Page 21 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Yes,” I growl, unclenching my fists.
“Good, Dracoth. Very good. You learn quickly,” Ignixis purrs, stroking his runic chin. “Unrestrained anger makes you stupid—easy to manipulate, easy to break. No, it must be wielded like a, like a,” His hooded gaze sweeps the training room, searching for inspiration.
I lift my wooden claws.
“Ah, yes! Like claws,” he declares, his voice taking on an exaggerated grandiosity. “A fine metaphor! If our claws extended of their own accord, we’d never dare wipe our backsides!”
He doubles over, cackling at his own absurdity. Jazreal snorts, chuckling despite himself, while I remain still, my patience thinning.
“Could you imagine?” Ignixis finally straightens, wiping a tear from his eye. “Now, where was I?” he mutters, his gaze drifting to the sand at his feet.
“How many ships and crew have I won?” I prompt, hoping to bypass his incessant gas-cloud rants and ravings.
“That wasn’t it,” he tuts, feigning injury as he presses a hand to his chest. “How cruel of you to take advantage of a doting elder.”
I scoff at the vipertail’s irony—it is he who takes advantage. I throw sharp jabs into the air with my practice claws to keep from throttling him.
“Thanks to your clever ploy,” Ignixis begins again, “nearly three hundred ships lie abandoned inside Pulsar’s moon. Although, calling them ships might be overly generous, considering their—”
“And the crew to operate them?” I interject sharply, refusing to let him meander off course.
“The crew?” Ignixis scoffs, his voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, I’m afraid they won’t be operating much, young Dracoth. You see, we’ve been sweeping their charred remains into bins all morning.” His lips curl into a venefex-like grin as his predatory gaze locks onto mine. “Perhaps we could mix their ashes with borack milk for you? I know you’ve developed quite a taste for devouring the weak.”
He throws his head back, cackling—a sound sharp and unhinged.
My blow falters, and an involuntary twitch ripples through my eye.
So many Whores’ Orphans burned in my flames. It was glorious, yes—but it was butchery. A flicker of regret, sharp and shameful, threatens to dampen my triumph.
Even junkers, pathetic as they were, deserved a chance to fight, to prove their worth in honorable battle. Princesa had ensured their slaughter by sealing their escape, a goddess of death descending upon the battlefield. Beautiful and merciless, my Mortakin-Kis demanded sacrifice.
“You feel sorrow for them?” Ignixis coos, and I curse myself for revealing any emotion. “Even now? After they spat on your offer of surrender?” he prods, slithering closer, studying me as though I were a wounded wyrm.
“There is no honor in slaughtering those who cannot fight back!” I roar, rounding on him. My fangs bared, my eyes misting crimson. “Where is the glory in that? When even the greatest warrior would be helpless?”
“By Arawnoth, you are an enigma, young Dracoth,” Ignixis chuckles, his withered hand resting lightly on my wrist. “But tell me—if you hadn’t called upon Arawnoth’s gift, would the result have been any different?”
“I might’ve worked up a sweat,” Jazreal interjects with a smirk, casually twirling his wooden spear.
“Would they not have died all the same?” Ignixis presses, his grip tightening. “If not burned, then torn apart or crushed? Their bones shattered, their guts spilled, their dying gasps filling the air as they watched their brothers fall to a living titan of war. Is that the glorious end you’d have preferred for them?”
“They still would have died fighting,” I growl, though my gaze drifts downward to the coarse sand beneath my feet.
“You show modesty for once,” Ignixis cackles, waving his free hand dismissively. “You’d have butchered them like livestock. Better they burned in Arawnoth’s embrace—it was their destiny to fuel his rage. And if the Gods are kind, perhaps they will be reborn in strength. No?”
Perhaps he speaks the truth?Yet his words swirl in my mind, like oil on water, it does not dissolve my angst.
The low rumble of the Battlebarge’s engines reverberates through the stale, heavy air. Jazreal’s whistling spear cuts through the silence as Ignixis sighs and releases his grip.
“Some junkers remained aboard their ships,” Ignixis says at last, his tone almost casual. “Those ones escaped death—cowards who deserved it most. Perhaps a hundred or so. They tripped over themselves to pledge allegiance once they saw the smoky husks of their brothers.” His laughter is a soft, sinister hiss as he glides away, a shadow slipping into the dim light.
Relief floods through me. Survivors. They can pilot the ships—though many will require automation. My power grows, even now.
“Balsar nearly soiled himself when he saw what became of his former ‘smoky brothers,’” Jazreal says, stepping gracefully into the arena, his spear poised in challenge. A smirk flickers across his unmarred cheek. “But it’s what came after that truly spooked him.” He spins his weapon with a theatrical flourish, the tip slicing lazy arcs through the air.
“Spooked me too!” he shouts, springing forward. His spear flashes like brown lightning, a relentless barrage of thrusts aimed straight for me.
Caught off guard, I’m forced to step back, turning aside the strikes with my claws. The rapid clatter echoes through the chamber, each blow closer than the last. His movements are too quick, his weapon a blur I can’t catch.
