Title: "Those Who Shoulder Stars"
Author: Mira_Jade

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drama, Family
Rating: PG
Time-Frame: Pre-Canon - Post-Canon
Characters: Kovrok (OC), Krolia, Kolivan, Keith, & Ensemble Cast

Summary: Since the time of Daibazaal the First, the clan of Marmora has stood firm to protect both the sanctity of the throne and the spirit of the Galra people. It was a mandate that changed but little over time.

Four studies, for four blades.


Author's Notes: So, here we are again with my latest addition to my Voltron series. I just finished binge-watching Season 6, and while I enjoyed it as a whole, I have to admit that, near the end, I was really just watching the episodes to gain fodder for my muse. There are some things I can't wait to put my own spin on, but so many things that I am cracking my knuckles for and going: no, no - don't worry; I've got this. So, stand by for more of "There is Salt in the Sun" as soon as I rework the plot a little. For the time being, this story is an interconnected collection of four short-stories. There will be ten chapters in total, spanning from the founding of the Blade of Marmora pre-canon to some of my head-canons for the state of the universe post-canon. Of course, as I mentioned, all of this has now been Jossed by the powers that be, so I am just continuing on in my little world to my heart's content - because that is what fan fiction is for. Right?

That said, this work is part of a series, so, while not completely necessary to acquaint yourselves with the other tales in this collection, that will definitely help your understanding - especially for my OC in the first arc. Which is something new for me - it's been a long time since I wrote an OC-centric work. So, here it goes!

"The Erebrean Period"
"The Warmth of Suns"
"The Chaotian Era"
"There is Salt in the Sun"

As always, I thank you guys for reading, and I hope you enjoy!


OoOoO

"Those Who Shoulder Stars"
by Mira_Jade


Kovrok I​

Over the long course of his service, he'd followed his general across hundreds of battlefields, on hundreds of worlds. He'd faithfully served during the wars of the former Emperor Zerxus, through the rising of the Day Emperor Sef and his sons, and onwards through the necessary violence incurred by establishing Zarkon’s own reign; he’d been there to march for it all. Later, and now more recently, from the forming of the Coalition of Free Systems, to picking up arms in behalf of those sworn to that selfsame Coalition, to Voltron itself – there wasn’t a battle his lord ever had to fight alone.

Yet, in all his decaphoebs of service, never had Kovrok Anvon Khoth Sentut felt as useless to his emperor as he did in that moment.

Perhaps it was a form of humor in the eyes of the gods that negated the male of the species to as useless a role as mere observation for something as momentous as the expansion of clan – of the birth of an heir, a child. Every deeply ingrained instinct that he'd long since cultivated as a warrior of Marmora’s line recoiled from the passive task of simply watching and waiting. He could feel the passing ticks as a needlepoints against his skin; his every breath felt heavy in his chest for the slow apathy of time. Diligently, he focused on his breathing and counted out his heartbeats in an endeavor to maintain his poise and control – it was the least he could do, to subdue his own blood-beat and hope, in some small way, that his calm could aid his lord in maintaining a similar such serenity.

Because, in that moment Emperor Zarkon Sef Zerxus Anhur was the furthest from calm that Kovrok had ever witnessed. The Zarkon that Kovrok had so long served – the general who was a pillar on the battlefield, inspiring his troops to follow him like planets tethered to their sun, and the emperor who was the eye of the storm amongst the ever shifting currents of the imperial court, was then long gone. In his place was an aggravated husband and father-to-be made equal to any other while his mate and offspring were struggling with the rigors of new life. While Kovrok disciplined himself into stillness, Zarkon’s long stride made quick work of the relatively small antechamber as he paced from one end to the other; his prowling footsteps echoed in the yawning void of the high vaulted ceilings above their heads. He had given up controlling his blood-beat vargas ago; instead of the deep, steady tempo that both soothed those sworn to him and warned his enemies of his power, his presence then lashed at Kovrok’s senses with all the force of the ska winds that battered the broken edges of their planetary cap. It was all he could do to stay on his feet and keep his posture at ready, with his shoulders rigidly squared and his hands clasped smartly behind his back.

All the while, Kovrok swallowed so as to keep himself from speaking with his own assurances. The empress is strong, he wanted to say. She has proven herself many times before – to the people, and to myself – that she is worthy of the place by your side. Trust her to conquer this too, just as she has done every other obstacle in her path.

