Page 1 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Guidance

I peer through the Battlebarge’s viewport, the crushing weight of my glorious destiny settling on my shoulders.

Yet it’s a weight I can bear—have borne my entire life.

The metallic floor beneath my boots rumbles as the ship maneuvers through the void.

Klendathor, with its blazing purple sun and moon, grows smaller with every breath, stirring a question within me.

Will I ever return?

“I forgot how bad this ship smells,” Princesa chimes beside me, her petite nose wrinkling in disgust as she loudly inhales the recycled, oily air.

“And all the rust...” Her gaze sweeps the command bridge, lingering on patches of corrosion in the corners.

“Ugh, couldn’t you have paid someone to clean this place up?

A fresh coat of paint, maybe? Some elbow grease? ”

Elbow grease?

“Resources are scarce,” I grunt, a reminder she already knows. In truth, it poses the greatest threat to my endeavors. That distasteful mercantilism may stifle my ambitions, where scores of enemies and void-born horrors could not, makes my fists clench with frustration.

“In other words, we’re broke,” Princesa sighs, absently stroking her pet cyloillar, which clacks lazily on her shoulder. “Why couldn’t Arawnoth bond me to someone rich? Someone with space yachts made of gold,” she muses, a touch of weariness in her voice.

I glare down at her, my expression conveying my contempt at her disappointing greed.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she grins, her eyes sparkling silver.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else but my big, sexy murder husband,” she giggles, clinging to my arm.

Her pleasing soft curves press against me, stirring my Rush downward, as she moans suggestively.

“Even if you are a space hobo,” she titters, dousing the spark of my desire with icy mockery.

I ignore her chaotic mix of praises and ridicule—a heady cocktail only she could brew.

“Nexarn, are the junkers still present?” I ask, turning toward the short, blond warrior.

I froze Balsar’s pathetic Tuskarian heart with terror the last we spoke. Will it be enough? Or have they fled in my absence?

The navigational console flickers to life, casting an azure glow over the dim, blackened metal of the bridge. Nexarn remains silent, his hands expertly darting over the controls, focusing in on the nearby sectors displayed.

Surprise floods me, almost curling my lips with amusement. Already, I spot the myriad blue dots pulsing with promise—my loyal vipertails.

“They remain, War Chieftain,” Nexarn replies, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion—a corruption afflicting all the youth—all but me.

Or did Harkus speak the truth? Am I altered in some way?

The thought gnaws at me, an unsettling worry that threatens to sink my gut into my armored boots.

I dismiss the useless thought with a sharp command.

“Keth, bring us into range,” I order, gesturing toward the black-haired warrior. His hands fly over the navigational controls, sending a slight tremor through the ship. The hyperdrive engine groans, struggling to turn the megatons of battered, blackened arcweave.

A remnant from the past carries our glorious future.

The twinkling stars and swirling cosmic dust pass by the viewport as the ship cuts through the vastness of space—not with the dazzling blur of hyperspeed, but with the steady hum of basic propulsion needed for this distance.

“Oh, there they are!” Princesa exclaims, her voice alight with excitement. She points toward the emerging specks, glittering like murky stars in the dark expanse, growing clearer and larger with every passing second.

“Are you really going to be working with those creeps?” she scoffs, her face scrunching in distaste as if she’s just eaten raw snarlbroc jelly.

“My... creeps,” I growl, struggling with her strange human word.

“If they come near me again, I’ll pop their heads like grapes,” she sneers, her eyes flashing in the dim blue and purple light.

Her fierceness pleases me, but she has nothing to fear from them.

The motley assortment of ships drifting into view resembles space debris: Tuskarian light cruisers, Jungarian hunters, Glaseroid harvesters, and more.

Their designs are as varied as the lesser aliens are themselves.

Together, they form a makeshift armada of transport vessels—primitive, armed with basic ballistics and pulsar weaponry.

Each individually weak and useless, but as a swarm? They could prove useful.

“Nexarn, contact Balsar. His War Chieftain demands his presence,” I command, eager to hear if he’s procured more crew or supplies. “Also, wake Ignixis. Have him meet us in the war room.”

“At once, War Chieftain,” Nexarn replies, his hands gliding over the glowing controls.

“Come, Princesa,” I urge, leading her toward the exit with a firm hand.

