Page 107 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Twin Suns

I glare at Krogoth, fists still clenched, the Rush surging through my veins like magma—pressure mounting, desperate to erupt in a volcanic storm of brutal vengeance.

Can he feel it? The fury radiating from me like solar fire?

A righteous heat screaming to erase the shame he stained me with—burned away by his blood.

Then, movement.

The Nebians enter. In numbers.

Battlesuits. Warriors. Encircling.

Is it an attack? Betrayal?

No. At their center strides Consul Catokar, accompanied by a female with yellow hair and a robe of matching rank. Their presence parts the sea of armored bodies.

“All rise for Imperator Bulba,” a booming, mechanized voice announces, echoing off stone and alloy alike, “Fourth of His Name. Protector of the Twin-Sunned Empire. Slayer of the Scythians!”

Slayer? Lies dressed in stolen glory.

My chest tightens as anticipation burns hot.

I scan the chamber, heart thudding—not with fear, but fascination.

The Imperator. A figure spoken of in whispers and parables.

A myth. An ancient conqueror who united the disparate Nebian space colonies a thousand years ago.

Subjecting galaxies under his rule until they broke against the vast horde of Scythians.

And then again against us Klendathian’s.

We—the strongest warriors the universe has ever birthed—shattered both empires in blood and fire, casting their ambitions into solar winds.

And now, the myth floats in.

Imperator Bulba ascends like a celestial being, riding a levitating disc.

An ancient Nebian—smiling with bright, keen orange eyes.

They swirl and glow eerily like the huge Elerium orb above.

His hair and beard flows down his orange and blue robes like Aroth snowdrifts.

His head is framed by a large circle, larger than the Consuls, representing the dual-stars of Nebia with its blue and orange coloring.

Behind him, the chamber shifts.

Embedded statues of ancient Nebian heroes rumble to life.

My hands tighten, eyes snapping to the sudden movement.

Seamless portions of the wall jut forward in a smooth, fluid motion, typical of Nebian design.

Towering tiered balconies form, draped in rich purple, each embroidered with gold-threaded runes.

The Consuls ascend on a rising platform, carried aloft to their elevated perch.

The Battlesuits and warriors line its base, forming a protective wall of polished metal and laser weaponry.

A symphony follows—musicians bearing translucent instruments take their places on a lower stage, plucking strange glowing strings.

Spectators file in—nobles, technicians, military. Some gawk. Some sneer. All of them watching.

Then—his voice.

“Are we interrupting?” The Imperator’s voice booms with a hint of mirth despite his small stature. “Or is this yet another fine Klendathian cultural exchange?”

His grav-disc glides beneath the vaulted ceiling—a swirling fresco above depicting a grand celestial battle. Towering, muscular Nebians clash with red-skinned, horned monstrosities. The similarities are amusing.

A warning, perhaps. Or delusion.

The Imperator descends toward a central podium. As he lowers, his celestial collar aligns perfectly with the mural behind him—positioning him as a radiant god among warriors, casting light upon the heavens.

“Overcompensating much,” Princesa mutters beside me, shooting me a sidelong smirk.

She’s right.

This is theater, a masquerade obscuring the truth.

The truth that they are stunted. Weak. Frightened.

They elevate themselves to look down upon us.

As if they are greater. Surrounded by useless opulence, promoting decadence, wallowing in their shame.

They cling to it with pride as I wear my belt of bone—Hemo-Tok.

“No, Imperator.” The yellow-haired female Consul’s bulbous nose lifts as if scenting weeks-old death. “The savages are simply returning to their nature.”

Beside me, Krogoth stiffens. His knuckles crack, slow and deliberate.

“Now. Now. Consul Juliara. These are our—” The Imperator’s words falter, his swirling Elerium eyes widening as he takes in my power. “By the twin suns.... Look at the size of this one.” He grins, glancing sidelong at the Consuls flanking him. “He looks like he could wrestle a Battlesuit or two.”

Then his gaze snaps to mine, amusement vanishing. “So, that must make you High Chieftain Krogoth?”

Princesa sniggers softly. I growl. “No. War Chieftain Dracoth.”

“War Chieftain, Dracoth?” he echoes, frowning, turning to Consul Catokar. “Why was I not informed of this development?”

Catokar stiffens, his black circular collar wobbling slightly. “We’re still assembling a full account of the events surrounding your most triumphant victory, Imperator.”

