Page 112 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Zen

I check myself out in the mirror.

And by mirror, I mean the polished silver mural depicting Smurfs crossed with Rambo’s bloodthirsty cousins as they battle red monsters. Impressive—but not nearly as impressive as what it’s reflecting: Todd and me.

I mean, someday they’ll teach this moment in history class. Right after Cleopatra and Catherine the Great: The Glorious Ascension of Cosmic Boss Babe Lexie. The moment when everyone who underestimated me finally received their long-overdue eviction notice.

Although, honestly, this garish orange-and-blue lighting is doing me zero favors. I look like someone lost a bet—half hungover, half walk-of-shame chic.

My eyes are raw and glistening, hair a golden, frizzy halo of chaos, black ceremonial robes a size too small. Okay, that last part was on purpose. What a tragic accident. Guess I’ll just have to lean in even closer.

I wipe my eyes, smooth my hair into something resembling a style. Todd, meanwhile, croaks softly in his sleep, the absolute embodiment of squishy perfection.

It’ll have to do. Time’s running out.

Nibs scuttle past me in the corridor, their tiny heads swiveling, their beady little eyes prickling like nails against my skin. No doubt nodding with approval, assuming I’m admiring their grand historical mural—probably based on some old movie they forgot wasn’t real.

Smurf Apocalypse: The Reckoning. I’m rooting for a sequel. Starring yours truly.

I straighten, inhale deeply, and flash myself a wicked grin.

Right. Showtime, Lexie.

I tap my wrist console. A burst of blue holographic light floods up, offering way too many useless options. Luckily, I made sure to memorize two very important locations.

Two Big Chiefs. Two quarters. Two missions: Seduce Surfer Bro. Convert Big Belly. Easy. Like convincing boring, Human Todd to do my math homework back in the day.

But... which one first?

I grimace. Big Belly. Surfer Bro could get... messy. A shiver runs through me—I always hated surfer types—salty hobos who drink too much.

I pivot left, stomping down the corridor like an angry She-Hulk on a sugar crash. It’s so awkward, towering over the Nibs like I’m an elephant that’s escaped the zoo. They sashay around me with dramatic little pouts, like I’m some cosmic black hole sucking the vibes out of their precious ship.

Bunch of blueberry heads .

I bury my face in the glowing console like a partially blind kid using a broken compass to find buried treasure. Part distraction. Part necessity. Because—tiny hiccup—I’m already slightly lost.

Not my fault. It’s this ship—the Imperator’s Knuckles. Pompous name they give it. But ridiculously massive—basically a floating Louvre, a Michelin-starred restaurant, and death-rays stapled together by a drunk architect.

Two towering Robo-Nibs stand sentry beside a door ahead. Their sleek purple heads track my movement like vengeful stone gargoyles. I can almost smell the smugness wafting from the Smurf pilots inside.

A shiver prickles down my spine. I reach out instinctively for the warm buzz of Dracoth’s bond—the comforting Mr. Frowny Face murder bond juice. Nothing. Nada.

Left me dying of thirst in a desert, sandals full of sand, dry mouth cracking.

Plaugh. Typical.

So busy wallowing in my romantic abandonment, I almost miss it—a flashing blinky bonk on the wrist console.

Oh! I’m here!

I grimace harder when I realize where here is. The door I just passed. The one flanked by the two looming Robo-Smurf Terminators.

Really? Of course it is. Because why not?

Slowly—like a sneaky little mole—Molexie—I creep toward the door, channeling the energy of a teenager trying to fake their way into a nightclub with a borrowed ID.

The Robo-Nibs’ sleek heads swivel to track me, their gears whirring ominously.

What if they stop me?

My brilliant plans are evaporating faster than my bank balance.

I swallow the boulder lodged in my throat. But the Robo-Nibs don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand there like creepy purple murder toys someone forgot to wind up.

“Uh... I just...” I stammer, my voice shooting up two octaves, “have an appointment with Big Chief Big Belly. I mean—an appointment for my sore belly.” I giggle. Like a toddler who’s just chugged six Red Bulls and licked a light socket.

Stop talking, Lexie!

Still nothing.

“So...” I drawl, shuffling between their cold metal frames in a sideways Limbo dance. “I’ll just be on my... way.”

I squeeze through the gap like the last desperate glob of toothpaste—extra minty, extra awkward.

How random.

Breathless, I brace myself for the stomach-churning shimmer of the holographic door ahead. At least it means Big Belly must be inside.

The door ripples like living water as I step through—and find myself in another standard-issue blueberry lair. Polished, boring, painfully identical to every other chamber on this ship.

