Page 102 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Class!” she beams, banishing my fears. “I can’t wait to meet her. She must have crazy stories.” Then her smile dims, her brows creasing. “But... will these weird Nebians even let me in? Especially if it’s an important meeting?”

“Pfft. Totally,” I say, far too quickly. Confidence: fabricated. “I’ll just say you’re my... ginger-in-waiting.” I blink innocently. “I mean, it’s technically true.”

Sandra grimaces, unimpressed. “Ha. Very funny.” She rolls her blue eyes but doesn’t argue. “I don’t care what you tell them, as long as I can meet Rocks. And stay on this ship.”

She hops back onto the floating bed like a smug ginger cat, her limbs dangling off both sides. “So cozy,” she sighs, burrowing deeper into the mattress.

She’s right. This ship— The Impersonators Hand, or whatever it’s called—is a total vibe. Not the worst architecture. I can reach drawers. Super fresh air. No hum of machines. Apparently, there’s spaghetti and actual toilets, it’s like if a five-star spa and a war machine had a baby.

Except for the weird little blue creeps.

They’ve been giving us major stink-eye since the shuttle docked. Especially around Dracoth. You can practically feel them quaking in their segmented armor. Awkward silences. Stubby fingers twitching toward weapons. Every. Time.

It’s honestly so rude.

But that’s just Dracoth. He’s a living panic button in obsidian armor. I kind of love it—my big scary meatball head.

Still... maybe Peacock Big-Chief has the right idea—conquering these little Nibs.

I mean, it’s clear these guys aren’t your average bone-through-the-nose types.

They’re advanced . Like... actually advanced.

You can tell by the weapons, ships, and holodecks, and that they don’t threaten to bash each other over the head every five minutes.

These aren’t space hobos banging pots together and duct-taping wings on a toaster.

I lean back, eyes drifting to the ceiling with a little dreamy sigh.

Just imagine it—the Lexie-verse. Ruling beside Dracoth. An empire of tiny, awkward aliens at our feet. Adoring. Terrified. Obedient.

Glorious.

“Thanks Sandra, I won’t forget you when I’m bossing it up.” The thought wraps around me like a cozy blanket on a lazy Sunday morning.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” I wave her off, pretending to focus on fluffing the pointy shoulders of Mrs. Dracoth’s robes.

Maybe the more pointy, the more important?

I should be dressed like a hedgehog, in that case...

“Aren’t you nervous?” Sandra asks, practically swimming like a goldfish in the floating bedspread. “Meeting all these important aliens—”

“Wait.” I shoot up a hand. “Dracoth’s coming.”

I feel him through the bond, thundering toward us with his usual big stomping Red Taxi speed. I’m honestly surprised the floor isn’t already cracking yet. My stomach erupts into a tornado of Lexie-moths—barrel-rolling with excitement and dread.

“Already?!” Sandra yelps, nearly tripping as she springs off the bed like a firework made of nerves.

“I’m not even dressed yet!” She lunges for the nearest drawer, hurling outfits over her shoulder like a frantic red squirrel building a fashion nest.

Poor, sweet, disaster-Sandra.

I, of course, am already dressed—in one of my many versions of black ceremonial robes. This one? Flowing, majestic, embroidered with golden runes, and trimmed just low enough to show Arawnoth’s blessing. Which also just happens to reveal some strategic divine cleavage. Lexie-age.

“Just throw on some gnome clothes,” I sigh, gesturing lazily at the ever-growing pile of fabric she’s building behind her. Can’t have her stealing attention. Spotlight should stay where it belongs—on me.

“But I worked really hard on these designs,” she mutters, still elbows-deep in the drawer like she’s mining for gems.

A sudden realization hits me like a winning lottery ticket.

“Todd’s clothes!” I spin around, comb flying. “Did you finish them?” I ask, unable to hide my excitement.

“I wouldn’t exactly call them clothes ,” Sandra scoffs, thumbing over her shoulder. “I just tossed them.”

With a dramatic gasp, I dive headfirst into the pile like it’s a ball pit full of hope and color. Fabrics fly. Limbs flail. A red-and-blue tunic whacks me in the face, clinging to my ear like a Christmas bauble.

“HEY!” I shriek, glaring at her through a curtain of sequins.

She stifles a laugh, hand over her mouth. “Oops. My bad.”

“I’m not an ironing board, you...” my voice drifts off. There. Glinting silver, wedged between socks and terrible choices. “A-ha!” I snatch up the prize. A tiny, glorious bowtie. Dainty. Dashing. Todd-worthy.

“Oh, Toddy-Woddy,” I coo, bouncing my shoulder gently. The eternally snoozing cyloillar stirs, his black eye blinking open like a jellybean full of secrets. He peers at me, reflecting my beaming face.

How is he so cute?

His mandibles creak open like there’s a dramatic proclamation on the tip of his bug-tongue.

