Page 63 of Scorching the Alien Empire
But even my chug bug is denied to me here.
A jagged crack splinters through the ceiling, a sickening fracture that spreads like veins of black ice. The study’s warm glow flickers, warping into a biting, unnatural chill. Then, like snow beneath a cruel sun, the room dissolves. The mahogany shelves, the red leather chaise, the garish Isfahan rug—all of it liquefies, sloughing away in curling wisps of frostbitten mist. The floor vanishes beneath me, and in a blink, I’m no longer in the sanctuary of false warmth but hurled back into the howling abyss of the blizzard.
Icy death crashes into me, a force so brutal it steals the breath from my lungs. Snow lashes my face like a thousand razors, and the bitter wind gnaws at my skin with mindless hunger. But my mother—or the thing wearing her skin—remains untouched, standing pristine against the storm. She watches me with aknowing smirk, her eyes no longer dull gray but blazing, their depths swirling like liquid mercury. Endless, churning, ancient.
Shielding my face against the blizzard, I watch in horror as she begins to change. Her pale skin deepens into flawless crimson, her ears elongating into daggered points. Her hair spills over her shoulder, soft as golden light, and her body stretches taller, towering like Ignixis. Her lavender pantsuit unfurls into flowing white robes, adorned with strange, pointed shoulders. She is otherworldly. A vision of impossible beauty.
A Klendathian woman.
“I’m liquid mercury, your darkest fantasy, a divine entity, your beloved enemy,” she proclaims, her voice layered and discordant, echoing like an infinite choir of women speaking in unison. Or perhaps it’s just the storm twisting her words into something more.
My foot sinks into the snow, my instincts screaming at me to run. Her gaze, smoldering and unreadable, pins me in place like a mouse caught beneath a cat’s paw.
I pull my cloak tighter around me, desperate for warmth, for something familiar—Dracoth’s arms. More than ever, I need his heat, his protection from this... whatever this is.
“Um,” I begin, my teeth chattering. “That’s a lot of names. And, um... interesting meanings. But I really must be going now.” I whirl around, despite having no idea where to go, seeing only endless white in every direction. “Thanks for the emotional trauma, though.”
Before I can take a step, she materializes before me, so suddenly, so effortlessly, that I flinch backward.
“How deliciously flawed you are.” She leers down at me, her burning eyes spilling silvery smoke, unmoved by the storm. “I chose well. Truly a beauty,” she tuts, eyes tracing my divine mark. “Such a shame Arawnoth marred you so. How rude of him to mark my pet.”
Her voice drips with aristocratic disdain, and I notice—really notice—how her features shift, flickering between countless variations of beauty, as though she is all of them and none of them at once.
And then it hits me. My stomach drops, a pit of ice forming in its depths.
“You’re Aenarael,” I breathe.
She smiles, the expression sharp as a dagger. “I have had many names throughout the eons—sanctified. Vilified. Prophesized. Justified.” She lingers on each word, savoring them as she traces a clawed finger along my cheek, making my skin crawl. “But in this cycle, you may call me Aenarael. Such a shame you’re still going byPrincesa—how utterly embarrassing.”
I scowl, slapping her hand away. “It was Carmen who gave me that stupid name, and Dracoth who insists everyone calls me it!”
Aenarael smirks before turning, her form momentarily warping into that of a young human woman with braided blonde hair, clad in an old-fashioned medieval gown.
“We didn’t get this far by falling to our knees,” she says, her voice rich with amusement. Then, in the blink of an eye, she is the towering Klendathian again, radiant and commanding. “We have no fear. We are balance. We are glorified. Worshipped. Dignified.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter, my voice barely audible above the storm. I wish I were strong enough to embody those ideals, wish I were glorified. Worshipped.
Aenarael sighs, her frustration carrying the weight of something ancient. “That I must be bound to Arawnoth this cycle is... tedious.” She rolls her eyes, her voice splintering into layered echoes. “No elegance. No restraint. He sparks creation into all lifeless things—even you.”
She laughs then, a haunting, cascading sound that prickles my skin with unease.
Hatred flares hot and sudden in my chest, cutting through the cold like fire. “Arawnoth saved me,” I snarl, my voice raw with conviction. “He’s myGod! He’ll burn you toashfor your blasphemy!”
Aenarael’s amusement does not waver. If anything, it deepens. “No fires can burn here without my grace.” She lifts her arms, spinning like a dancer, her long robes swirling around her. A twisted, demented ballerina. “Do you like it? I made this just for you. A frozen cage, perfectly fit for mybeautifully flawed pet.”
She stops suddenly, her expression turning razor-sharp. “You belong tome, Alexandra. Youalwayshave.”
“No!” I shriek, my voice breaking with fury. “Where were you when Kazumi died? When the darkness came?Only Arawnoth cared! Only he took away my pain!”
Aenarael sighs, as if I am nothing more than an unruly child. “Yes, and I am very upset with him for that.”
Her apathy, her utterindifferenceto all of it, makes me sick.
“Look into my eyes,” she commands, stepping closer, her presence overwhelming. And I do. I can’t help it.
I drown in their depths.
They churn, galaxies folding into themselves, universes within universes.
