Page 37 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Legacy

“ F ollow, Dracoth. I have a gift for you.” Ignixis smiles faintly, beckoning with a wave of his withered, runic hand.

Annoyance twitches my eyes, but I follow him down the vast corridor of the Ravager’s Ruin —a ship that, despite everything, still manages to surprise.

Proud warriors— my warriors—march in disciplined clusters, their long hair unkempt, their faces weathered and hard, their armor etched with the scars of countless battles.

It’s almost enough to quell the gnawing unease, the loathsome trepidation that coils in my gut like a venomous wyrm, devouring my thoughts with insatiable hunger.

The Crucible, my destiny.

Beyond these walls, the unending horde of Scythian machines swarming like carrion insects feasting on a rotting corpse. It reeks of a trap, one long set, now poised to spring.

“I’ve no need of gifts,” I growl, impatience bleeding through.

Ignixis merely waves off my words, glancing over his shoulder. In the dim purple glow, his green eyes gleam with amusement.

“Don’t dismiss what you do not know.”

Cryptic and useless. As expected from the old gas-cloud.

I suppress a groan, boots striking the sleek marble floor with each measured step. The steady hum of the ship’s engines and the crisp, filtered air offer some solace—until we pass the viewports.

Beyond the glass, the void pulses with eerie green light, veins of sickly energy snaking through the blackness like an infection.

It seeps into the ship, into me , corrupting everything it touches.

My instincts scream to carve it out, to burn it from existence.

But to sever that power now would be like amputating a limb—leaving me diminished, useless, my destiny forever out of reach.

Countless Seeker drones dart past the viewport, weaving with unnerving precision and speed through the lattice of green energy beams. Numerous hulking Voidbanes linger in the abyss, vast and inert as a granite tombstone, each one a silent watcher.

But their plasma cannons remain trained on Ravager’s Ruin —a reminder, a warning.

Perhaps it’s already too late—an illusion of choice.

Serve or die.

Is that my glorious destiny? Caged like a whipped snarlbroc , shackled to another’s will? Is this what my father chose? Did fear drive him, or the promise of glory—a sinkhole disguising itself as something greater?

My fingers curl into fists. My gaze locks onto Ignixis’s robed back. A sudden, violent impulse surges through me. He led me here. Into this trap.

This doom masquerading as destiny.

But I am the shorthair War Chieftain, once shamed by Krogoth’s arrogance. I will not submit. Not again. No matter the cost.

“Ah, here we are.” Ignixis’s voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone light, almost mocking. “I would be amiss to pass up this opportunity.”

The door hisses open.

The acrid scent of bloodroot slams into me, scorching my lungs with its familiar, intoxicating heat.

Inside, consoles hum softly, each screen displaying a lone glowing rune.

Metal desks and drawers overflow with vials, samples, and tools, an alchemist’s playground.

On the marble floor, the remnants of a brazier smolder, wisps of green-gray smoke curling toward the ceiling.

Then, I see it.

In the shadows, a towering suit of armor looms—black as the abyss, forged from arcweave plates so dense they seem to devour the light around them.

“Your father’s armor,” Ignixis murmurs, suddenly at my ear, his breath cold against my skin. “War Chieftain Gorexius’s legacy.”

A slow grin stretches across his rune-etched face, his fangs yellowed, his eyes alight with self-satisfaction. “At this historic moment, why not indulge in a little poetic irony?” Like liquid shadow, he glides toward the armor, his tone shifting from mirth to venom.

Awe ignites in my chest. My feet move on their own.

The black plates are edged in blood-red alloy, the borders glowing faintly—as if infused with the lifeblood of my father’s enemies. Embedded within the surface, flecks of rubies, citrines, and red diamonds glimmer like distant stars, catching the dim purple light.

Ignixis watches me with twisted amusement, practically clinging to the armor like the universe’s most horrific model.

Closer, my fingers trace the scars and dents that mar its surface, each one a tale of brutal struggle.

“This one,” he gestures to a deep gash across the chest plate, “a Nebian Battlesuit’s laser sword. And this—” his gnarled finger taps a dent on the left pauldron. “—a rain of gravitational orbs, from when he smashed through the Gorglaxian planetary capitol fortress.”

He exhales, eyes flicking to mine. “The scars of battle run deep, don’t they?”

His smirk sharpens. “I wonder... what glorious runes of death will you engrave upon the metal?”

