Page 18 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

He settles back smoothly into his goth monk stance, the picture of unbothered serenity, as if he hadn’t been a heartbeat away from tearing me apart.

I release a breath, my chest tight with the lingering tension. Slowly, my wits begin to return, as though waking from a fevered nightmare. Deep down, I knew this was some twisted Demon Egg-head test—at least, I hope it was.

“You always underestimate me, Iggy,” I say, a thread of humor weaving into my voice. I stroke Todd, checking that the bloodroot hasn’t turned him into a feral murder bug. “Like everyone else,” I add, bitterness sharp in my tone. “But it’s fine. Todd and I forgive you.”

Ignixis barks a short laugh. “Indeed.” He gestures toward the ground with an outstretched hand. “Sit.”

Suppressing a groan, I awkwardly lower myself onto the cool marble floor, struggling to mimic his cross-legged position without knocking over the brazier beside him.

“So,” I start, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, “how does this work? Do I get some ancient tomes to decipher or...?” My voice betrays a mix of hope and trepidation.

Ignixis doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes close, and he inhales deeply, savoring the bloodroot-laden air like a sommelier with fine wine.

I frown, waving my hand before his face. “Uh, Iggy? Hello?”

“Arawnoth does favor you, child,” he intones, his voice low and reverent, as though reciting sacred scripture. “But the gifts you wield are not his. While Arawnoth’s love burns inside you as it does all living things, his molten fury belongs to Dracoth alone.”

My stomach twists. Not Arawnoth?

“Then who?” I whisper, the words barely audible.

Aenarael.

The name surfaces unbidden, pulling me back to the Mortakin-Tok vision with dizzying clarity. That massive ship, those terrifying murder-bots, and the disgusting green goo.

I played the part of a Klendathian noblewoman called Aenarael.

Like me, she could summon shields and barriers.

But by the time I realized what was happening, all hell had already broken loose.

We barely made it to a massive chamber while the other two leaders pushed on ahead to face some monstrous machine.

It wasn’t Arawnoth after all. It was Aenarael.

The realization sends shivers racing down my spine, disappointing me to my very core with its betrayal, a lie, twisting my stomach like a cruel joke.

“If Aenarael is my God, then where was she when you nearly froze me to death? Where was she when Kazumi died?” My voice rises, bitter and sharp. “It was only Arawnoth who came, only his flames that kept me sane.”

The words spill from me in a heated rush, raw and unfiltered.

“Curious that you so readily identify Aenarael as the progenitor of your gifts,” Ignixis titters softly, his tone laced with mischief. His eyes remain closed, but I curse myself inwardly for exposing hints from the Mortakin-Tok.

“As to your questions...” He pauses, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, as though savoring the tension in the air. “I cannot say. Only Arawnoth’s will is known to me. Even through my deepest Mura-Tok’s I glimpse only fragments of his divine presence.”

His reply does nothing to soothe my anger; it only sharpens the icy knife of disappointment twisting in my chest.

“Then what fucking good is she—”

“You mustn’t!” Ignixis hisses, lunging forward like a striking serpent. His hand clamps over mine with startling force. “Never forsake the gods. They observe you, even now, foolish child.”

Before I can react, he reaches into the folds of his robes, retrieving clumps of black ash. Pressing the coarse powder to my forehead, he mutters fervent words under his breath. “May Arawnoth’s flames cleanse you of your petulance.”

My fingers absently brush the coarse marking that somehow feels warm to the touch as Ignixis eases back into his meditative pose.

“Aenarael’s gift resides within you,” he says, his voice calmer now but no less insistent. “Do not provoke her wrath. A loving parent must scold an ungrateful child for their betterment.”

I’d be more familiar with the concept if Mother hadn’t abandoned me at every opportunity!

“My advice to you, blessed daughter,” Ignixis begins, and I brace myself with a deep breath.

“Seek the learned elders of the Virennix clan. It is they who favor the Goddess Aenarael. Through them, you may come to understand her teachings. And perhaps, in time, she will bestow upon you the same insights Arawnoth grants me.”

“No,” the word bursts from me, instant and visceral. I shake my head with disdain. “I might have Aenarael’s gifts, but she is not my God. Arawnoth is!”

I trace my fingers over the runic brand scorched into my flesh, feeling the searing warmth of it, a constant reminder of the admiration that burns in my heart for him.

“He gave me this, he saved my life, he banished the darkness, he sent me Dracoth.” My voice rises with every declaration, fierce and unwavering. “I won’t take no for an answer. You will teach me his sacred words!”

Ignixis’ eyes snap open, sparkling with emerald amusement. “My, my. You just won’t take no for an answer. This must be the boy’s obstinate influence, tempering your anemic human blood. However, the universe doesn’t move for desire alone—what you ask is simply not possible.”

He sighs dramatically, shaking his bald, rune-etched head with theatrical weariness. “You see, no female—especially no alien female—has ever been fully initiated. The notion is absurd. It would be akin to teaching the runes to a wild borack!”

He cackles, his lips curling into a smug smirk as his eyes lock onto mine, probing, hunting for a reaction.

“Please! Spare me your bigotry,” I snort, waving a dismissive hand, refusing to let his stupid tests get under my skin. “Arawnoth thought I was capable. And besides, didn’t you once say, ‘ The truth is the truth. The words are the words? ’”

Ignixis barks a sharp laugh. “Well remembered. Still, I lack the time to teach you,” he says, now his turn to wave a dismissive hand at me.

I let out an exaggerated sigh, stroking Todd’s rubbery, segmented body in frustration. Poor little chug bug. I’m probably rubbing the color right out of him.

“You’re being ridiculous. How about rather than doing this...” I wave my hand vaguely in his direction, struggling to recall the name of his weird goth meditation ritual. “...Moody-Tock thing, you could just teach me instead.”

“Mura-Tok, you deaf, willful child,” Ignixis chides, clicking his tongue. My cheeks flush slightly.

“Right. Mura-Tok,” I mutter, glaring at the floor.

“You mistake my meaning,” he says, his gaze drifting toward the swirling green smoke and flickering brazier flames. “Precious few days remain.”

“That’s plenty of time!” I jump in excitedly, sensing my imminent victory. Clutching his gnarled, creepy hand in mine, I lean forward, trying to close the deal.

“Is it?” Ignixis harrumphs, jerking his hand back as if afraid I might infect him with cooties. “Tell me, are you in any way familiar with the runes of my people?”

He’s got me there.

“Um... not exactly,” I admit, my voice faltering as I squint my eyes, trying to separate the spiral and squirmy markings scorched onto his egghead. But they’re so minuscule and tightly packed they blur together in the dim firelight.

I point hesitantly at one on the end of his nose. “What’s the squiggly one mean?”

“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, their soul . 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 their divine intent if I could actually see the runes!” 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 and find a spot where the runes are legible. Would that enlighten 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 your eyes fail 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 were scorched away 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.

The sacred words will soon be mine.