They were words that, for him, came at personal cost. Though he’d wisely kept his misgivings to himself when it became apparent that his lord was interested in Honerva Heithiel for more than just her alchemist’s work, privately he had first worried that their union would weaken everything Zarkon had so long fought to build. The lady, of course, had since proven her right to keep her place, and he was proud to serve her as faithfully as he would any fully Galran empress of the blood. He wanted this for his emperor; his empress too.

You have done so much for our people – building us up from the infamy of Zerxus’ wars, even he fought a flinch as the audible sound of a scream reverberated from the interior of the birthing suite to the anteroom beyond. Just then, he was not thinking of all the children who had returned to the gods before this . . . those little souls who hadn’t survived long enough to know even a breath of life – just as Zarkon most certainly was not. Surely, the heavens must smile on you this day, and answer this one prayer of yours in return.

Then, perhaps too softly to wholly form into a thought: you deserve this, my friend. Both of you do.

Yet that, especially, was not his place to say; and Kovrok was ever mindful of his place.

This long into her labor, the empress was no longer trying to contain her outcries. Hopefully, that meant her ordeal was almost over; having had little interaction with females in any stage of parturition before, Kovrok wouldn’t know for a certainty - but he hoped. At the very least, the lady sounded as frustrated and determined as she sounded pained, and it was that which Kovrok latched onto and let redouble his prayers all the more fervently. If at all possible, Honerva would not let her child slip away; not this one; not again.

Yet, where Kovrok was assured that the end was in sight, Zarkon clearly felt the opposite for hearing his wife’s cries. Alarmed, he watched as his sovereign stopped his pacing in order to march up to the closed doors of the birthing suite, clearly ready to ignore all sense to the contrary and march right in. In answer, Kovrok too stepped forward, ready to attempt to talk his lord into complying with the birth-wife’s orders – which had emphatically included him staying out of the way until he could better control the cadence of his blood. Zarkon would only be a distraction until then – to both those attending the birth, and to the child who was struggling to be born. Even at such a tender age, the boy would be able to feel the panic in his sire’s blood-beat, and respond in kind.

Yet, clearly beyond caution and now nearly beyond sense, Zarkon’s fangs were willfully bared as he stared down the barrier before him. The great claws of his right hand made tell-tale white lines from where he rested his open palm flat against the door; his left hand was clenched in a clear sign of restraint. He was holding himself back, Kovrok understood – but only just.

When the scent of blood grew great enough to assault even his own nose, Kovrok breathed in deep and reminded himself that, earlier, the empress seemed completely confident in her own strength to see this through. Kovrok grounded himself on that knowledge, and hoped that his lord did too. “Zarkon, if you make me get up to show you out myself – I promise, you will not want to face me after this child is born,” had been her bold statement after the birth-wife ordered him away the first time.

And then, more softly – well understanding his turmoil and empathizing with it, at the very least, Honerva added: “Zarkon, it’s going to be okay . . . I promise you, I am strong enough for this. Your gods will have to work a lot harder to take me from you – or my son from me. The ancients hear me: I will not let them have this one - not again. He is mine – ours.” Such blasphemous words dripped so easily from her mouth, with her flat teeth flashing as if she had fangs of her own to bear. More than one of the healers had uttered apologies to the gods both high and low, as if to protect their empress from the repercussions of their fury. “Trust me to keep our child safe enough for the both of us; I can do this.”

However, that was now several vargas ago. The empress had been in labor since mid-morning. Now, the night had long since rushed in on them again, and the third movement was slowly turning towards the sunrise. In just a short time, the dawn would return. Yet, that had to be a good sign, Kovrok tried to keep his spirits high. A crown prince born with the sunrise, chasing the darkness away from the land – yes, the zalds would have a field-day constructing their songs around that fortunate omen.

. . . yet, that was only if they had a prince born to them at all.

Finally, though, when the empress’ voice was raw with exertion, and Zarkon looked like he was through with waiting -

- another cry rent the air between them. This was a much higher cry in pitch, a younger cry – a baby’s cry. It was . . .

“Menhit be praised – it’s your son, sire,” Kovrok breathed a sigh in relief. “Your people finally have their heir – at long last.”

And the child certainly sounded as if he belonged to Daibazaal’s line – he was all fire and fury as he screamed his displeasure with the world he'd struggled to enter. Kovrok could not help the choked, laughing sound that escaped him – not then.

