Page 82 of Scorching the Alien Empire
No.
My heartbeat pounds like war drums. I want to turn away, to rip my eyes from the truth before me, but I cannot.
Is my father the original?
I was never unique. Never chosen. Never special.
I am themockery.
The realization strikes like a hammer blow, threatening to unravel all that I am—all that I fought for. The sacred blood in my veins, the divine will of Arawnoth—just another construct. Just another lie.
What is honor to aconstruct?
The birthright of aclone?
One of many. Interchangeable.Fake.A mere tool of this twisted entity.
But then—that memory.
Thered titan, looming over me as a child. Thesad femalewith golden hair. The loathsomefear, the overwhelminguncertainty—so vivid, soreal.
Are they lies? Mere imprinted memories?
“Embrace nothingness,” the ancient voice whispers again, the words more tempting than ever.
A part of melets go. Shattered, I drift into the infinite blackness, fading into the background. Or perhaps the entity isconsumingme.
And then—
A thought.
Hazy at first, it coalesces intovivid certainty.
My Princesa and Arawnoth chose me.
Not somelowly clone. Me.
The greatest warrior the universe has ever known.Blessed by the Gods!Arawnoth’smolten bloodbeats in my veins.
How could I turn my back on Princesa? On the vows I swore? The power andascensionthat is ours alone?
That is real. That, I willcling onto.
“You cannot break me!” Iprojectinto the void, the remnants of my mind knitting together, forged in seething hatred and fury.
Reality shifts.
Klendathor’s surface burns, a sea of green and blue fire, blazing almost as brightly as the nearby purple sun. Trillions of drones descend, darting through the flames as thousands of Voidbanes rain unending plasma barrages. Explosions erupt likevolcanoes, sendingshuddersthrough the planet’s core.
Now, I see thelast stand.
Warriors cluster behind plasma shields, surrounded on all sides. The air thick with Seeker drones, the stench of charred flesh and arcweavechokingthe boiling winds. The groundshudders, a deafening cacophony ofzaps, ofscreams, ofdesperate orderslost in the chaos.
Thousands liedead—their bodies broken, melted, shredded. Their remains arecrushedbeneath theskittering legsof the unending Scythian battle droid tide. They sweep across the bubbling, cracked land, washing over the last defenders. Toofew, too battered—their strength, their skill, allmeaninglessagainst such overwhelming numbers.
And then—
Iseeit.
