Page 119 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Mother?” Princesa gasps, awe blossoming on her face.
“By Arawnoth!” The warriors exclaim. Some fall to their knees. Others remove their warvisors, tears streaming down their scarred faces.
Even Drexios stares in astonishment. Slowly, hesitantly, he approaches one of the windows. A red-haired female inside smiles gently, her hand mirroring his. His fingers hover over the glass. Quivering.
“What is this?” His head snaps to Razgor. His lip trembles. “Is this some voiding Scythian trick? Some final sick joke?”
“It’s no trick,” Razgor murmurs, breathless. “They survived.” His wrist console scans furiously through the glass, data streaming in.
Drexios stares at the female again. “After all this time...” he breathes. “I never thought there was a way back. Not after everything we’ve done—what we did to them.” His hands clench into fists. “I can’t... I can’t face them...” His fingers twitch, hovering near the glass, as if reaching for a past that no longer exists.
He turns away, his torn scaled half-cloak swooshing violently as he storms down the corridor. His shoulders shaking with raw sobs.
“Come on, I want to meet my mother-in-law,” Princesa says brightly, her voice oblivious to the weight of the moment. “I mean, she can’t be worse than my basic mother.” She barks a short laugh, wiggling her hips in my arm.
I rise to my feet. Eyes locked on my mother as I approach her cell door. But she does not react, does not move. My gut clenches. I recall this feeling, her like this. Always unresponsive. Hollow. Traumatized.
Razgor works frantically at the deactivated terminal, trying to power it through his wrist console. “War Chieftain, I’m still trying to locate the—”
BOOM!
I drive my armored boot through the cell door with a savage kick an aurodon would envy. The arcweave buckles and warps beneath my strength. Its hinges shatter. With a roar, I tear the remnants from the frame—hurling it aside when a deafening crash of metal on metal.
Despite the thunderous bang, my mother doesn’t react. She remains seated upon the wooden chair, rocking slowly, green eyes distant, whispering the faintest hymn. The same hymn from my memories. The same hymn that haunts my nights.
“Release the others. Hurry,” I command with a sweep of my arm, but my gaze never leaves her.
My berserkers hesitate before responding. Some still kneel on the cold metal floor, weeping—faces raw with emotion. Expressions so foreign on these long-haired veterans, these conquerors of a thousand battles—the mightiest warriors in the universe now crying like the children we never got to be.
I rush to my mother’s side, kneeling before her, taking her fragile hand in mine. She is my mother. There is no doubt now. I feel it deep in my marrow, an unspoken affinity only Princesa has ever matched. The memories that haunted me are real. This room—once looming large, an ominous specter in my mind—is now a mere cell. No—a prison. A twisted cage.
“Mother...” My voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. I gently squeeze her hand, the same hand that once stroked my head in idle gestures of comfort. “It is Dracoth... your son.”
The words which should be so simple carry the weight of centuries—a yawning gulf festering at the heart of my people. She does not respond. She merely rocks slightly, golden hair shifting in long, delicate waves. My lip trembles, eyes burning. It’s too cruel—what they’ve done to her. The answers I sought are not spoken in joyous reunion. They are carved into her vacant eyes.
“Mother, please speak,” I plead, voice wavering, the threat of tears rising like a storm. “I should’ve come sooner... we all should have. Every one of us... please, forgive us.”
My head bows, shoulders shaking as the first tears fall. Tears falling from eyes that have almost never known them. I hate it. Loath it. This weakness. But I cannot stop. It is too raw. Too intense. Too painful.
She doesn’t understand. Can’t understand how sorry I am. How much I want to make this right. But I can’t.
Not even I, with my limitless strength. The War Chieftain, bearing the power of Arawnoth. And still, I can do nothing. Because it is our fault. My fault. My people’s fault. Fools. Blinded by rage and glories.
How could we feel anything but the rankest shame and disgrace, knowing they languished here in unimaginable suffering while we reveled in the ashes of victories already forgotten?
“Battle after battle... for centuries... for what?” My voice is raw, shaking. “Killing enemies that meant us no harm. For allies who did this to us!” The words pour out, bitter, oozing from me like the liquid spilling from my face. “How could a single one of us rest knowing this was the cost.” My hand tightens on the hem of her simple white polymer gown.
“Dracoth...” Princesa’s whisper cuts through the storm, soft—an anathema to the fury simmering inside me.
“Knowing you were suffering and dying while we served the very enemy who did this to you!” My sorrow turns twists, turning molten fury.
With a bellowing roar, I slam my fist into the metal floor. Once. Twice. Over and over. Each impact rings through her loathsome cage—my cradle of suffering.
“Stop, Dracoth,” Princesa grabs my arm, trying to stop me—a feeble attempt.
Pain bursts over my knuckles, but I hardly feel it. This pain is nothing. The floor warps, a deepening crater forming beneath my mighty hammer blows. If there were time—I would rend this room into ruin. Melt every bolt, every fiber of arcweave—forge it into the sharpest blade, to pierce the infinite circuity comprising the cold mechanical heart of the Voidbringer.
“Stop for fuck’s sake!” Princesa shouts. My fist crashes down, but this time, it strikes a shimmering silver barrier. A divine wall of unbreakable force. My titanic blow skids across its surface, my strength redirecting unexpectedly toward my left. I nearly topple.