Yet when he looked over to Zarkon, none of his own relief was expressed on his lord’s face. Instead, the emperor was still staring at the closed door before him with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched and his teeth gnashing. There, he was poised to stand and stare, until -

Hardly any time at all passed before a novice came to the doors, and bowed deeply in respect when she realized that her emperor was immediately on the other side. She still, Kovrok noticed, refused to move to allow Zarkon access into the room. “You have a son, Your Majesty – he is healthy, and already recovering from the birth,” she respectfully informed him. “We will bring him to you momentarily.”

Yet Zarkon was not appeased in the slightest. “And, my wife?” was all that he was able to lowly growl. The words rumbled out from deep in his chest, physically striking their way forward and demanding an answer.

There, the novice hesitated, and Kovrok felt his guard rise again, instinctively on edge. In a physical sense, this pregnancy had been hard on Honerva – just the same as all the fruitless ones that had passed before. No matter the desires of the would-be parents, Galran and Altean blood just wasn’t intended to mix; it didn't matter how many physicians put their minds to the conundrum before them. And, for what the empress had done to ensure the gift of their child . . .

It was a gamble on her part; a risk, in its purest form. Such raw forms of quintessence had not been used in the field of genetics before - that, even Kovrok knew, yet she had ignored all caution to the contrary to push beyond the limitations of science and twist her alchemy to fit her own needs - and the needs of the empire. Now . . .

Now, what was done was done. The empress had taken her risk, and that risk had successfully paid off in the form of a living heir. Yet, if they now had a prince at the cost of their queen . . .

There was no way that Zarkon would be held back from his mate’s side – not then. Instead, he pushed past the flustered novice and let himself inside the birthing suite without another word spoken. There was no deterring the emperor – not then; Kovrok did not even spare a word to try.

Instead, after the doors swished closed again and he was left alone in the anteroom, he gave up his own enforced stillness in order to emulate his sire’s more preferred brand of pacing. The movement, even as meager it was, helped dispel an edge of tension from his bones. Even so, his own uselessness continued to claw at him. Without a foe of flesh and blood to face, he was unable to aid his sovereign, and that didn’t sit well with him in the slightest. The weight of Marmora’s legacy was then heavy across his shoulders; he felt empty in the shadow of his vows; the blade strapped to his hip seemed to dare him to action, mocking him.

Yet, he reminded himself, this was something beyond the realm of mortals to control – the play of life and death, in this arena at least, was to those higher than them all. Lady Honerva had played with powers beyond her ability to control – and perhaps even her right to summon, and for that she was paying an unfortunate price. Kovrok had long been devout; he took comfort in his faith. He prayed then that the gods would see the good intentions behind her actions and bless his empress, but it was then hard to trust in the unseen and believe -

- interrupting his thoughts, he was surprised when the doors opened again, not to show Zarkon or one of the healers, but the senior birth-wife herself, holding a small bundle in her hands.

Kovrok blinked at her, and opened his mouth – though to utter what question, he yet knew not. There were so many ways to begin. Yet the birth-wife solved his dilemma by speaking first. “It is in the hands of the healers now,” she muttered. “The empress fights, just as we fight for the empress – it’s all we can do.”

For her words, Kovrok drew in a deep breath from between his teeth, and held it. “I’ll admit,” he confessed lowly, “that this is a battlefield I am not used to walking. It is hard to know patience in waiting for an outcome.”

“This is a field where we cannot choose our own path; any victory is only in small part due to our efforts,” the birth-wife gave a small shrug. “That is a difficult thing to accept, for those better accustomed to holding steel in their hands.” For that, her mouth thinned at the corners, and her blood-beat skipped a note in exasperation. Zarkon, Kovrok could only imagine, was no doubt a . . . tempestuous presence to endure just then.

“Yet,” the birth-wife shook her head practically, “this little one is living; I could no longer keep him in a place that smells and feels more and more like death than new life. Take him; these should not be his first moments.”

For that, Kovrok’s eyes went wide. He . . . he’d never actually held a child before. He was the youngest of his parents’ brood, and he’d been away training to earn his blade when his siblings had litters of their own. He did not . . .

“It is instinct for all – and it shall be the same for you, son of Marmora,” the birth-wife chuffed to see his hesitation. Her eyes glittered with an old sort of wisdom – one that currently felt impossibly beyond his reach. “Now, take the child. He should not pass his first dawn alone.”

She spoke the truth, Kovrok knew. The prince most certainly should not – he agreed with that down in his bones. Yet -

- in the end, he was given no choice. It was either reach out and accept the bundle being offered to him, or drop the son of his lord – and that, Kovrok refused to do.

