Page 68 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Despite the terror, I can’t resist twisting the knife, knowing no matter what I do, I’m moments from death.
“Oh, that’s just blood carrying love-oxygen to the wound,” I say, mustering all the haughty indifference honed from years of practice in that hellish boarding school. “I mean, you sounded so terribly detached earlier—you surprise me, great Goddess Aenarael.” I smirk. “Honestly, I thought you were above such mortal concerns.”
She glares at me, the tension thicker than the mercury ocean surrounding us. I brace myself, expecting to be turned into plankton or something equally horrible at any second.
Then, like a glorious miracle, her expression softens. A faint smile curls her lips. She releases her grip, and I drop—but instead of plunging into the silvery depths, my feet touch something almost solid, sending ripples over its surface.
Aenarael traces the molten runes on my chest, her sharp claws gliding over them with an almost delicate touch. A strange wonder flickers in her gaze, but if she were anyone else, I’d swat her hand away from my divine boobs.
“The cycle burns eternal...” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. The multiple voices in her tone no longer ring with anger, but something quieter, something deeper. “So be it, then. Let it blaze a little longer, Arawnoth.”
She whirls around suddenly, and I take my first easy breath since entering this bizarre realm of madness.
I can feel it—I’ve changed her mind. A Goddess’s mind! Elation floods through me like a tsunami. She’ll help me reach Arawnoth, help me find the answers I seek.
“Tell me the sacred words!” I exclaim, eager desperation obvious in my tone.
“There are no sacred words as you understand them,” Aenarael replies, her casual dismissal carrying the weight of ahammer blow. “Merely lingering fragments from a cycle long faded.”
She flutters her hand, and an enormous mercury globe emerges from the ocean. “Though some words certainly have power. None more so than those that will grace your ears now.” The silver moon dissolves into a cascading downpour of mercury rain.
“Arawnoth goes to his death,” she intones, turning dramatically, her pristine robes twirling in the white light.
Her words steal the air from my lungs like a punch to the gut. “No...” The whisper barely escapes my lips, my gaze dropping to the runes flaring on my chest.
“...How can he die?” My voice gathers strength as I snap my eyes back to Aenarael. “A God of endless life and fire?”
“Another God, of course.”
She turns over her palm, and the mercury ocean heaves. From its depths, a great silver flame bursts forth, writhing like a living thing. It lashes at the air, undulating in a way that sends unease curling through my gut.
“One of entropy—a shadow against the dying light of stars.”
She raises her other hand, and a single droplet of liquid mercury lifts from the water, impossibly small compared to the raging inferno.
“The Voidbringer,” she intones, her voice a hymn of inevitability.
Slowly, she brings her hands together. The moment her fingers meet, the silver fire is dragged, strand by strand, into the minuscule droplet—screaming, unraveling, until nothing remains. My stomach twists at the sheerwrongnessof its presence.
“The silence—the end of all things. It has a certain poetic beauty to it.” Aenarael exhales a wistful sigh, tilting her headtoward the immense white sun above. “No pain. No ugliness. No eternity. Only... oblivion.”
A chill runs through me.She welcomes this.The thought is nauseating.
“Please, great Goddess, help us stop this!” I plead, my voice thick with desperation.
Inside me, a spark remains—Arawnoth’s ember, burning against the inevitability she speaks of. Even that faint light is enough to fill me with revulsion at the mere thought of surrender—a sickening and abhorrent loathing that must be stopped.
Aenarael watches me for a long moment before finally inclining her head.
“I will aid you, daughter. When the time comes.” She turns slowly, a faint smile painting her beautiful, shifting faces. “Heed my words, and heed them well.”
The ocean erupts. A figure bursts from the depths, floating effortlessly in the air, draped in flowing mercury robes.
“Arawnoth’s herald has woven fascinating schemes—an impressive mortal.” Aenarael’s gaze flicks toward the hooded figure. “Though what is brilliance when it serves a master enslaved to a singular, burning desire?”
With a flick of her fingers, a silver blindfold materializes around the figure’s hood.
“An idiot?” I supply automatically.
