Page 75 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Then, the whispers begin.
Faint at first. Distant laughter, broken static. They swirl at the edges of perception, a lurking presence just beyond comprehension. But the closer I draw, the louder they become—until they are a cacophony, a chorus of disembodied voices that claw at the edges of my mind.
It’s wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.
A primal instinct bristles beneath my skin, a hunter’s dread when a venefex’s eyes lurk unseen in the dark.
“The profane,” Ignixis whispers, his voice nearly swallowed by the static. His teeth chatter, his frost-laced robes drawn tight around his withered frame for warmth that does not exist.
But I stand, molten and uncowed before the Crucible. Divine Arawnoth burns within me—fury, strength, unbreakable will. I ignite all, blazing a trail of fire and death toward the destiny that is mine and Princesa’s birthright.
Tendrils of vapor curl from my body, wraiths of heat in the frigid air. The frost dares to cling, but it vanishes the moment my Rush ignites, bubbling beneath my skin like liquid flame.
Above, the Crucible lingers, silent, pulsing faintly, waiting.
“Drexios was correct,” I growl. My lips curl in disgust. “This machine does nothing.”
War Chieftain...
The voice that is not a voice vibrates in my skull, bypassing my ears and embedding itself directly into my mind. I swivel my head, frantically searching for the source, finding nothing. Unease and fury gnaw at my guts. This invasion, this subterfuge taints me with its mere presence.
War Chieftain...
It repeats—a single, resonant thought, that is neither male nor female, but something ancient and vast, echoing in my skull as if spoken from the depths of the void.
“Something speaks?” I demand, sweeping the room, my gaze lingering on the huddled Ignixis.
He does not look up. “I hear only Arawnoth crying out in rage,” he rasps, his voice weaker than before, his form hunched like spent coal.
Useless old gas-cloud.
A deafening bang splits the air. My claws unsheathe instinctively as I whirl. The machine has lowered, the thick black conduits slackening, writhing like severed serpents. The once-sealed core now lies open—a circular maw of nothingness, its edges lined with jagged, fang-like protrusions.
My heart hammers, Rush and adrenaline flooding molten blood.
This is it.
The truth I have sought, the answers clawing at my soul. My past. My destiny.
I glance back at Ignixis, who grunts as he shifts into a cross-legged position, emptying a fistful of ashen soil in a perfect circle around himself.
“I’ll be here if you need me. Never forget that, young Dracoth,” he murmurs. His tired eyes flick to mine, holding something raw—something fleeting. Then, just as quickly, it is gone. A sneer replaces it. “Go now, into the heart of the profane. Do what must be done.”
Ignixis erupts into booming chanting, evoking Arawnoth’s strength and guidance as I whip my head around, fixing the void of nothingness with an unbreakable glare, my heart soaring for what is to come.
I step into the freezing, devouring void.
Darkness swallows me whole.
Then—pain.
Searing, all-consuming cold lances through my body. Countless wires or needles pierce my skin, burrowing deep, writhing like icy parasites beneath the flesh. I gasp into the nothingness, twisting, thrashing—fighting—but in this void, I have no body. Onlyawareness, fragile as a sputtering torch in a storm.
Klendathian.
The ancient voice does not speak. Itboomsthrough my skull, flooding my mind with a deluge of images. Not mere images—sensations. Sights. Smells. Heat—a fever dream projected with vivid and horrifying clarity.
I see Klendathor.
