Page 33 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“I’m not a child,” I murmur, my voice steady even as my gaze flickers, momentarily distant.
“Do not disassociate to mask your terror,child!” Ignixis hisses, his hand shooting out to grasp my jaw sharply, forcing me to meet his piercing gaze. “Look at me!”
His eyes burn like twin emerald suns, searing through me, exposing every corner of my soul. I swear I can see the embers of his runes glowing red-hot, their heat prickling my skin—but maybe that’s just the bloodroot fumes messing with my head.
“You cannot hide the fear in your heart from me,” Ignixis growls, his fanged sneer dripping with contempt. “What’s the matter? Why don’t you call on the Gods to stop me? Succumb to your impotent human rage. Lash out. Crush me, as you did before.”
He laughs mockingly, his face mere inches from mine, the stench of his breath mingling with the spittle that sprays as he speaks. It wafts over me like the noxious fumes of an undead dragon. Yet, I have no fear. Only the acceptance of death or the sacred words of Arawnoth remain.
“Please, teach me the sacred words.” I ask, my voice steady as I lock eyes with his manic, otherworldly gaze.
His grin widens, grotesque and cruel. “Oh, dear,” he sneers, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Without Dracoth nearby you can’t use the Gods gift, can you?” He lifts a massive, gnarledhand, its shadow falling over my face. “A helpless little creature, fumbling in shadows it doesn’t understand.”
His amusement vanishes as his tone shifts, boiling into seething rage. “The notion of your kind learningourways sickens me!” he spits, his words dripping with venom. “It is an abomination!”
With an ominousclick, his claws extend, long and razor-sharp, catching the eerie green glow of the fumes and the flickering brazier. The runes on his face seem to pulse, a sinister heartbeat echoing in the silence.
But I refuse to flinch.
“I’m not afraid. My soul belongs to Arawnoth’s flames,” I declare, my voice steady and resolute. My gaze doesn’t waver, locked onto his blazing eyes.
The air between us is thick, almost suffocating, with the emerald tendrils of psychotic murder-drug fumes coiling like serpents around us. Time warps under the surreal haze of bloodroot-induced mania, yet somehow, I stand unshaken. How I’ve reached this strange place of peace and acceptance is a mystery to me.
With a sudden, sharp snap, Ignixis retracts his claws. A faint smile curves his blackened lips.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, inclining his bald, rune-etched head with a slow, deliberate grace. His long fingers reach down, brushing Todd with an unexpected gentleness. “You surprise me, blessed daughter. To wield such restraint while Arawnoth’s fury scorches your veins... impressive. Even faced with pain and death, your devotion burns—brighter than I imagined. A feat I believed beyond you.”
He settles back smoothly into his goth monk stance, the picture of unbothered serenity, as if he hadn’t been a heartbeat away from tearing me apart.
I release a breath, my chest tight with the lingering tension. Slowly, my wits begin to return, as though waking from a fevered nightmare. Deep down, I knew this was some twisted Demon Egg-head test—at least, I hope it was.
“You always underestimate me, Iggy,” I say, a thread of humor weaving into my voice. I stroke Todd, checking that the bloodroot hasn’t turned him into a feral murder bug. “Like everyone else,” I add, bitterness sharp in my tone. “But it’s fine. Todd and I forgive you.”
Ignixis barks a short laugh. “Indeed.” He gestures toward the ground with an outstretched hand. “Sit.”
Suppressing a groan, I awkwardly lower myself onto the cool marble floor, struggling to mimic his cross-legged position without knocking over the brazier beside him.
“So,” I start, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, “how does this work? Do I get some ancient tomes to decipher or...?” My voice betrays a mix of hope and trepidation.
Ignixis doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes close, and he inhales deeply, savoring the bloodroot-laden air like a sommelier with fine wine.
I frown, waving my hand before his face. “Uh, Iggy? Hello?”
“Arawnoth does favor you, child,” he intones, his voice low and reverent, as though reciting sacred scripture. “But the gifts you wield are not his. While Arawnoth’s love burns inside you as it does all living things, his molten fury belongs to Dracoth alone.”
My stomach twists. Not Arawnoth?
“Then who?” I whisper, the words barely audible.
Aenarael.
The name surfaces unbidden, pulling me back to theMortakin-Tok vision with dizzying clarity. That massive ship, those terrifying murder-bots, and the disgusting green goo.
I played the part of a Klendathian noblewoman called Aenarael. Like me, she could summon shields and barriers. Butby the time I realized what was happening, all hell had already broken loose. We barely made it to a massive chamber while the other two leaders pushed on ahead to face some monstrous machine.
It wasn’t Arawnoth after all. It was Aenarael.
The realization sends shivers racing down my spine, disappointing me to my very core with its betrayal, a lie, twisting my stomach like a cruel joke.
