Page 104 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Keep your tits on. I always speak sense—just your stunted pink ears haven’t been listening,” Drexios grumbles.

“Besides, you gotta finesse for the caress.” He draws and spins his energy blade with practiced flair, holstering it in a smooth motion.

“So, first up—Aelioth. Chieftain of Sanaxus. Loves a laugh. Problem is, his clan’s blood-cousins with Draxxus.

That means he and Krogoth are tight. Like two zarberries dangling on a vine. ”

I frown, chin on knuckles. Not great. If there is a vote. Loverboy will side with Krogoth for sure. Good thing we’ve got Peacock Big-Chief in our corner.

“Franthos, Clan Chief of the Aquaxus,” Drexios continues, “well, was. We all seen old seaweed breath’s flagship go nova. Now he’s swimming with the ancestors in the cosmic oceans.” He flutters his fingers toward the ceiling, making stupid swooshing sounds.

“His Second now leads?” Dracoth asks, eyes drifting to a nearby viewport.

Outside the crimson sun of this system bathes the sandy interior in churning molten blood. It makes me think I should be wearing black lipstick, Doc Martens Boots, and listening to gothic metal.

“Could be,” Drexios shrugs. “That’d be Voryx. Likes his females how I like my enemies—plentiful and dripping.”

“Ugh. You’re so gross, Drex-iot.” I scrunch my face like I’ve been force-fed a hundred lemons. Which sends Drexios into a laughing fit. “Don’t listen to the bad man, my innocent little cherub,” I murmur, shielding Todd’s sleepy little head.

Still, despite being a disgusting creep, this information is useful. If this Voryx is a playboy, well, I can work with that. I’ll have him twisted around my little finger so tight his head will pop off.

“I saved the best for last, just for you, Pinkie. ” Drexios grins darkly. “Old Borrthak of Clan Virennix.”

My heart skips. His eye narrows.

“Oh, you two’ll get on like a high-merchant in a pleasure garden. He’s a mad voiding cultist. Just. Like. You.” He cranks a clawed finger at me.

I just smile.

He wanted a reaction. He doesn’t get one.

Perfect!

I’m blessed by both Divine Mother and Father. My fingers trace Arawnoth’s scorched runes on my chest, the warmth bleeding into my skin. Once he learns the truth, he’ll have no choice but to support us.

“This is brilliant!” I beam up at Dracoth. “Give me enough time, and I’ll convince them to join our side.”

He only nods, faintly. But I feel it through the bond—his relief, warm and quiet.

“Bunch of voiding yackers, the lot of ‘em,” Drexios scoffs. “Think they’re something. Better to drop ‘em into a hot warzone—bore the enemy to death instead.” He barks a laugh. “That’s what Gorexius did.”

Ahead, four purple Robo-Nibs stand like statues, joined by a cluster of standard armored Nibs. They look like grumpy teenagers well past bedtime.

“If you’d please disarm before continuing,” Consul Catokar says with a smile that never quite reaches his red eyes. He gestures to a nearby swarm of murder-orb drones.

“Disarm?” Drexios echoes, voice dripping with venom. “Void this, War Chief. This stinks like a deathtrap.” He juts his chin toward Catokar.

Dracoth halts before the guards, crimson eyes scanning the Robo-Nibs like he can see the pilots inside. I feel it—his grip tightening around me, muscles coiled and ready.

“I assure you,” Catokar drawls, “this is standard protocol. Only through security and safety can the enlightened truly discourse.”

He sounds bored and offended, like we’re street urchins who just trudged poop over his Kashmir rugs.

“Discourse my arse cheeks,” Drexios snarls, stepping toward the Consul, forcing him backward. Two Robo-Nibs close in, shielding him. “What about these robotic cunts? Are they getting disarmed?”

Catokar laughs, too quickly. “Ah, well... you see, they are for our protection. After all, you Klendathians are—how shall I put it—gifted in certain... areas we are not.”

“Disarm,” Dracoth commands. Stern. Unyielding. Extra Frowny.

Without hesitation, he unclasps his right vambrace with a hiss and holds it out before a Robo-Nib. But the machine doesn’t take it, instead a murder-orb glides in, making me flinch like it’s a horde of killer bees after some Lexie-honey.

It emits a black beam that somehow supports the hunk of metal, before it darts off into a sliding compartment in the wall.

“Arc blaster. Twelve plasma grenades. Two plasma knives,” Drexios lists off like he’s reciting his shopping list as he holds out an unending array of weapons for the murder-orbs to take.

Dracoth moves forward again—but a purple Robo-Nib raises a whirling hand.

Big mistake.

Dracoth’s hand closes around the machine’s wrist. They lock in a colossal meathead arm-wrestle. Gears screech inside the Robo-Nib’s limb while Dracoth smirks, neck muscles flex with slow, effortless power.

I watch, biting my lip, very aware of the heat pooling in places that shouldn’t be heating up during a security check.

“Stop!” Consul Catokar flails his stubby arms like someone trying to turn down the music at a house party. “We only need to scan the unknown lifeform! ”

He points dramatically at Todd.

My Todd. Like he’s a war criminal.

Sleeping. Innocent. Angelic. Wrapped around my neck like a bloated rubbery neck brace.

“It...” Catokar waves his hand like he’s shooing away a fart. “Might be... contagious.”

“Outrageous!” I snap, stepping forward. “Look he’s even wearing a bowtie! A bowtie , you ungrateful blueberry!”

