Page 105 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Party Crashers

T he doors part with a creak like ancient trees exhaling their final breath. Cold, pristine light spills through—clinical, almost sterile—and then the chamber swallows us whole.

It’s a cathedral of power and alien opulence.

The walls curve inward, smooth and seamless, forged from polished stone in swirling, sandy hues. At each corner, towering crystalline columns pulse with luminous rainbow light, their glow shifting subtly like breath. The whole room hums—not loud, but alive.

And at its heart?

A table. Massive. Obscene.

It stands out—a scrapheap dumped in Buckingham Palace. A brutal slab of black-gray alloy fused together as if my divine shields had crushed murder-bots into terrible décor designs.

Above it, two suspended orbs rotate slowly—part chandelier, part astronomical flex.

One sparks sapphire, the other pulses molten orange—a heartbeat of wealth.

Elerium. My breath catches. That’s not just expensive.

Like my ring—if my ring were the size of a compact car.

A casual fortune orbiting like two naughty planets playing footsie.

“Class,” Sandra mutters, reverent.

“Dracoth, I really like this spaceship,” I purr, whispering into his long ear, heart stuttering with the delicious thought that one day it’ll belong to me.

He says nothing, but the bond hums with low approval as his boots thud across the polished stone. The sound silences the distant muttering at the table.

They see us now.

The Big Chiefs.

Five of them, seated in mismatched thrones—each more dramatic than the last. Old. Young. Robed. Armored. Colorful. Grimy. Cloaked figures with watchful eyes, half-shadowed, heads twitching toward us like hobos at a soup kitchen. Suspicion simmers in every glance.

My breath hitches. I crush the strange pang of doubt under four-inch platform boots and smile like I own the place.

“Gorexius...?” one of them breathes. A round-bellied elder, forked beard like purest snow. He stares at Dracoth like a ghost just strolled in munching brains. “By the Gods—how?”

He stumbles from a crystalline ice throne, nearly knocking it over in his panic.

And then—

“Oh. Look! Women!”

A human voice. High, light, and painfully enthusiastic. It echoes like the sound of someone clapping at a funeral.

A swarm of Lexie-moths dive-bomb my stomach as my eyes lock onto the source.

Bitch Brick. In the flesh.

Hazel eyes sparkle across the room like we’re old school friends. I study her—a woman in her mid-thirties, face framed by mousy brown hair... and scarred. Deep, jagged, painful-looking scars slashed across one cheek like an oversized cat used her face as a scratching post.

How unfortunate. I almost smirk.

She’s wearing a gleaming purple dress with a white fur cloak draped over her like a curtain from a forgotten opera house. The same color as mine. My jaw clenches so hard it nearly cracks. I fight the urge to rip it off her and set it on fire with my eyeballs.

She disappoints me. I’d imagined something else—some Conan the Barbarian meets Barbie cyborg warrior queen. Not... this. Not Plain Jane with bad taste in accessories.

This is going to be even easier than I thought.

She makes a move to rise from Krogoth Cringe-Eye’s knee—because of course she’s sitting on it—but he stops her with one giant hand on her shoulder.

“No, my Pebbles,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, commanding. Each word lands like a clipped nail. “This is Dracoth.” He tilts his chin at my husband, tussling his long glossy black hair. “The one Xandor spoke of.”

His purple eyes are glowing. Hot. Unblinking. Locked on us like he’s already chosen where the bodies will fall.

He’s terrifying. Even without the memory of his swirling vortexes consuming murder-bots like popcorn.

Instinctively, I flinch. But Dracoth doesn’t. His grip steadies me—strong, silent, unshaken. The bond pulses like a war drum:

No fear.

Hulk smash.

Bitch Brick’s smile slips into concern. Her gaze dances between Krogoth and Dracoth—then to me. Her lips press tight, like Todd’s just pooped in her favorite shoes. Her eyes glow faintly.

She’s using her powers.

Mind reading, if I remember right.

Are you inside my head, Bitch Brick? Good. Because I’m going to win.

But then—something flares beside me.

A brilliant silver tube of cuteness—Todd.

“Chug Bug?” I gasp, yanking him from my shoulder and cradling him like he’s about to explode. The Klendathian rune for mirror blazes molten silver across his rubbery plumpness. “No, no, no—don’t leave me!” I clutch him tighter, shielding the light with my arms like it’s blood gushing from a wound.

But Todd?

Todd just lazily blinks his big glossy eye at the Big Chiefs, mandibles clacking softly like he’s seizing up a fresh jelly stick.

“Huh?” I prod his squishy segments. He doesn’t explode. Doesn’t even flinch. Just croaks happily and tries to curl back into a sleepy cuddle-ball. Like he’s not currently glowing like a radioactive disco ball in formalwear.

Then realization dawns on me like a surprise holiday.

Aenarael. Divine Mother.

