Page 69 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Misguided,” Aenarael corrects with amusement. The moment the blindfold settles, the herald’s head ignites in flickering silver flames. “Arawnoth always was a hothead.”
She glances at me, her grin expectant. I can’t help it—I laugh in agreement.
“The herald has guided the chosen son to this point, knowing the decision he will ultimately make.” Aenarael continues,glancing above as another figure bursts forth from the endless silver ocean.
I gasp in recognition at the towering mass of muscle and the stern, frowning face I’ve grown to adore.
“Dracoth...”
Aenarael tilts her head, studying the silver-cast version of him. Just as I think he looks rather magnificent in shimmering metal, the statueblinks. The movement istoo real—uncanny, unnatural. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Hmm.” Aenarael taps a delicate finger to her chin. “He has the unfortunate look of a brute about him. We really must do better next time.”
Her gaze flicks toward me, lips pinching slightly. “My condolences, daughter.”
“Hey, he’smyhandsome brute,” I snap, heat flaring in my chest.
“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she concedes with a gracious nod. Then her lips curl into a wicked smirk. “Though some eyes must be riddled with cataracts.”
Her laughter ripples in the air, a chorus of voices echoing mockingly.
Rude bitch!
“Yeah, all right,oh perfect-sighted one.” I wave a hand in exasperation. “If you’re done insulting my husband, can we please continue?”
“Patience, my beautiful, flawed child,” she chides, turning back toward the figures.
Another eruption. A torrent of molten silver blazes into the air, curling and twisting like a living storm. The inferno hovers just behind Dracoth and the herald, an ominous force waiting to consume.
“Arawnoth, through his chosen, through his herald, seeks to fill that which cannot be filled. To breathe life into that which is void.”
From the ocean, a single silver moth flutters toward the fire, drawn irresistibly forward.
“It’s in his nature, you understand. He is a slave to it, as we all are.”
The moth drifts closer, delicate wings shimmering in the light—until it touches the blaze.
It vanishes instantly.
“Amusing, isn’t it?” Aenarael muses. “That the fire of creation is drawn to oblivion. Supremely confident, yet helpless to its fate.”
Another droplet of liquid mercury rises from the water.
“The Voidbringer lurks, waiting to devour that which it cannot corrupt. By snuffing out Arawnoth, it snuffs out all future creation. Then all, even us Gods, even itself, will cease to be in time.”
The figures before us—Dracoth, the herald, even the burning inferno—tremble as silver strands are inexorably pulled toward the tiny bead. Bit by bit, they unravel, drawn into the nothingness, until only silence remains.
“How do we stop it?” My breath catches. My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Wewill, of course.” Aenarael’s tone is almost jovial, as if the fate of the entire universe wasn’t hanging by a chipped nail. “Are we not magnificent? Dignified?” She throws her hands up, framing the lower portion of the white sun blazing behind her. “Delicate and powerful. Beloved and feared.”
My heart soars at the sight and force of her words. They stir something in me that speaks directly to my soul—a longing Dracoth and Arawnoth only ever brushed against. Power. Strength. But those were just fragments of the whole. No, whatI crave—what Aenarael is—is to be adored, to be feared, to be grace and beauty incarnate.
“We are, my Goddess,” I whisper, bowing my head in submission. Adoration floods through me, washing away the last traces of doubt.
Aenarael lifts her chin, a regal smile painting her shifting, pristine faces. “The Voidbringer is as much a slave to its nature as any of us. You must wait, hidden, choosing the right moment to act. It will not see us coming, not while it gorges itself on the light, insatiable and blind to all else. That is when we strike. Let the hunter become the hunted. Let thenothingfeast upon nothing.”
When Dracoth enters the Crucible?
