Did I do this?
“You don’t remember a thing, do you?” Ignixis croaks, his laughter wheezing from his ancient lungs and rattling through the dusty, broken medical equipment.
“Silence, you old fool!” I roar, my anger growing. This... not knowing... thisvulnerabilitygnaws at me. Especially when it’s obvious so much has transpired. Yet again, I’m forced to rely on the old gas-cloud for guidance.
My anger only pleases him more—his yellow sneer widening. He enjoys this—getting a reaction out of me—feeds off it. The closest thing to victory left for the feeble old coward.
“Shall I tell you what you did, young Dracoth? Shall I describe the violent acts you committed?”
My eyes snap to him. His ominous words fill me with concern.
“The females?” I ask, unable to contain my worry.Is it possible I harmed them by mistake? Is it their delicate spines which decorate my belt?
Ignixis’s mirth twists into something darker at the mention of the females. His lips curl in distaste as he once again rubs his right shoulder with a pained grimace.
“Oh, no,” he murmurs, his voice a venomous hiss. “We’ll get tothemsoon enough.” He lingers on the word ‘them,’ drawing it out, lacing it withvipertailpoison.
From the folds of his abyssal black robes, Ignixis produces a small, seemingly innocent green root. But I know better.Bloodroot. One of my last memories is taking it before charging through the corridors in a pulsing red-green haze of murderous fury.
“I don’t need to tell you what this is? Do I?” Ignixis asks, his voice needling me.
I shake my head, waiting with disdain for the coming lecture.
“Good,” Ignixis purrs. “Now, young, foolish, Dracoth, would you be so kind as to indicate how much of Arawnoth’s blood you ingested?” the old gas-cloud asks, reaching into his black robes, forcing me to suppress a groan at his tiresome theatrics. He’ll draw this out, like he always does when he has the upper hand.
“This much?” Ignixis taunts, snapping off a comically small piece of bloodroot, displaying it upon his withered, blackened hand.
“More.”
“This much?” Ignixis’s bare brow arches as he adds another small fragment.
“No, much more.”
“How about this?” He holds up half a root, his eyes gleaming with mockery.
“More.”
“More?” Ignixis’s voice rises in mock disbelief, savoring every moment of this tedium.
“Yes, more, you deaf old gas-cloud!” My temper ignites, flaring like a solar storm bursting from a molten star. “The entire root clenched in your pathetic hands, more even than that, perhaps!”
Ignixis chuckles, an insidious sound that echoes through the room like the rattling of bones. His thin fingers trace the length of the bloodroot, and for the briefest moment, his mocking demeanor vanishes—replaced by something far darker, far more intrigued.
“Then you truly danced with the flames of madness,” he whispers, almost to himself. His eyes flick back to me, theiremerald depths gleaming with the faintest hint of respect. “The entire root... it’s only because of your great size, you still breathe. But this,” he gestures to the bones hanging from my belt, “is the offering you gave our God. You surprise me, young Dracoth. To honor the old ways. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I glance at the bones again, my mind reeling. The bloodroot... the visions... the molten world... and now these relics of death dangling at my side.The cycle. Arawnoth’s voice booms again in my memory: “Rise, and complete the cycle.”
A yawning silence stretches as I struggle to piece together the meaning of these events. But the puzzle is beyond me, each answer birthing more questions. Frustrated, I rise from the bench, the pounding headache in my skull intensifying, souring my mood further.
“I didn’t do it for your pleasure or approval.” I sneer, examining the full extent of the blood and gore which mars my ashen armor, so caked in, it’s almost fused with the metal. Remnants of fever dream-like memories flash into my consciousness—scenes of exquisite violence and death—amusing me with the sheer brutality of it.
“Oh, you wound me!” Ignixis replies, a smile curling his black lips. “If I had bid you do it, you’d have done the exact opposite, you obstinateboy.”
He’s wrong. This outcome was inevitable. Preordained by the burning fury that pulses through my veins. It feels right, resonating in my core—a manifestation of my will.
“What became of the junkers?” The ones who aren’t currently decorating my armor, I muse, casually picking their bloody remnants from the cracks in my armor with my claws.
“You commanded Keth to fire upon any who attempted to flee,” Ignixis answers, his visage narrowing into a predatory aspect. “It was quite... effective. I must commend you, young Dracoth. A cunning plan, executed... almost perfectly.” Hecackles, waving the bloodroot in a pathetic attempt to mock me. “Reminiscent of your father’s stratagems. Though he wouldn’t have acted like a willfulboy, drinking so deeply from Arawnoth’s blood.”
