Page 72 of Scorching the Alien Empire
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 almostseeit—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 itselfremembers 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.
