Page 38 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
“We are all pawns in the cosmic game,” Ignixis mutters, as if discussing our favorite blades. “We play our parts to the best of our abilities and pray we have the courage to fulfill our roles.”
“Similar to the courage you displayed fleeing the Council of Elders?” I sneer, unable to resist twisting the claw at his obvious hypocrisy.
My barb lands, yet Ignixis does not flinch.
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation, without annoyance. “To willingly accept shame for the greater good. To be despised, sneered at, even by those closest to you... those you care for—that is true courage. That is strength.”
A seed of regret plunges deep, its poisonous roots spreading through my mind. But I need only remind myself that Ignixis has led me into this inescapable trap to tear it out before it takes hold.
“Bow, if you’d be so kind,” Ignixis suggests, tapping his fingers against my back.
“I bow before no one!” I roar, whirling on him, my rage baring my fangs. “Least of all you!”
Ignixis sighs, his face weary with hurt. The sight of it stings, and I curse myself for my weakness. Though, the conniving traitor is fortunate I suffer him to live.
With an infuriating calmness, he drags a metal chair across the marble floor.
The sharp, grating screech sets my fangs on edge.
Finally, with the grace of a dying carrion bird, he clambers atop it, his old bones creaking, groaning.
A pathetic spectacle. My fists clench, tempted to rip my cloak from his unworthy hands, but elevated, he works swiftly, replacing my father’s cloak with my own.
“Yes,” he muses, stepping down, circling me with a hand to his chin. “The very image of your father.” He thumbs the white-blue scaled cloak draped at my back. “Though lighter... and wiser, I have no doubt.”
My father would never have been so foolish as to heed a mad prophet.
Ignixis halts before me, his eyes glistening, his lip trembling as he takes in my entire armored form. “You stand at the precipice of your glory.” His head bobs, his voice unsteady. “I’m...”
His words trail off. I glare down at him, silently urging him to hurry.
“This isn’t easy for me to say,” he mutters, coughing into the back of his hand. “... I’m proud of you, son.”
His words strike like a meteorite—sudden, brutal, earth-shattering. Stupefied, I blink as if slapped.
My eyes burn, as if the air itself has turned acidic. The sight of my trembling old mentor. These words, words I never thought to hear, are raw, too intense. They summon nothing but the rankest weakness. Foreign and detestable, they have no place in me.
I cut myself off, hardening my heart with the thickest arcweave. It is easy when I recall his treachery. When I recall who I am—Dracoth, War Chieftain, son of Gorexius.
“As one is proud of their arc blaster,” I sneer, striding past him, the pain lessening as he passes from sight.
“Dracoth...” he mutters, his voice trailing after me like a phantom.
“My thanks for the armor,” I call back, the most praise I can muster. The weight of my father’s plates already feels familiar, as if I have borne them all my life.
The lab door hisses closed behind me. I take only a few heavy strides before it swishes open again.
“You’ll need me for the Crucible,” Ignixis moans, hurrying to catch up.
Yet more proof of his entanglement with the Scythians.
I suppress a groan and quicken my pace. The old gas-cloud wheezes and huffs behind me, his feeble steps struggling to match my long strides.
I ignore him. A part of me wishes he’d simply fall back, swallowed by these twisting labyrinthine corridors.
Warriors pass, saluting, murmuring greetings, but I barely see them.
My mind is a whirlwind of worries and doubts.
I follow the glowing azure path highlighted on my wrist console.
The Crucible lies deep in the ship’s bowels, its secret, beating heart.
Were it not for the shimmering map, I’d have been lost long ago.
This ship—my ship—is the largest I have ever set foot upon.
Yet despite its vastness, there is one absence I feel most keenly. Princesa has been gone since morning.
She entered our quarters late yesterday, shaken, silent, refusing to answer my questions. Refusing even my touch. The last, the most shocking of all.
When I awoke, she was gone.
Only the Crucible prevents me from hunting her down. And yet... a part of me is relieved. She would only press me to seize greater power—to embrace our glorious destiny, no matter the cost. My insatiable War Chieftainess.
The deeper we descend, the quieter the world becomes. The stairwells grow colder, the air more stagnant. A suffocating presence tightens around us like a dark shroud. Even Ignixis, for all his endless prattling, has fallen uncharacteristically silent.
Only his ragged breaths remain, trailing after me like death rattles.
I lose track of time, frustration mounting with each echoing footstep. The dots on my wrist console move at a crawl, agonizingly slow, as if the ship itself resists my approach.
The walls seem to hum now—not the dull thrum of engines, but something deeper, subsonic. The vibration travels up through my boots, rippling across my armor in waves too deliberate, too forceful to dismiss.
A loathsome anxiety prickles the hairs on my neck.
The nature of this Scythian entity is unknown. What force or power will it wield? Will it be something surreal and supernatural, like what Princesa and I have become? Or deploy mere psychological tricks—a cruel people cowering behind their machines?
Who are the Scythians, truly? What do they look like?
A sound, faint at first, teases my ears.
A rhythmic whisper, from everywhere and nowhere.
It grows louder, more frequent, coalescing into a cacophony of voices that speak in the same garbled, manic static from before.
Except the edge of laughter is more obvious now, almost mocking and taunting with each haunting burst.
My wrist console beeps, jolting me from my hazy thoughts.
Before me stands an immense door, shrouded in shadows, as if drinking in the dim violet light. Beyond it lies the Crucible. The air is thick, pressing down with an unseen weight, and an acrid scent—ozone and burnt metal—singes my nostrils.
I glance back.
Ignixis finally arrives, wheezing clouds of breath, beads of sweat glistening on his runic face despite the chill.
“Arawnoth give us strength,” he rasps, glancing around the oppressive corridor. He reaches into his robes and withdraws a clump of soil, pressing it into his forehead. “For you,” he offers, approaching with a handful in his wizened palm.
I wave him off. My strength is not in soil, but in flesh, muscle, bone—unbreakable resolve, born of Arawnoth’s fire.
“No more riddles, old one?” I ask, my eyes locked on the looming door, its surface humming with energy.
Ignixis exhales slowly, his gaze distant.
“No more riddles,” he mutters, though it sounds more like a promise to himself than to me.
A beat passes before he continues, softer now, almost to the ship itself.
“What I do... everything I’ve done... was for Arawnoth.
” His fingers twitch around the clump of soil.
“Follow your heart, Dracoth. I pray it leads us to where I think it will.”
His voice is solemn, resigned.
“Spoken like a condemned traitor about to kiss Scarn’s volcanoes,” I say, heat curling through my words. My Rush bubbles just beneath the surface, surging in anticipation of the challenge ahead.
I step forward.
The door hisses open.
My heart will condemn us all.