Page 271 of Scorching the Alien Empire
One by one, the pieces of my father’s armor crash to the slag—like meteorites from a fallen age. Thick, heavy plates thud into the cracked earth. My shoulders roll, unburdened. The weight of legacy shed. The blistering ash kisses my bare skin like fire—branding me in war paint from the void.
Now unarmored, I wear only black leather leggings and my bone belt. They clatter in the gale like eager chimes, singing for their new brother to join them.
I stride to the weapon racks—not for a weapon, but a shield. Against Jazreal in my arrogance and hubris, I discounted the need for one—a near-fatal mistake. A brutal, bruising lesson learned.
Before me lies a spread of options—everything from small metal bucklers to towering wooden slabs. I choose a medium-sized, circular shield of burnished metal. Against my massive frame, it covers barely half my chest. Perfect. It won’t hinder my axe swings. I slam my arms together, testing the weight and feel. Sturdy. Balanced. Good.
Satisfied, I return to Borrthak’s side. Krogoth is already waiting, bare-chested. Triple scars run from his collarbone to navel—a brutal gift from my father. His beginning I will complete.
But it’s the weapons he carries that catch my attention. A massive, rectangular wooden shield, big enough to cover most of his body, rests beside him. Strapped across his back is a wicked four-pronged spear—expected. But clutched in his right hand is something else entirely. A blade whip. Rare. Cruel. Unpredictable.
Borrthak steps between us, inspecting, nodding with grim approval. We are armed in accordance with the old rites.
The crowd begins to murmur, the tension thickening like clotting blood. Every breath tastes of sulfur and metal. The air crackles with anticipation.
Borrthak raises his arms high. But I don’t see him.
I see only Krogoth.
His blade whip coils and shifts in his hand like a living serpent. He glares through the ashfall with hatred, as if he means to peel the skin from my bones inch by agonizing inch.
“Dagdorix of the Star-Eyes, God of Valor,” Borrthak begins, voice deep and reverent, “bless these two—”
But his words fade. My gaze drifts upward, to the crimson sun smothered by black, boiling clouds. Its rays pierce through the murk and bathe me in warmth—as if Arawnoth himself bears witness.
My eyes close.
I offer no plea for victory, great Arawnoth. Only this: fill me with your divine fury. Let my blood boil. Let my heart thunder with your molten will.
I open my eyes.
Krogoth stands across from me, his body shimmering with heat, muscles slick with sweat and ash. His long black hair clings to his frame in damp ropes. Red lightning flashes, casting netherworld shadows over his impressive form.
His eyes—those violet, misting stars—lock onto mine. They do not blink. They do not forgive. They see me only as a mountain to be hollowed out.
Borrthak’s prayer ends.
Silence.
Then—a bolt of lightning splits the sky. It strikes the runed plateau between us, cracking stone, spewing lava.
“Commence!” Borrthak roars, his voice swallowed by thunder.
Arawnoth’s judgment begins.
Chapter 50
Dracoth
Reborn in Strength
Stormcleaverfallslikeathunderclap—the true toll that marks the beginning of this titanic clash. Krogoth springs back with unnatural speed, narrowly dodging death. The slag beneath us splits like a shattered skull. His blade whip snaps forward—vipertail barbs on a chain, razor links screaming through the air like orbital strikes.
A heartbeat before its brutal kiss rends my flesh, I raise my shield.
Clang!
Sparks fly. Metal shrieks against metal, a screech swallowed by the crowd’s thunderous roar.
