Page 35 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Squiggly one...” he repeats, groaning and massaging his temples as if warding off a migraine.
Sensing I might be losing my shot, I quickly add, “I do know some French. Oh, and I recently picked up some Spanish curse words!”
Too many, actually.
Relief floods through me when Ignixis doesn’t reject me outright. Instead, he thumbs the lines of his forehead, shaking his head slowly, disdain radiating off him like heat from the brazier.
He’s flummoxed. I can work with flummoxed.
“I don’t see what the big fuss is,” I say, cutting through the awkward silence. “Why can’t we just translate the runes into my language?”
I beam at him, the solution—like me—so beautifully elegant.
Ignixis fixes me with a look of utter contempt, his voice dipping low and reverent. “You aliens... always eager to flatten the profound into the mundane,” he begins. “Your scribblings—those crude marks you call language—are but shadows on the wall, cast by a dim intellect concerned only with the material.”
His emerald eyes burn with fervor as he continues. “To you, they are squiggles. To me, they are living expressions of divine intent. Reducing them to your clumsy words would strip them of their etymological meaning, theirsoul. It would be nothing short of desecration.”
His voice drops to a stern, hushed whisper. “So, no, child, we cannot ‘just translate’ the runes. To even suggest such a thing is an affront to Arawnoth’s glory.”
“Fine, okay! I get it!” I raise my hands in surrender, thoroughly overwhelmed by his boring lecture. “But maybe I could appreciate theirdivine intentif I could actuallyseetherunes!” I squint dramatically at his wrinkled forehead, leaning forward for emphasis. “I mean, they’re practically swallowed up in all the folds and lines. Not to mention the color—black on red? Not exactly a good contrast.”
“Bah!” Ignixis barks, throwing his hands in the air. “Blame an old elder for your poor eyesight, will you? Perhaps I should shred these robes andfinda spot where the runes are legible. Wouldthatenlighten you?”
Eww!
The mental image he conjures makes my face scrunch up like I’ve just sucked a hundred of the bitterest lemons at once.
“As I thought, beauty abhors the horrid.” He cackles, clearly enjoying my discomfort, before pulling back his sleeve, activating his watch computer thingy.
With a tap of his long, gnarled finger, the device hums to life, projecting a shimmering blue holographic display into the air. The flickering light bathes the room, casting wild shadows across the walls.
“This,” he says, tilting his wrist to give me a better view, “is a simple children’s story—Geldior and the Elerium Borack. A humorous tale, but most importantly, short.” He smirks, clearly relishing the moment. “Can you read these runes, or do youreyesfail you still?”
Each large rune glows in vivid azure, spaced apart with whimsical illustrations of golden-furred versions of the beasts I’d seen in Star City. A smiling Klendathian child rides atop the creature’s back, its exaggerated features giving it a charming, storybook quality.
The runes themselves are as intricate and varied as hieroglyphics—clear and readable, yet utterly meaningless to me. At the end of the display one rune stands apart, its lines more fluid and personal, as though drawn by hand.
“What does this one mean?” I ask, my tone tinged with wonder. My finger brushes the projection, sending ripples across the glowing display like water disturbed by a stone.
“That,” Ignixis mutters, his gaze faltering. He hesitates before adding, almost too quietly, “Etharn. He was my son.”
Was.
The single word hangs in the air like a curse. Ignixis’s lips tremble, his emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sight is so startling on the terrifying elder that I can’t help but gasp.
“Etharn,” I repeat softly, refocusing on the rune, trying to emblazon its shape into my memory. “It has a nice ring to it.” I offer a small, tentative smile, reaching out to offer some comfort. “I’m sorry you lost—”
“Save your weak words, child,” Ignixis interrupts sharply, yanking his hand back as though burned. “They have no place here, nor in me.”
The raw sorrow on his face twists into something grotesque—a mask of rage and hatred.
“Any unshed tears werescorchedaway in Arawnoth’s fires when I turned to him for strength,” he snarls, his voice trembling with restrained fury. “That was many years ago.”
For a moment, the room feels impossibly heavy. Then, as if flipping a switch, Ignixis takes a deep, steadying breath. His expression smooths, returning to its usual faintly annoyed expression.
“Now,” he says, his voice formal, “let us start with the basics. There is much to do, and little time.”
A smile curls my lips as the hologram shifts, the other runes disappearing until only one remains.