“Be that as it may,” Catokar sighs. “It must submit to a scan. The process will only take a moment.”

Dracoth releases the Robo-Nib, I almost laugh when the pilot inspects its arm, noticing the huge distorted dents my Red Murder Mountain has crushed into its forearm.

“... four knives, two graviton disruptors. A little Scoomer—never know when your last puff might be,” Drexios mumbles behind us, still unloading gear like a hoarder at a garage sale.

“Consul, the creature appears to have already expired,” one of the Nib soldiers mutters, eyeing Todd suspiciously.

We’re definitely conquering these guys.

“How Rude,” I sniff, giving Todd a little shake. “Wake up! You have guests,” I hiss at him, rubbing his back like he’s a magic lamp. Todd lets out a low croak, stretching his spindly legs and twitching his mandibles.

“Behold,” I announce, lifting my chin proudly, “the Divine Cherub .”

Consul Catokar tiptoes closer, face wrinkling like he’s just sniffed a diaper. “Intriguing... fauna.”

A murder-orb hovers beside Todd, bathing his majesty in an emerald beam of suspicious science. Todd stirs, offended, his clackers clacking at the drone like it’s floating jelly stick.

“Divine, um... Cherub is cleared,” the Nib soldier declares the obvious, stepping back like Todd might combust at any moment.

“Yeah, that’s everything,” Drexios grunts, patting his belt, chest, thigh plates—basically swatting himself like a man covered in fire ants. He strides forward.

A murder-orb stops him, green light aimed squarely at his crotch like the opening scene of the worst X-rated alien movie ever made.

“It appears,” Catokar sighs, gesturing with a lazy flick of his wrist, “you’re still armed.”

“What?” Drexios looks confused for all of half a second. Then—smirk. “My cock?” He cups his crotch like Michael Jackson. “Jealousy, is it? ’Cause you popped out your mother’s ass looking like a blue limp zarberry?”

He thrusts forward like this is a Chippendale show I can’t escape. “Yep. One hundred percent Klendathian cannon. I bet you Shorties haven’t seen anything like it.”

I groan. Sandra bursts into laughter.

“What’s so funny, Fire-on-Head ?” Drexios purrs. “You wanna see it too? Give it a tug and we’ll see what powers you can make it shoot out.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Sandra’s laughter fades into a freckled scrunch face of disgust and regret.

“Must you behave so... savagely?” Catokar mutters, massaging his temple like he’s regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

I know the feeling.

“Yes, we understand the blood’s been rerouted from your tiny brain,” the Consul continues, raising a hand. “Now kindly remove the weapon, so we can end this farce.”

Drexios smirks, hand shooting down his pants, wiggling back and forth like he’s shark fishing. “Oops. Wouldn’t you know.” He pulls out yet another blade. “Missed one.”

He tosses it at a Nib soldier’s feet. It sticks into the stone with a crack . The guard leaps back.

“I want that back,” Drexios says, deadly calm. “Washed.”

Catokar shakes his head like a disappointed headmaster. “Truly uncouth.” He straightens his robes. “All are cleared. You may proceed.”

We continue through the opulent corridor, the architectural bling now larger and more intricate. Walls glitter with inset gemstones—suns, stars, even eyes. Columns twist upward with gold-scribed battle scenes that practically shout, “ We conquered, and it was fabulous.”

Ahead, a small crowd of bone-through-the-noses waits near the grand double doors. They stand in silence like nobles waiting for their cue in a play none of them understand.

“Who’s that?” Sandra leans in, a hint of awe in her voice.

We follow her gaze. Two space-knights in boring grey armor.

One a blond youth glancing at the floor like an emo kid whose parents forgot his birthday.

The other is a brute—almost as broad as my Dracoth but nowhere near as tall, with a face that looks like it’s been used as an ancient sumo wrestling ring.

“Eww,” I grimace, side-eyeing Sandra like she’s lost her mind. “I thought you had better taste than that!”

Her face flushes like the nearby crimson sun. “No! The blonde one...” her voice drifts off, probably already dreaming of little goth kids and knee-high socks. “He looks... sad.”

Of course she wants a fixer-upper. Poor. Simple. Sandra.

“Oh, look at this big cunt,” Drexios croons, turning all dreams into nightmares as always. “Muscles for days.”

He stomps up to long red-haired Sumo Face. “Yo, squish face. What the void happened to that mug?” Drexios leers into his personal space like me shopping for new coat.

Before he can poke the poor guy, Catokar flicks a hand like he’s chasing off flies at Drexios, Sandra and Mama Dracoth.

“Attendees are to remain here,” he says, halting us before the immense, glimmering doors. They shimmer with deep wood polish and engraved gold patterns, flanked by statues of suspiciously oversized Nib heroes.

Definitely overcompensating.

“These are,” I start, straining to hold Sandra and Mama Dracoth while cradled in Mr. Frowny’s Face arm, “my... gingers-in-waiting. Very important in my culture.”

I flash Sandra a wicked grin. She shoots me one back, made of pure sapphire murder. It only makes it funnier.

“Fine. I will allow it,” Catokar drawls, barely sparing the two a single glance. “I allowed the other Chieftain to bring his... what did he call them? Assistants? ” He shrugs his tiny shoulders. “You may proceed.”

And with that, the great doors begin to creak open—like the galaxy itself is holding its breath.

My heart pounds.

This is it.

Krogoth Cringe-Eyes.

Bitch Brick.

Their downfall.

Our ascent.