Page 192 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Those were Arsasrk’s hunts,” Corsark drones, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “It was my honor to fight beside him. Despite his youth, he was among the finest Ravager Berserkers I have ever served with.” He thumps his chest, bowing low. “May you rest with the ancestors, dearest friend.”
And just like that, the final funeral ends. My cue.
I step forward, voice sharp and ringing, slicing through the smog like a blade.
“Arawnoth teaches...” I pause, letting my words tingle their imaginations with anticipation. “To shun the weak and the soft.”
Gasps. Stillness. All eyes turn to me.
I climb the treacherous dais of melted metal and slag, hands raised in divine theatrics. “Let us not rest. Let uspraythat we are reborn in strength—tempered and transformed in his molten image!”
A sea of hardened faces stares up at me, rapt and reverent, and my heartthrumswith wild joy. I love it! This—thisis what I was born for. They see me. Not just as a pretty face or a holy mouthpiece. Theyseeme—as the goddess I am. The one they’ll follow.
Arawnoth’s blessing sears my skin in radiant proof, a blaze upon my chest and throat. I trace the raised runes with reverent fingers, my eyes gleaming—silver and crimson, smoking with divine mist.
“Sons of Scarn, your brothers did not fall for mere glory, and you did not endure for mere conquest,” I call out, voice sharp as a three-piece suit pressed with righteous fury. “But for a future worthburningfor. A dream of hope. Once fragile andfading, now blazing all around us. Ripped into reality by your strength, your resolve.” I turn, sweeping a hand toward the lava below. “This accursed planet borne witness. It has tasted that power,chokedon your blood, and spat out that which can never surrender, never die!”
I end with my arms raised to the ash-streaked heavens, Sock-Chair cloak billowing, robes flaring behind me like liquid shadow and glory. The words spill automatically, coming from some deep part of me.
Breathless. Heart pounding. I squeeze my eyes shut, ready—no, expecting—the cheers. The roar. The worship I’m owed.
Nothing.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that screams louder than a nuclear blast.
Did they disappear? Teleport away out of embarrassment or awe? My eyes snap open. Nope. Still there. Standing like statues, their masked faces blank and maddeningly unreadable.
What the actual fuck is happening?
A storm of Lexie-moths flutters in my gut. My foot slides back. I scan the crowd like it’s a pop quiz I didn’t study for. Looking for the joke. The trick. The betrayal.
No boogers. No nip slip. No blasphemous stickers.
Dracoth side-eyes me like I’m a known shoplifter in a high-end boutique. All folded arms and Mr. Frowny Face on full frown mode. Of course, he offers no help. No lifeline. Just watching me die, live on stage, like I dropped a sex joke at the Vatican talent show.
And then it hits me. Like a stiletto heel to the shins.
Hedid this.
Hedid something. Something sneaky and weird. Something sonotDracoth it makes my head spin.
I feel like I’m sinking, boots melting into the slag. A sick déjà vu crawls up my spine. Like I’m fading out of reality. Here, butnot here. Seen, but invisible. A horrible curse I thought I’d never suffer again.
I have to fix this. Win them back. Be adored again.
“Co... come,” I stammer, fumbling for the hefty pouch of recently acquired crispy remains. My fingers betray me. The treacherous pouch slips—plop—onto the ground.
“Oh... butter fingers.” I giggle, the sound of a mouse squeak to my ears. I snatch up the ashes, force a smile. Straighten with all the divine dignity I can scrape together—a manicured nail’s worth.
“Come, sons of Scarn. Receive the Herald’s sanctified ashes. Let Elder Ignixis and Arawnoth burn away your weakness. Let their spirits infuse your soul, bolster your might!” I offer, holding aloft the pouch, its faint warmth pulsing against my hand.
More silence.
I feel myself shrinking. Curling inward. Like that time Divine Mother Aenarael turned me into a Lexie-moth during the Mura-Tok.
Then—movement.
