Page 73 of Scorching the Alien Empire
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?”
“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.