She did this. She told me to keep Todd close—as if I ever wouldn’t. Said something cryptic about stopping the daughter of Maracas or whatever. This must be it. Todd’s runes are blocking Bitch Brick’s powers.

How wonderful! Divine Mother does truly love me.

Across the room, Bitch Brick’s smile falters—just for a second. Like someone slapped her with a hundred eviction notices. And soon I’ll deliver them for real.

I let a little sneaky smirk crease my lip, just for her—a private message to let her know, that I know.

She leans toward Krogoth, whispering like the head gossip at intergalactic boarding school. He nods slowly, unsettling the bejeweled, feathered monstrosity of a crown he’s wearing.

Then Dracoth steps forward, voice rising like the war horns of heaven.

“I am War Chieftain Dracoth. True-born son of Gorexius.” His voice rumbles like a thunderstorm. “Vanquisher of the Voidbringer. Chosen of Arawnoth. Liberator of Clones. Savior of the Revered Mothers.”

He strides toward the obsidian thrones set at the table’s far end. Fitting. But sadly, jagged, and pointy—promising serious butt chaffing. His boots hit the stone with the weight of destiny.

“ True-born son? ” one of the Big Chiefs barks.

He’s sun-bleached and youthful, face hidden beneath a segmented shawl like mummy cosplay. Bright blue eyes flash beneath the hood.

“You’re no son—you’re a Shorthair. A clone,” he snarls, jabbing a clawed finger. “Your head stuffed with lies. A Scythian puppet, sent to divide us in our hour of victory.”

He turns to the others, gaze landing last and longest on Krogoth.

“A final, desperate gambit by the enemies of Klendathor. I do not recognize his right to stand among us.”

I stroke the rubbery night-light that is Todd—who is still humming with divine glow—and raise my chin.

“ You’re very certain for someone wrapped like a mummy, ” I purr. “I’m Alexandra from Earth. The Divine Daughter.”

I lean forward from Dracoth’s arm, fingers gliding along the glowing runes seared into my chest and neck.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of me? After all, I’m the one who shielded your sorry asses when you all started bashing each other over the head.”

Their faces tighten as I roll my eyes, letting my words sink in, savoring the shock and surprise before the mic-dropping moment comes. “And together, as Mortakin-Kis and Mortakin-Kai, we now deliver salvation.” With dramatic flair, I reach up and pull back the hood of Mama Dracoth’s robe.

The effect is immediate and explosive.

Perfect.

She stands serene and statuesque—beautiful, glowing, divine, albeit a vacant Goddess amidst the chaos. Still humming her eerie tune like some holy oracle from another world.

The Big Chiefs erupt .

“By the Gods—” one whispers, staggering back.

Peacock Big Chief’s eyes widen with awe. “You spoke the truth,” he breathes, staring at Dracoth. “Before us stands the rightful heir of Gorexius!”

Around the table, awe shivers through the others like wind across tall grass.

“So...” Big Belly Chief murmurs, pale green eyes downcast, “the rumors were true. But I dared not believe them.” He raises tattooed hands, his snow-white braided hair and forked beard jangling with inlaid fangs.

“For centuries we prayed... and at last, the Gods have answered. Praise Aenarael. Praise her mercy!”

Wait—he reveres Divine Mother too? This is perfect!

“Is this... a trick?” A young, cocky Big Chief squints. He’s draped in blue-tinted armor embedded with glowing bioluminescent coral and smugness. He shrugs off the two scantily clad, spike-headed aliens clinging to his shoulders like fashion accessories.

“I’ve seen better holograms at the cheapest junker pleasure gardens,” he mutters, swaggering up to Mama Dracoth like she’s a shop mannequin. Eyes crawling over her like he’s evaluating her for resale.

Then he reaches to touch her.

Oh, no.

Dracoth moves like murder given form—red lightning made flesh. His massive hand clamps down on the young Big Chief’s flimsy blue-armored wrist. Bratwurst-thick fingers engulf the man’s entire forearm.

“Don’t touch...” Dracoth growls, voice low and vibrating with fury.

He tightens his grip. Bones creak. The Big Chief drops to one knee, face twisted in pain.

“My mother!” Dracoth snarls, then shoves him backward with a grunt that sends him sprawling across the polished stone floor.

“Peace! Peace!” the blue-haired Big Chief splutters, throwing up both hands as he scrambles to his feet. “I think I’ll just stick with my lovely Elera and Umi.”

He quickly wraps his arms around the two squealing alien women at his sides, their expressions somewhere between shocked and thrilled. His ridiculous coral-studded topknot sways like a sail caught in a breeze.

Ugh. Who let the surfer bro into the summit?

Krogoth steps forward. He’s huge, second only to my Dracoth. His massive form cuts a regal figure beneath the shimmering overhead Elerium and sapphire lights.