Instinct, he thought as he awkwardly cradled the swaddled form against his chest, trying not to let the tiny head go unsupported or the little body unsecured. It’s all instinct – even for me. Right, then.

He figured that he was managing well enough with then birth-wife simply nodded once – sharply, and then turned around to let herself back into the birthing suite. A note of panic rose for him suddenly being left alone with the infant. He was not prepared for this, he wanted to protest. What if he held on too tightly, or not tight enough? Could he hurt the boy, even inadvertently? What if the baby started crying? He clearly couldn’t feed the infant, and, Menhit forefend, what if there was excrement -

- sure enough, the child started whimpering not even a moment later. Kovrok felt his heart leap in his throat for the sound, and he panicked. He would not be responsible for his prince crying, he would not - not if he could help it. So, he awkwardly started to rock the boy back and forth, perhaps somewhat jarringly at first but then with more certainty as he found a rhythm with his pacing. That, at least, seemed to calm the little one – who was just so little. Even with his limited experience with children, he knew that he was slight for a Galran kit – he imagined that he was small, even for an Altean babe. Everything was just so tiny – from the shape of his head to the slight snub of his nose and the delicate knife-point of his ears . . .

Then curious about this child of two worlds, Kovrok stared at the shock of white fuzz against the more familiar dusky violet of his skin. So far, he favored his mother’s people in look, and his father’s in coloring. Yet . . . his eyes.

When he blinked, the yellow-gold sclera of his eyes was wholly Galran; yet, the blue irises were neither Zarkon’s nor Honerva’s. Kovrok briefly shuddered to see the unique shade of Zerxus’ eyes staring at him with new life before reminding himself that blue was a common color for Alteans. For all he knew, the color came from Honerva’s line. Yes, he assured himself; it was that, and only that.

While he studied the child, the infant drowsily blinked to take in his own face. Though he was much too young for any more canny awareness than that, Kovrok thought that he was already studying him – memorizing him, even – just as he himself was taking in the boy's scent and the fast, bird’s wing pace of his blood-beat. A part of him had already folded this little one into his sworn family; this was another soul whose safety it was now to him to ensure, and Kovrok amended his vow in his heart. To this one too he would swear his blade – even well before he was invited to utter any more formal oath aloud before the vow-keepers.

Yet, the moment passed and the baby soon lost interest in him in favor of curling against his chest for a well deserved rest – he was understandably exhausted from the rigors of clawing his way into their world. And, with birth, the battles of his life had only just begun. Holding the child close, Kovrok simply made a rumbling noise deep in his chest to encourage the boy to sleep, and continued on with his silent vigil.



.

.

In the end, Kovrok carried the prince for he knew not how long – he only knew that, eventually, Theth Kesia Unut Nexes, the Marmorite assigned to leading the empress’ blood-guard, came for the boy and relieved him of his duties. Their lady would live, she was relieved to report - though the healers had her deep in a healing sleep that she wouldn’t wake from until the day’s end, at the very least.

Zarkon, he knew, would stay by her side until then; he would not be moved.

So, he settled himself in to wait for as long as his lord would wait. Theth brought him water and a ration’s bar by the time the sun was at its highest point in the sky, and sat down next to him so that her armored shoulder knocked against his own. Her mouth was wry and her eyes glinting to say: “You’ll be no use to the emperor if you can’t take care of yourself. Close your eyes for a while; I will wake you if you are needed.”

Although Theth was an accomplished warrior in her own right, and more than deserving of her commission, his vow was still his own to keep; no one else could fulfill it for him. He accepted the food and water, but would not close his eyes to sleep.

“Soon,” he assured her. But he would go on for a little longer yet.

Healers came and went, but the emperor still refused to be moved from his wife’s bedside – and every last one of them served at the pleasure of their lord. Beyond gentle suggestions, they had no right to try and sway him. The evening came again, and soon the night with it. When the first movement of the moon began, he finally allowed himself to be relieved by his second, Kexus, for a few vargas in order to cleanse and make himself presentable for service once more. Even so, he closed his eyes only long enough to ensure that he would be alert enough to properly preside over his emperor’s safety. For that much, at least, Theth was right. Without sleep, he would soon be useless to anyone.

It was just before the third movement again when he relieved Kexus, and resumed his post. On the opposite end of the anteroom, Theth had taken to pacing herself. She was, no doubt, fighting exhaustion just as he was – but she could not rest until she was assured of her lady’s wellbeing. Wryly, they exchanged looks; they formed a symbiotic circle, each of them with their vows, and they had long since become used to existing in a rhythm with each other.

