Page 61 of Scorching the Alien Empire
The blizzard swallows my plea, twisting it into a warped, mocking echo.
My stomach knots. He should hear me. Hemustanswer. Even a flicker of his flames, even thebarestwhisper of heat—anything.
But there is nothing. Not even the ghost of warmth in my own breath.
Even he has abandoned me.
My tears freeze against my cheeks, forming jagged crystals I have to scrape away just to open my eyes.
I wish I hadn’t.
The world is nothing but endless white—undisturbed snow stretching farther than I can see. Jagged mountains tear into the storm-cloaked sky, their peaks lost in the swirling blizzard. Sheer cliffs drop into an abyss of nothingness.
It’s Aroth all over again—the freezer Ignixis stuffed me into. Only worse. Colder. Starker. With no sign of life... perhaps ever.
I huddle deeper into my cloak, but it’s useless. My fingers, ears, and feet have long since gone numb. Ice crystals form across my black clothes, spreading fast. By all logic, I should already be dead. But whatever force dragged me here—it wants me alive and suffering.
But why?
Then, as if summoned, a wooden door materializes before me.
No flashing lights. No rippling dark metal. Just a door—plain, human, ordinary.
Except it leads nowhere.
It stands alone, half-buried in snow, unattached to any wall or structure. It shouldn’t exist. Yet here it is.
I’d grimace, but my face is as frozen stiff as an over-Botoxed celeb.
With no other choice, I reach for the handle. The bronze knob sears my fingers with an agonizing freeze-burn, but I force my grip to hold. The door groans open, the sound swallowed by the storm.
I brace myself, unsure if I’m about to be devoured by some monster, or worse, another endless void of snow.
Instead, warmth washes over me.
The scent of fresh peonies fills the air, mingling with hints of leather and Chardonnay. The combination unsettles me, but I can’t place why.
Driven by the promise of heat and shelter, I step through.
A study unfolds before me, grand and familiar. Nearly floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along the walls, framed by silk curtains the color of champagne. The deep, lacquered navy walls gleam under soft lighting, lined with towering mahogany bookshelves filled with untouched first editions.
Then my gaze lands onit.
That misplaced desk!
Monolithic. Overly dramatic. A statement piece trying too hard.
And, of course, the Queen Bitch’s throne—her high-backed, ivory-upholstered armchair, brass detailing polished to a mirror shine.
This room. These furnishings. A wannabe New York empress with more money than taste.
I’d recognize this place anywhere.
My mother’s study.
“Shut that door, it’s freezing, Alexandra!” My mother’s voice whips my head around, sharp as a lash. There she is—lounging on her red leather chaise, a magazine in one hand, a delicate glass of wine resting nearby.
“Elizabeth...” I mutter, like I’m seeing a ghost. Except a ghost might be more pleasant.