“Indeed,” the Imperator replies, voice dry. “I had hoped our guests might enlighten us. But then—who does one address?” He shifts, eyes settling on Krogoth. “Yes. I see now. You are High Chieftain Krogoth, are you not?”

Krogoth steps forward, his violet eyes burning. “I am. I have the honor of leading my noble people.”

“He does not speak for me!” Vorthax booms, fist slamming against his chestplate, sending his vibrant cloak of feathers swaying. “ Traitor. ” The word spits from him like vipertail venom.

“I see...” the Imperator drawls, suddenly older. He eyes Vorthax. “And you? You stood with War Chieftain Gorexius and the Scythians?”

“I did. I still do!” Vorthax’s voice echoes like war drums. Mutters ripple through the Nebian ranks. “We had you! You were broken. Ripe for the slaughter before this—this treason!”

“Guards, seize these tribal barbarians—” Consul Juliara snaps, her voice shrill with contempt.

My muscles coil. Nebian weapons twitch. Battlesuits hum.

“ Delay that order! ” The Imperator’s voice crashes through the chamber like a thunderclap. Silence falls instantly. “Cross me again, Consul Juliara, and you may find another election called in your province. I fear the imperial coffers will be... less generous this time.”

Juliara lowers her head. “I beg your forgiveness, Imperator.”

The Imperator turns to Krogoth, his voice dropping into something colder, older.

“Some advice, High Chieftain. Many cycles ago, I stood where you stand now. They called me tyrant. Usurper. Me. After I bled to unite my people. I offered friendship, forgiveness. Demonstrated fair and just rule. A society built on logic, reason, and justice. But they saw only weakness. The more I gave, the more they demanded.”

He inhales, his gaze drifting upward to the fresco above. Twin suns warring in the heavens.

“Until one day... my Domina Stellara boarded a ship with our son.” His voice hardens. “They killed them both. A bomb meant for me. Elerium-infused. Nothing left but smoke.”

The silence is sharp as arcweave .

“I remember their faces still. Not because I cherished them—but because I seared the memory into my soul while I executed every last dissident.”

He chuckles once, bitter and low. “Hatred passed. What remained was clarity.”

The Imperator steps forward, voice like claws dragged across stone.

“You began a righteous rebellion, High Chieftain. But you did not finish it. The old guard remains—defiant, rotting at the root. You must complete the purge if you mean to lead. That is the price of peace. And the only way our alliance endures.”

Bulba surprises me with his strength. But that strength bodes ill for my ambitions.

The weight of the chamber settles on Krogoth like a crown of stone. His Mortakin-Kis, Rocks, clings to his side, whispering frantic words as if shouting through water.

But it’s Vorthax who finds his voice first.

“Do it—if you possess the courage!” he roars, not with anger, but calm resolve. “I do not fear death.” He steps forward, arms spread, golden eyes burning with Rush. “Murder me as you murdered my war brother!” His voice trembles, as do the colorful feathers bristling from his grey hair.

Krogoth doesn’t hesitate. His black-furred cloak sways as he turns away from Vorthax.

“I will not,” he declares.

He lifts his chin toward the Imperator, voice firm, uncompromising. “The days of foreign powers dictating to me—or my people—are over.”

The words land like hammer blows. A sharp intake of Nebian breaths.

“Our ways may seem strange to you. But we are not animals. Each of us—every Klendathian—shares a bond. A binding of brothers.” He glances back at my mother, his face softening.

“And sisters—forged in hardship, sharpened by blood. Siblings may fight. But we resolve it our way. For all we have in this universe is kinship.”

My heart soars at his fine words. Sincere. Resolute. They mirror my own thoughts.

The Imperator folds his arms, peering down from his vaunted celestial perch like a displeased deity. Through the heated Nebian muttering, Consul Juliara steps forward, broad features twisted with contempt.

“Your lack of intelligence is truly astounding,” she sneers. “Laughable, if it weren’t so utterly nauseating.” She turns to her companions, gesturing wildly with a stubby arm. “Must we subject ourselves to such drivel, drooled from barely-evolved brutes? This— this —is what my Horaxus died for?”

Her laugh is cruel, and she jabs a quivering finger toward Krogoth.

“This one hides behind flowery ideals of ‘ bonds .’ While this other barbarian,” She flicks a hand at Vorthax, “ begs for execution. And what of your civil war two centuries ago? You tore your own females from their babes and gifted them to the Fallen Scythians. Tell me again, savage—about your sacred ‘ kinship .’”

She drives a claw into the festering wound at the heart of our people. An injury carved by my father into our history—inflicted before my time.