The third movement stretched well on towards morning before Zarkon finally emerged from the chamber. He was much calmer than when Kovrok had seen him last, with his blood-beat again sounding steady and deep and his expression eased with contentment. There was exhaustion tucked in the corner of his eyes, but a hard-won serenity, too. They had seen many trials that day, but those trials were now passed.

And, as a reward, they now had a future for the Galra people. Cradled in Zarkon’s arms, their prince seemed smaller than before – even without his armor, the boy was almost swallowed in his father’s hold. But Zarkon looked entirely smitten by the tiny babe, and there was a peace to his blood-beat that hadn’t been there before. It was a rhythm the child instinctively looked to, Kovrok felt, and already tried to mimic for himself.

“Theth,” Zarkon darted a glance at the blood-guard. “Honerva is well, and awake now; you may tend to her before retiring. I thank you for your vigil these last days.”

Only knowing Theth as well as he knew her allowed Kovrok to hear the sigh of relief she gave. She touched her closed fist to her heart and bowed her head gratefully, but she did not do so quickly enough to hide the smile that threatened to split her face. A prince for their people, and their empress set to recover – yes, they could have asked the gods for no better outcome.

“Kovrok,” his name was a summons, but there was a note of welcome in Zarkon’s command, even so. “Walk with me.”

Accepting the invitation, he took position at his emperor’s right hand, rather than trailing a step behind him. Even so, he kept his head ducked low in respect, and fought to keep his blood-beat from skipping about in a dizzy cadence of relief and joy. Later, he reminded himself; there would be time for celebration later. As they walked, he darted a glance at the drowsy infant Zarkon held as they headed out from the dark interior rooms to where the light was visible through the windows. The third movement was coming to an end, he knew; soon, the dawn would be upon them.

“How long has it been, Kovrok?” Zarkon mused aloud. “By now, you have served by my side since -”

“ - fighting off the C’kask from our colonies on the Horathion Rim,” Kovrok finished for him. “Now some twenty phoebs ago, sire; during your grandfather’s reign.” He would not utter the name of Zerxus aloud if he could help it; not here - not then.

“Already?” Zarkon gave a small huff of breath in reply. “So much has changed since then.”

Everything was different, in a way – though Kovrok understood that the words were more an observation than a question. Then, he’d been a relatively minor son of the Clan of Marmora, no matter that he’d quickly climbed the ranks of blades to serve as one of the blood-guards for the youngest son of Sef. Then, he’d simply been honored to serve both a prince of his people and one of their foremost generals in war. When Zarkon rose above his father and brothers after Emperor Zerxus fell - well, that was not a sequence of events Kovrok would have ever predicted at the start. Yet now, after everything that had passed, there was no other future he could imagine honoring for his people.

“Well then, Kovrok, after years of such changes – what would you say to just one more?”

Kovrok would say, first, that he did not immediately understand. His brow furrowed as he glanced up at his emperor, but Zarkon was still looking down at his son – completely captivated as he ran the back of one dangerous claw over the soft curve of the boy’s cheek. They had approached one of the balconies overlooking the red-plains to the east. The night was clear, allowing them to see both the peaks of the Aaux-sa-met mountain range in the distance, while, overhead, the scarlet flames of the Basst nebula danced in the sky. Already, the stars were dimming as the planet turned towards the daylight again.

“What kind of change did you have in mind?” carefully, Kovrok asked. “So as you will it, you know I will serve.”

“This is not an order, Kovrok – but a request,” Zarkon said. “I would have none embark on this that do not first wish to do so.” Kovrok could feel the low, steady pulse of his blood-beat thrum in his own bones. Whatever his lord was about to say meant much to him. This, he felt, was more than just a change.

So, he waited, and prepared to listen.

“My son will face twice the hardships I ever did, to claim the throne of Daibazaal and keep it.” Those words were a fact, as clear as could be stated. Never had an emperor of half-blood ruled the Galra people, and no doubt many would come to offer their challenge when this boy raised his hand to light the flame eternal. Kovrok felt his lips draw back from his teeth, just to imagine that day to come. But this was Zarkon’s son, and Kovrok had every faith that he could be raised equal to the challenges looming before him – to persevere and fight and conquer. Already, he had no doubt.