I brace myself for the inevitable complaint about her name not being Princesa. But to my surprise, she moves without protest through the swooshing black metal door.

Good. She finally accepts who she is.

“Fuck, it’s freezing,” she says, stopping suddenly and clutching her Chieftainess cloak tightly around her gorgeous, trembling figure. “Can we at least get the heating switched on? Or can’t we afford that either?” she asks, flashing me an accusing glare, like I’ve just named her ancestors cowards.

Such a foolish question. It’s hard to tell if she’s being sincere.

“Life-support systems are active,” I state, struggling to mask my disdain for the obvious—we’re not dead from the cold.

“Well, I know that, you giant bore,” she huffs, teeth chattering, “I mean, can it be more active? You know, like that nice, toasty volcano we lived in?”

I glare, saying nothing.

Her gaze drifts off as she hugs herself tighter. “Time to slip off into that good night, Todd. Daddy Dracoth’s trying to freeze us to death,” she laments dramatically, petting the curled-up, black-red cyloillar.

Frustration bubbles within me at her manipulations—confusingly amusing and tiring in equal measure.

With a sudden swipe of my mighty arm, I pull the tiny female into my embrace.

“Yay!” she squeals in delight, nestling into the crook of my arm as if to mold herself into every contour of my being. “See, Todd? He does care about us,” she mocks with a teasing smile.

Care? Is that what this fierce, protective instinct is?

My armored boots echo through the cold, metallic corridor, the dim purple light casting long shadows on the walls. Princesa raises a fair objection—this ship is sterile, lifeless, an affront to the living, a far cry from the primal beauty of Klendathor.

“Hmm, toasty,” she purrs, resting her head against my chest. Her fingers brush lightly along the edge of my jaw. “Oh, could you breathe some fire? That really would be the best.”

Her touch lingers, a teasing caress that stirs something molten deep within me.

“My red dragon,” she adds, her voice dropping to a low, sultry tone that carries a carnal promise, igniting a spark of heat in my chest.

But I suppress it—forcefully. Our powers—our gifts—are not mere playthings but the blessings from the Gods, and I will not trivialize them.

“No,” I grunt, my voice hard, resolute as arcweave.

Princesa tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she flutters her lashes at me, as if trying to break through the fortress of my resolve.

“Fine,” she sighs, a playful edge in her voice. “Guess I’ll have to work on my red radiator later.” She chuckles, her meaning a mystery.

“Oh, that reminds me.” With a dramatic flourish, she rummages through her gold-embroidered black leathers, producing a small pile of zarna nuts. “Eat these, you little scamp,” she demands, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

Todd stirs from his curled position, his single black eye flicking open at the promise of food.

The useless creature scuttles closer, seeming to wake only to feast or defecate.

Does she hope it will one day prove useful?

Is it mockery? With Princesa, the reason could be as varied and numerous as the stars.

“I got these from one of those food machines,” she coos, holding out a handful of zarna nuts. “Go on, eat up, chug bug.”

Todd’s mandibles tap the pile hesitantly, his solitary eye flicking between Princesa’s expectant gaze and the offering. Then, with a sharp clack, he abandons the nuts entirely, retreating in a blur of spindly legs to his perch on her shoulder.

“Little rascal!” she complains, glaring at the useless creature. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re all skinny, looking like moldy string cheese!”

She sighs, her frustration melting into a rueful smile. “Now I know how my mother felt when I wouldn’t eat my vegetables.”

Without taking a breath, she pops the zarna nuts into her mouth. Her chewing slows almost immediately, and her face contorts into a grimace.

“Ugh. On second thought, Todd had the right idea,” she mutters, swallowing reluctantly. “Are these grown in space hobo socks or something?”

My lip curls in a smile, despite my efforts to remain strong. This maddening, perplexing female— my maddening, perplexing female. Her ability to turn even the most mundane moments into miniature battles, each laden with absurdity, is as infuriating as it is endearing.

“Hah!” Princesa exclaims, her voice triumphant. “Caught you smiling!”

She peers up at me, her silver eyes dancing with victory. “My poor, simple Dracoth. Seems you’re losing your edge.”

“I lose nothing,” I reply, letting my smile fade into a hard, unyielding expression. “Merely drawn closer to the abyss.”

“Careful you don’t fall in,” she replies, her voice dropping to a low, sultry tone. Her gaze lowers, her alluring eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. “You’ll never escape.”