It’s all too much for him. He promptly blinks again and curls back up like a bug-burrito.

“Wake up!” I scold, tickling under his chin segment. “Auntie Sandra made you a present! ” I dangle the bowtie in front of him like it’s a jelly stick.

He lunges.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

“No! Bad Todd. It’s not a jelly stick.” I rap his mandibles gently as he grabs at the bowtie with alarming speed. He croaks in protest, his array of spindly legs digging harder. Undeterred, I press on. This is my big day. And Chug Bug?

He’s going to look fabulous.

I suppress a grunt, hiding the effort as I wrestle with the deceptively strong, squishy mass that is Todd. Finally, I manage to squeeze his mandibles shut and slip the loop over his head. A little tug, a bit of straightening and—perfection.

“He’s so stinking cute!” I beam, only slightly dampened by Todd’s constant croaks and the fact that his front booties are already trying to rip the thing off. “They have to let him in now.”

I hold him aloft like Simba in The Lion King —though Todd’s much cuter with his spindly legs hypnotically waving in the air. His tiny silver bowtie glints like the cherry on his black-red cake.

“Aww, he looks so dignified in his dickie-bow,” Sandra coos, abandoning her frantic outfit search to adjust his newest must-have cyloillar accessory .

Todd, despite the praise, curls forward like he’s trying to become a sad little wheel of protest.

“Though I hope he doesn’t stage a dirty protest,” she adds, scrunching her freckled face.

“Good point. Last thing we need is him pooping on a Big Chief’s head,” I say, draping him over my shoulder like the universe’s most extravagant shawl. “No pooping, mister. I mean it .”

He flutters his eye at me and croaks, which can only mean: I love you, Mommy.

Suddenly the door distorts—well, some kind of hologram thingy pretending to be a door. And in steps a titan. My titan— babes.

The vibe shifts—instantly—from sparkly-pink gossip hour to full-on meatball head serious.

“ Babes !” I shout, bounding forward with all the energy of a golden retriever in platform boots. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging.

Dracoth’s jaw tightens—just a fraction—like he’s biting back a sigh. But the corner of his mouth twitches. A microscopic victory. Maybe he’s imagining tossing me out an airlock. Maybe he’s fighting a smile. Either way it’s a coin toss I’m ready to flip.

“Ahh!” Sandra shrieks, hurling herself into the pile of discarded clothes, literally caught with her pants down. Arms cover her mostly-exposed shoulders as she vanishes into fabric.

How scandalous!

“You shameless hussy,” I laugh, twisting the knife. Just a little bit.

Sandra’s face turns as red as her hair as she wrestles a potato sack of a robe over her. It practically swallows her whole.

“Princesa. It is time,” Dracoth rumbles, ducking under the low frame looking like an elephant shoved into a matchbox. His deep voice rolls through me like thunder down my spine. Every part of me vibrates , sending delicious tingles rippling through me.

And then, of course... the moment dies.

“Would you lookie here,” Drexios grates, each syllable scraping my nerves like manicured nails across a chalkboard. “You females nesting? Plopping out a few eggs?” He flicks his head toward Sandra, still knee-deep in wardrobe carnage.

“Not like we’re pigeons, you...” I start, but stop myself.

He’s smirking.

He lives for this. Like a sentient fungus. A hobo-pirate with his eyepatch, armor as dented as his brain, and torn scaled cloak fluttering like a demented jolly roger.

Still, I have to be careful. I can’t just squish some sense into him like before... But he doesn’t know that yet. Or maybe Dracoth told him? How close are they really?

“Who let you in anyway? I thought these rooms were childproof.”

“I walked ,” Drexios snaps, abruptly rigid. “One. Two. Three. Turn.” He paces dramatically, brushing his head on the ceiling with every step like some overly committed drama teacher.

I roll my eyes so hard I might detach a retina.

“Say. Pinkie , Fire-on-Head .” He leans down conspiratorially. “You better tread carefully,” his gaze flicks to the door, that’s not a door. “Shorties everywhere. Sneaky little bastards. Look like harmless blue puffrios—but stop to piss, and they’ll laser your dick clean off.”

“My... dick... off?” Sandra echoes, horrified, gaze, for some reason dropping to her crotch. “Um... Dracoth, are we in danger?” she squeaks, eyes shimmering like sapphires sparkling for hope.

“No,” Dracoth says flatly. Instantly. Like he’s carved from obsidian. Though he’s hard to take seriously when he’s bent nearly ninety degrees like a two-hundred-year-old back problem to fit in the room.

Sandra exhales loudly, while I round on Drexios, glaring silver daggers at him. “Are you trying to kill us before we even leave? Stroke? Heart attack? Panic-poop? Hmm?”

“A heart that beats, doesn’t know defeat,” Drex-iot the idiot drawls smugly like he’s reciting Shakespeare. “Don’t say uncle Drexios didn’t warn you.”