Page 13 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Ignixis’s gaze drifts, his voice taking on a chant-like rhythm, as if seeing something unique to him.
Jazreal glances between us, his expression as bewildered as I feel inside. “Elder Ignixis?” he ventures, his voice tinged with concern.
“Yes...” Ignixis mutters distantly, blinking as if returning from some other realm. “Yes? Ah, forgive me. A fanciful thought seized me—an affliction of old age, I fear.” A faint grin creases his lips. “But I trust my meaning was clear? Now, continue.” He waves a blackened, gnarled hand toward us.
As clear as a Scarn ash storm.
I inhale deeply, forcing my molten rage to simmer beneath the surface. His words linger, though, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.
How much does he know? Could Krogoth be the darkness he speaks of?
Time dissolves into an unrelenting torment of punishing lessons from Jazreal.
Countless furious engagements leave me coming off the worse with yet more welts painting my entire body like a canvas of suffering.
Yet, I heed Ignixis’s words. I endure. I will endure any pain if it means I can one day wrap my molten grip around Krogoth’s throat and snuff the life from him.
That day—my day of shame—burns hotter than any lash Jazreal can deliver.
We finally break apart, both panting heavily. The oppressive weight of the graviton belt clings to me like a second skin, draining every ounce of my endurance, strength, and speed. A sharp sting bites into my shin—another brutal reminder to expect an attack from anywhere, at any moment.
“You improve... quickly,” Jazreal concedes, between gulping air. “Still,” he jabs his spear at my feet, “your footwork? Like a broken Battlebarge limping through a meteor storm.”
His assessment is charitable. My legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. Exhaustion and the great weight sapping me of my remaining strength. But I will not fall. I will not submit. Not now. Not ever again.
Ignixis creeps around the outskirts of our sandy arena like a shadow made flesh.
“The sun accuses the moon of being purple, Death Herald,” he titters, jabbing a bony, accusatory finger at Jazreal’s sand-covered boots.
“You strut like a preening puffrio during mating season—Inefficient embellishments unfit for any battlefield.”
I suppress a grin as Jazreal freezes, blinking as though Ignixis’s words had physically struck him.
“Mating puffrio?” he repeats, shaking his head in disdain. “Why don’t you demonstrate for us, Elder?” he offers, raising his wooden spear, its tip still slick with my blood.
“Hmph!” Ignixis recoils, wrinkling his nose at the weapon as if it were a vipertail.
“My days of fighting have long since passed,” he says, smoothing the void-black folds of his robe with deliberate indifference.
“But perhaps you’d do well to heed my earlier words intended for Dracoth.
” His tone hardens, cutting through the stale air.
“Our destinies will not be shaped by muscle and skill alone. Resolve and intelligence will guide—or doom us.”
I barely register his lecture through the haze of my exhaustion, my lungs burning as I gulp in the stagnant, recycled air. But his green eyes, alight with an ominous intensity, lock onto mine.
“Tell me, young Dracoth,” he demands, his voice sharp. “Who leads Clan Sanaxus?”
Clan Sanaxus. Allies of the weakling Draxxus, dwelling in the harsh sands of Nardune. Their Chieftain’s name—a mystery.
“I... don’t know,” I admit, my voice ragged, each breath an agony of disturbed bruises.
“Aelioth!” Ignixis snaps, his black robes swirling as he throws his hands up in exasperation. “Aelioth is his name!”
“Sand for brains, that one,” Jazreal snorts, leaning on his spear.
“Arawnoth give me strength,” Ignixis groans, his eyes rolling skyward as if searching the cold metal ceiling for divine guidance.
“How are you to lead the Clans when you know so little? You are not ready, yet there is no time left for us.” His gaze falters briefly, his lips pursing as if concocting some unpleasant solution to this “ problem .”
The tension shatters with the soft swoosh of the training room doors sliding open. My gaze shifts agonizingly slowly toward the intruder.
“Oh, here they are. They’re playing with their sticks again,” Princesa says, glancing over her shoulder.
She looks radiant as always, her flowing golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her perfect curves accentuated by a sleek black leather outfit trimmed in gold, framed by her regal Chieftainess cloak.
She’s plump and delicious, like a ripe fruit begging for its skin to be peeled and the tasty insides devoured.
“Hey, babes,” she says casually, glancing at me with that wicked grin that only she dares wield. “Why do you look constipated? More so than usual, I mean.”
That name— babes . A recent addition to her arsenal of taunts. Implying I’m some kind of suckling infant. How it irks me. Yet I refuse to let it show, convinced without the light of attention it will wither and die.
Her grin widens, daring and mischievous. “Oh, you don’t like your new name?” She gasps in mock offense, raising a hand to her mouth. “Well, stop calling me Princesa, and maybe I’ll stop calling you babes. How about that, babes?”
This treacherous bond reveals too much!
“Never,” I rasp through strained lungs. “You are my Princesa. That is your name.”
Princesa scoffs, but before she can reply, Sandra steps into the room, carrying the useless, lazily blinking Todd on her shoulder.
“Hello,” Sandra says with a warm smile, her voice soft yet firm. “It’s nice to see everyone returned safely.”
“And you, lovely Sandra, and War Chieftainess,” Jazreal replies smoothly, giving a slight bow before running a hand through his long, glossy, kept hair.
Ignixis was right—he struts like a preening puffrio. If my face wasn’t so swollen, I might have smiled.
“Hail, blessed daughter and pleasant Sandra,” Ignixis mutters without looking up, his attention fixed on the blue, glowing display of his wrist console. “You must excuse me. The hour grows late, and the dim cannot tolerate the light.”
With that cryptic remark, Ignixis turns, hastening toward the exit, appearing to glide over the coarse sand and smaller training equipment, his black robes billowing behind him.
“Wait!” Princesa snaps, her voice sharp. She steps into his path with a commanding hand raised, despite Ignixis towering over her. “I want to speak to you about something.”
“ Something . Such a vague, non-descriptive term,” Ignixis muses, tilting his head like a curious arrohawk studying its prey.
“Something could be anything, and anything could be everything. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain everything to those lacking the faculties for understanding.”
Princesa freezes, stunned into silence. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Through our bond, I feel her silver flame rage, flaring bright and wild, reaching for the crimson inferno of my fury. Yet I resist. I deny her our shared power, choosing restraint over destruction. Ignixis must live.
With a dramatic flourish, Ignixis swishes his robes and strides out of the training room, a dark storm cloud rolling inexorably across the horizon.
“What a fucking rude prick!” Princesa bursts out, her voice trembling with indignation. Her cheeks flush with an alluring shade of pink as she spins toward Sandra. “What is his problem? And what was that nonsense about tolerating the light? So random.”
Sandra shifts Todd’s weight on her shoulder and shrugs, her blue leather shirt wrinkling under the movement. “No idea,” she replies, her tone neutral.
But I know. Ignixis has no patience for the lesser species, not even a beautiful human blessed by Arawnoth himself. And something else drives him. His constant complaints about time, as though a monstrous venefex is stalking just beyond sight.
“He plots.”