As his thoughts raced, Zarkon was watching him – carefully, almost critically so. For whatever he saw, something pleased echoed in his blood-beat. “Especially until he is old enough to contend for the throne himself, he will need someone by his side to watch over him,” Zarkon continued. “I have already discussed the matter with Honerva, and I wish you to be the first of blood-guard. There is no one I better trust for the role.”

At first, the request took him aback, and his eyes widened. No matter that, technically, the offer was a demotion, Kovrok more than understood the honor inherent to the role. This child would be no ordinary prince to guard, and the risk he'd be undertaking was considerable. Zarkon was a warrior king in every sense of the title; in many ways, Kovrok’s current position was a mere formality rather than any necessity. There was no true need for his presence. Yet, for this child, in the years to come . . .

As a son of Marmora, and a servant of the empire, Kovrok could imagine no greater privilege - than to serve the line of Daibazaal where he was needed most.

So.

“As you ask, sire, I am more than willing to swear my blade,” Kovrok did not need to consider the offer any further. “To do so would be an honor.”

“No, Kovrok. It is you who honor us,” Zarkon said in return. Just briefly, he reached over to place a heavy hand on his shoulder – a gesture of respect and affection, with the vast difference in castes between them. “Not as your emperor, but as a father . . . I thank you. Above even my own life and rule, his future is now yours to protect – in knowing that, I take comfort.”

A heartbeat further passed, and then his hand fell away. In the end, there was nothing more to say.

Beyond them, the first promise of light touched the horizon as a shade of violet lessened the black hold of the night over the mountains. For a moment, they both watched in silence, before Kovrok found his voice to ask, “What name has been decided for the child, sire?”

“Lotor,” Zarkon replied simply. “We will call him Lotor.”

It was not a Galran name, Kovrok puzzled – a most curious choice.

“He is not only a Galran child,” Zarkon continued, as if answering him. “And I will not have him hide his heritage away as if shamed. For my wife’s people, Lotor is the name of their morning star; it’s a common custom to name Altean children after the star of their birth. So many names have more significant meanings attached to them – and we can easily cause offense by who we chose or refuse to honor. Yet, our people, for the first time in far too long, are working hand in hand with our neighbors to build a better future for the universe as a whole. It only makes sense that their next emperor continue to be a guiding light. So, Lotor he will be called.”

Prince Lotor – and, someday, Emperor Lotor. It was . . . fitting, Kovrok approved after only a moment. After the likes of Sef and Zerxus, there was a bright, airy promise for the future to come with this child - it was only right that they looked forward to its fruition.

But Kovrok did not say so aloud – not when the violet light over the mountains was breaking for a shade of scarlet. Soon, the great red orb of their sun would crest; the dawn was upon them. This was an important first moment, for any child.

Respectfully, he bowed his head and made ready to excuse himself by his emperor’s leave. This time was for clan – for family, high-born or not, and he would not intrude any further than he already had.

Zarkon, however, refused to allow him his retreat. “You will be by his side as much as I am in the years to come.” For saying so, there was a wry note to his voice. Such a truth was an unfortunate sacrifice of office, Kovrok knew – and one that, for a blinking, caused Zarkon’s blood-beat to pause. “Please, share this moment with us.”

He did not wait to see if his offer - his order, was obeyed before stepping forward with his son. No matter that he was invited to observe, Kovrok knew that this was not wholly his place to share. So, he remained a respectful distance away as the disk of their sun broke from the horizon, and watched from the shadows.

As Zarkon tilted his son to the light, whispering something that Kovrok could not wholly hear, he bowed his own head to summon the gods in his heart. This he would vow, he felt was right, even before his oath could be officially heard and sworn by the priests.

On this day, by the gods both high and low, I, Kovrok Anvon Khoth Sentut of the Clan of Marmora, swear my blade to you, Lotor Zarkon Sef Zerxus of the Clan of Daibazaal. From this moment forward, I promise my blood for your blood, my breath for your breath, my life for your life. All of the power that has been granted to me, I now entrust to you: I vow to seek your goals as my goals, to hold your enemies as my enemies, and to treasure your life above my own self. As Marmora lived and died for Daibazaal, so shall I live and die for you – as the gods witness my oath, so may my oath prove true.

“This I swear,” softly, he muttered aloud; once for the high gods. “This I swear,” once more, he whispered for the low gods. “This I swear,” and one last time, he vowed for himself.

Kovrok raised his head to the light, and watched the dawn as it flooded the sky.


~MJ