imril had expressly forbidden their use on Khira, but someone had obviously been developing them in his absence.

He had a good idea who that might be.

Imril glanced to one side and cursed softly under his breath.

An odorless mist poured out of a vent in the transport’s side. Imril coughed and his helm responded automatically by shifting and merging with his scale-armor, becoming an airtight filter.

The Ancestor’s technology never failed.

As he breathed easier, he looked around and saw a flash of movement in the surrounding forest.

Vradhu. At least half a dozen of them.

The Vradhu started to cough. Several dropped to their knees, gasping, cursing. Poisoned.

Angry shouts pierced the commotion, but he couldn’t understand the language. Two humans burst through the thicket, fierce females brandishing strange weapons. Like him, they wore armor, but theirs was strange—clunky gear that creaked when they walked. Clearly, these aliens possessed technology that was much more advanced than the simple spears and blades of the Vradhu, but it didn’t hold a flame to the mysterious gifts that had been left to the Drakhin by the Ancestor.

Golden vir rose from their bodies, thick and powerful, but he wasn’t drawn to either of them in the slightest.

His friend Tykhe had once tried to explain this phenomenon to him. It was said that once a Drakhin found his True Source—the one he chose to give his elgida to—no other vir would satisfy.

His suspicion was confirmed.

Esania had already ruined him.

“Run!” one of the Vradhu shouted, his voice hoarse, but the brown-skinned creatures didn’t move. Instead, they glared at the ship, an unspoken challenge in their eyes. The ship landed with a gentle thud, and Imril remained crouched on its roof. One of the aliens swiveled on her heel, her eyes widening in recognition as she raised her weapon, pointing it at him. Imril lifted his head and glared back at her.

For a moment, they locked eyes.

Do not attack me. I am not your enemy right now. I can help you.

He shook his head once, making a slicing motion with his hand.

Wait.

The alien shook her head slowly, and he could have sworn she rolled her eyes.

With a soft hiss, the ship’s hatch opened and dozens of Naaga streamed out, brandishing strange triangular devices that Imril had never seen before.

Imril rose to his feet. “Stop,” he said, speaking the language of slaves. Naaga. The language of power and submission, that was drilled into their genetic memory.

The only language they knew. They weren’t capable of learning other tongues.

To his shock, the Naaga ignored his words.

What is this?

He, the Overlord of Khira, who wasn’t used to being ignored, ever, had just been dismissed by a group of insolent Naaga. They didn’t even spare him a second glance.

How dare they?

Were they defective somehow? Had they not heard him?

He didn’t have time to think about it, because the Naaga had almost reached the fallen Vradhu. The females shouted at one another, their voices full of panic.

Boom!

With ruthless efficiency, one of the aliens lifted her weapon and shot the lead Naaga in the head. The noise was deafening, shaking a flock of winged shrieking gwar from the treetops above.

Huh. So these aliens could be aggressive too.

The leader fell. The rest advanced.

To the casual observer, it might seem like an insane strategy, but Imril understood. He’d seen Naaga used in war before. Some foolish Drakhin had taken to using the blue servants as diversions, flooding the battlefield with them as war raged in the skies above.

Naaga weren’t fighters. They overwhelmed the enemy through sheer numbers.

Naaga were expendable. They could be cloned again and again.

As the toxic gas became thicker, the Vradhu warriors dropped to all fours, coughing violently. Three more aliens appeared from between the trees, wearing protective clothing and helms. Two of them appeared to be male. The female provided cover fire as the males started to help the Vradhu out of the dangerous gas.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Her aim was accurate, but she couldn’t keep up with the advancing Naaga. How many of them were packed into that ship?

A piercing scream split the air. Imril spun in the direction of the noise. An unprotected female—pale-skinned and golden-haired—stood between the Naaga ship and the Vradhu, frozen in terror.

Had she been caught out? How had he not noticed her before?

A large pack of Naaga—around a dozen—emerged from the ship and headed for the female, wielding their strange devices.

To his surprise, the female bent down and picked up something off the ground.

What is she doing?

When she rose, there was a stone in her hand. She lobbed it at a Naaga and screamed a fierce battle-cry, hitting him square in the forehead. A look of dismay crossed her face as the Naaga paused and put a hand to his head, his fingers coming away covered in green blood. But it didn’t deter him. He shook his head and continued to advance. The female threw more rocks. The Naaga kept going until he reached her.

She swung a wild punch, but the Naaga got inside her reach and pressed his strange triangular device against her neck.

The alien dropped to her knees, gasping. Her vir dimmed.

It was being absorbed by the device!

What kind of infernal technology was this?

Why—how—were the Naaga, who literally could not use direct violence, operating on their own? Anger rose up within him as he remembered Nykithus’s cursed words, spoken over three hundred revolutions ago.