“Carnage and revenge,” I sneer, already picturing a different kind of metal.

Over the broad shoulders hangs my father’s chieftain’s cloak—a mantle of dark-green, scales fashioned from the hide of a great, unknown beast. The scales, thick as plate, shimmer faintly beneath my fingers, as if still alive.

I can almost see it—my father on some long-conquered world, tearing the throat from some winged monstrosity, its blood drenching him in its final moments.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an overgrown mannequin,” Ignixis fusses, reaching for the fasteners of my cloak. “I didn’t have it brought here just to be gawked at. Put it on.”

I swat his feeble hand away, unclipping the cloak myself.

With swift efficiency, I extract myself from my armor—an impressive suit in its own right.

Dark-ashen plates, each bearing the scars of battle flecked with crimson gemstones.

The same standard issue given to all Magaxus warriors, though mine is enlarged to match my hulking frame.

As I don my father’s armor, the musky scent of blood and death clings to the blackened plates, as if the metal itself remembers every battle.

Gripping the plates, it’s obvious this armor is special, not only for its history, but its construction.

Each piece is incredibly thick and dense.

The weight alone is staggering—far heavier than my own—but the moment the last plate locks into place, the burden disperses, its mass evenly distributed across my body.

Not a hindrance, but a presence. A force. A mantle of indomitable will.

“Like you were born for it,” Ignixis titters, his green eyes trailing over my armored form. “Wait until you see this.”

He darts like a frenzied, robed skeleton toward my old armor, slipping a hand into the right wrist plate.

I flinch automatically, seeing its arc blaster snap open, an ominous blue searing heat gathering.

Something halts me from activating my plasma shield: Ignixis’ jovial expression, the weighty armor pressing down on me.

A plasma bolt shrieks through the air, warping the space around it with blistering energy.

I brace myself, planting my feet, crossing my arms—but at the last moment, the armor reacts.

A shimmering, translucent barrier of azure plasma flares to life around me.

The air crackles, sizzling against the surge of energy.

Blue light refracts off the black marble walls as the bolt disperses, leaving a charged silence in its wake.

“Excellent. The Elerium is still active,” Ignixis muses, delighted.

I fix him with a withering glare. “Perhaps I’ll assign you as a weapons target.”

He smirks but says nothing, his expression momentarily distant, as if caught in a memory. Then he blinks, refocusing, and gestures to my armor.

“Impressive, is it not?”

“Yes.” I flex my fingers, rolling my wrists, testing the balance. The power in these plates is undeniable.

Standard Klendathian arcweave armor provides rudimentary shielding—basic and unreliable, only functional against long-ranged energy attacks at point of impact. While this... this is different. This is total protection, the kind usually reserved for warships.

“The Scythians forged it specifically for your father,” Ignixis mutters. “A tool, for a tool.” His hands absently fumble with my old belt, the Hemo-Tok.

Rage flares hot in my chest. Whether at the insult to my father or the mere mention of the Scythians, I cannot say.

“Oh, don’t glare at me so, Dracoth,” he sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ve checked. There’s no trace of the profane left.”

I frown, unsure of his meaning. Perhaps he performed a blessing on the armor?

He steps closer, the bones and sinew woven into my belt rattling like the spines of my enemies are protesting his unworthy grip. I move to snatch it back, but he hisses, halting me.

“Indulge an old fool.”

Circling me, he fastens the belt around my waist with practiced hands. An odd sensation stirs within me—anxiety, or something darker. This moment, his actions, all carry an oppressive, ominous weight.

“Now, then,” he straightens with a groan, dusting off his robes. “Would you prefer your father’s cloak or your own?” His tone is light, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable.

“My own,” I reach for the white-blue singed scales draped atop my discarded armor.

“No!” Ignixis’s hand lashes out, striking my wrist with unexpected force. Startled by his fervor, I hesitate.

“Please, allow me, son,” he insists, his voice softer now, almost desperate.

I watch him closely, nodding slightly but remaining poised for treachery.

“I have prepared you as best I could for this moment,” he murmurs, retrieving my sneachir cloak and slinking behind me.

“Seven thankless years breaking through that thick, stubborn skull of yours. But with Arawnoth’s guidance, we have forged the perfect instrument for our people’s glorious rebirth. ”

“An instrument?” I glare over my shoulder as he stretches for the metal fasteners of my father’s cloak. “Is that what I am?”