Except for one important, glorious difference. In the center, looking like someone tried to balance a grizzly bear on a child’s tea set, sits Big Chief Big Belly.

My heart thuds—half excitement, half sheer pants-wetting terror. This is it. My shot. My big play. No screwing this up, Lexie.

He sits cross-legged, eyes closed like a big hairy Buddha. Well, if Buddha was a living bipedal death machine. His battle-worn white armor rises and flows in a deep, steady wind-tunnel rhythm.

I recognize what he’s doing instantly. Use it myself like Elder Ignixis taught me. My own fragile, secret place of stillness, where I search for Divine Mother and Father.

“I’m sorry to disturb your Mura-Tok, Chieftain,” I say, pitching my voice into the most respectful, softest whisper I can conjure.

One pale green eye creaks open. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s about to demand I answer three riddles before letting me stay.

“War Chieftainess,” he rumbles, voice deep as an avalanche. His thick white brows lift slightly in surprise. “There are few aliens who know of the Mura-Tok.”

“Oh, I know it very well,” I groan theatrically, flopping into a cross-legged sit with a squelchy thump —immediately regretting the massive brunch binge. “I practice it every day like Elder Ignixis taught me,” I add, dropping the name like a golden ticket to Club Respect.

“Elder Ignixis...” He breathes deep, closing his eye again. His total lack of interest makes me clench my teeth hard enough to risk dental surgery.

“Did he not teach you proper etiquette?” He gestures toward the door with a massive hand that could probably snap me like a breadstick. “You risk scandal by entering my chambers alone. I will not offend your Mortakin-Kai’s honor. Please, leave.”

Crap. Maybe I should have dragged Sandra here. She’s technically my ginger-in-waiting. Except... mind-controlled by Bitch Brick. Total liability.

Of course, the bone-through-the-noses would be super old-school, I’m probably supposed to be tied to the kitchen or bedroom, shooting out adorable Klendathian babies like a malfunctioning stapler and packing cute little battle lunches.

Oh! I could cut the bread into wee frowny faces.

“It was the War Chieftain who sent me.” The lie rolls from my tongue smooth as silken lace.

“He honors your ancient wisdom. Your respect for the old ways—the very traditions Krogoth mocks and attacks. I respect them, too. That’s why I come before you,” I purr, leaning forward slightly, ensuring that gravity and my strategically-too-small robes let my cleavage fill his eyes, while my words muddle his mind.

My fingers brush his massive, tattooed hand—it’s cold, like touching frozen iron—but I ignore the burn, layering my smile with just the right mix of sadness, submission, and longing. The kind of look that melts men’s brains faster than molten lava.

Big Belly snaps his hand back like I’m made of live wires. His forked beard—still loaded with enough bones to build a xylophone—jingles like a discarded Bargain Bucket. His mouth falls open in dumbfounded horror.

So... seduction’s off the table. Honestly? I’m both impressed and offended. Peak Sexy-Lexie is not something most mortals can resist. Especially not the overly serious types—they usually fold like cheap suits the second a bombshell drops into their lap.

Fine. Whatever. Pivot time. Chaste Lexie it is. How boring .

I rock back onto my heels, fold my hands neatly in my lap, and cast my eyes down in my best imitation of when the principal scolded me.

“Forgive my outburst, Chieftain,” I whisper, voice quivering with quiet, reverent desperation. “Arawnoth fills me with furious passion—a rage I struggle to contain when such open sacrilege goes unanswered.”

Big Belly studies me a moment, rubbing his hand where I touched him like I’m made of poison ivy. “You are most peculiar,” he rumbles finally.

Rude.

“Did you know,” he says, shaking his massive head until his pristine braids sway like ceremonial wind chimes, “that Krogoth abolished the title of War Chieftain?” He sounds almost mournful. “That, I do not condone. A tradition shattered over petty semantics.”

Bingo . I can work with that.

“A tyrant who is—” I start, lunging for the momentum—

“But,” the rude prick slices me off mid-sentence like a giant emotional nail clipper. “You speak of sacrilege. What other crimes do you lay against his honor?”

Something shifts. The cold, sterile air turns heavier, sharper. I realize—belatedly—this isn’t casual small talk. This is a cross-examination. And I’m the exotic criminal in the witness box for the crime of being too fabulous.

I thought Big Belly would be easy, but here I am, hunting frantically for the right answer, like the teacher has just called me up to solve calculus on a blackboard made of embarrassment.

I clear my throat before replying. “He killed Dracoth’s father, Gorexius. He seizes leadership not by right, but by brute force,” I say, smoothing the wrinkles from my robe, fighting to keep my voice low and controlled.