What if we modified them… allowed them to have free will?

He’d suggested… setting the Naaga free.

You don’t understand a thing, youngling.

Nykithus’s dirty fingerprints were all over this mess. It had to be him. Soon Imril was going to have to put the whelp in his place, but first he had to stop this. Imril summoned his power, letting it flow through his arms and into his fingertips. His metal scale-armor conducted a little of the power, sending an electric ripple over his body.

Noticing him for the first time, several of the Naaga turned away from the melee and rushed him. He threw power at them, and they died instantly, falling to the ground with tendrils of smoke rising from their slender blue bodies.

More Naaga appeared in their place, streaming out of the dark ships. Imril leapt off the roof and walked forward, destroying Naaga left right and center, careful not to let his power hit the injured Vradhu.

The rock-throwing female was cut off from her companions, surrounded by a ring of slowly advancing Naaga. The one who’d drained her energy was trying to restrain her with a strange metal device.

No! Imril broke into a run. He reached the Naaga’s side and clamped his fingers around the creature’s neck, pushing so much power through its slender body that it died on the spot.

The smell of charred flesh rose into the air.

The golden-haired female stared at him in horror.

For a moment, she was perfectly still, her face frozen in an expression of disbelief.

Then she screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed, her shrill voice assaulting Imril’s sensitive hearing to the point where it became agony. Za’s curses, these creatures could be loud. Unsure how to handle her, he moved behind her and brought his arm around her waist.

“Quiet,” he hissed in Drakhin, but she didn’t understand. She just kept on screaming.

He was so close to her now that he unwillingly absorbed a small amount of her vir. It gave him strength, and yet he found it lacking. It was rich and powerful, but tapping into it almost made him feel ill.

He resolved not to take anything more. Better that he didn’t. Half his full strength was enough. There was a reason Imril rarely ever filled himself to capacity. Too much vir, and he became dangerous to others. If he fought the Naaga while at full strength, he would take out the aliens and the Vradhu as well.

Besides, she’d already been drained once.

The drift would always happen; he couldn’t help that, but it was minuscule compared to what he would have taken from her in a true feeding. She might feel a little tired after being in his presence for too long, but the drift wouldn’t harm her.

“Get away, Drakhin. She is ours.” One of the Naaga spoke, its voice flat and emotionless.

Imril glared at them. Clearly, the servants were acting upon the orders of another—he suspected Nykithus—but his commands were supposed to override all others. Why hadn’t it worked? “You dare to challenge me?”

Imril’s rage grew. Beside him, the female clutched a rock tightly in one hand, as if she alone could stop them.

Like Esania, she was bold. He had to admire that, but underneath it all, she was trembling. She tried to hide it, but clearly, she was terrified.

Time to end this. He glared at the Naaga.

“Kneel,” he thundered in Naaga. “Know your place, servants.”

Unable to resist the compulsion in his voice, several of them obeyed, but to his shock, at least half remained on their feet.

“Kneel,” he said again, louder this time.

No effect.

“A resistant breed,” Imril muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. What were they going to do next? Try and fight him? They were mad. utterly mad.

More Naaga emerged from the dark ships. Sensing the threat, they moved toward him.

Imril sighed.

There was no other way around it. He was going to have to use massive force.

Careful, now.

He had to control his power. He didn’t want to harm the Vradhu or the aliens, especially the female beside him, who would bear the brunt of the blast.

The only way was up.

Left with no other choice, he wrapped one arm around the female’s waist and beat his wings, ripping past the trees, going higher, higher, higher…

She kicked and screamed as he broke through the canopy. In contrast with Esania, this one wasn’t able to control her emotions very well.

This wingless one didn’t seem to appreciate that if he dropped her, it was a long way down.

But Imril wasn’t going to drop her. Compared to when he’d captured Esania, he was much stronger now.

“Be still,” he hissed, tightening his grip as his irritation rose. A fierce gust of wind swirled past, creating turbulence.

That silenced her for a moment.

Imril hung on the wind, watching, waiting…

When he was satisfied that the Vradhu had all been dragged to safety, he raised his free hand and rained a bolt of pure golden hell down upon their attackers, incinerating everything in sight.

The alien in his arms gasped in horror, going very, very still.

Yes, his power tended to have that effect on people.

Ah, what to do with this one? He was certain now that feeding from her wouldn’t give him the same pleasurable sensation, the same exquisite thrill that he got when he tapped into Esania’s soul.

But if he was going to rebuild his empire, he needed all the power he could get, and perhaps his Source would benefit from having a companion.

He might be a monster, but he wasn’t inconsiderate. It was his responsibility to cater for her wellbeing.

So he took the alien away, climbing higher into the cloudless sky, leaving a trail of fire and destruction and ash in his wake.