Page 116 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Politics

I ’m back in the grand summit room, shifting in my seat with the grace of a crab on hot sand.

Not just because my chair is a throne carved from what I assume is a volcano’s estranged offspring—jet-black, jagged, and about as comfortable as a family reunion hosted in a septic tank.

No, it’s also the nerves.

A full legion of Lexie-moths is dive-bombing my poor stomach like it’s D-Day down there.

And it’s Bitch Brick’s fault.

She and Krogoth Cringe-Eyes are fashionably late, of course. Classic power play—make the rest of us plebs stew in anticipation. Gods, why didn’t I think of it first?

So now we wait, bathed in the sterile glow of the enormous Elerium and sapphire spheres that hover over the metal-scarred table like smug crystal gods.

“Psst. Psst.” I hiss like a stepped-on cat. “What were you doing all morning?” I ask, a hint of accusation in my tone.

Dracoth sits beside me, towering like a frowning skyscraper sculpted from pure disapproval. Not helped by the fact his daddy volcano throne makes me feel like a toddler tossing stinky carrots from a high chair.

“Preparations,” he rumbles, arms folded, eyes closed. Classic chatty mood.

“ Preparations ?” I echo, lips curling. “Really? That’s funny, because I didn’t see you while I was out securing our win.

” I flash him a knowing smile, stroking Todd—who softly clacks in his sleep on my shoulder—obviously in solidarity to how hard I’ve been working.

Though I wonder if Dracoth can feel the sweat still clinging to my back through the bond.

His eye cracks open—just one. A single burning red glare. Like hellfire peeking through a crack in a condemned wall.

“Is that why you violated our bond?” he growls, low and slow.

Oh. Fuck. He felt that?

“I did no such thing! ” I snap, too fast, too loud. “I merely made a few strategic suggestions. It’s not my fault men lose all control around Sexy-Lexie .” I grin, trying to mask the heat blooming in my cheeks like two fully ripened betrayal tomatoes.

Dracoth just... stares. No words. No twitch. No anger. Just one giant eyeball of eternal, silent judgment. I squirm under it like an ant beneath a magnifying glass of frowny solar condemnation.

How does he do this?

It’s like some supervillain power he’s using to abuse me.

“It’s your fault!” I blurt, suddenly confessing to a crime I maybe, probably committed.

“You left everything to me. So what if I got a little sandy in the process?” I turn to glare at him, heat rising in my throat.

“I’ve done everything for us , and you’re giving me drama because I got creative with coral-scent sandcastles. ”

I cross my arms. Too fast. Too loud. Again.

Ugh.

Even I know I’m overplaying it now. And still—he says nothing. Just stares until my words stew into awkward Lexie soup: extra salty, slightly burnt.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of internal screaming, he closes his eyes again.

I breathe. The sterile recycled air never tasted so sweet.

Still, the guilt clings like wine on white silk—stubborn and stupid. Not helped by Surfer Bro flashing me a smug grin from across the table.

Barf.

He lounges on a coral throne like it was stolen from a discount Atlantis resort. His two alien hussies drape across his shoulders like damp dishcloths trying to cosplay seduction.

Peacock Big Chief sits nearby, arms folded, trying for calm—but I can see the steam curling off his fancy feathered crest like gravity-defying bird poop. His pale gold eyes flick between the Robo-Nibs and the guards like he’s waiting for a sudden breakdance battle to break out.

The Imperator, for once, hasn’t brought half his court.

Just a few assistants and his two sour, bulbous-faced advisers perched atop the stone dais, whispering like predatory aunts at a will reading.

Their noses are so high in the air I’m surprised they haven’t passed out from altitude sickness.

They mutter like vultures deciding which intestines will taste the yummiest—mine, obviously.

Big Belly Chief practically floats on his iceberg-turned-throne, having apparently reached a state of Zen far beyond the frantic drumline of my heartbeat.

Beside the still-empty seats that look like they were grown from a really judgy tree, I spot Mummy Big Chief.

He’s giving me industrial-strength stink-eye from across the table.

Piercing blue eyes glare from beneath a shrouded face like he’s auditioning for the next Dune movie.

And yet, despite his hostility, I wonder.

.. if I tried— really tried —could I have flipped that frown upside down?

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Hate’s just foreplay in the right lighting.

But whatever. I don’t need him. With Surfer Bro, Big Belly, Peacock Big Chief, and of course Dracoth—I’ve got the majority. Should be in the bag. But still, I can’t shake this nagging doubt like a thousand basic mother lectures echoing through my skull at once.

Suddenly—

“I do hope you’re enjoying the décor?” booms the Imperator, making my heart try to leap out of my mouth and hide under the table.

“Those chairs were crafted to match your native homelands,” he continues, glancing at his two penny-headed Smurf advisers.

“Or so I’ve been told. I would love to visit the.

.. primal world of Klendathor once the Fallen are crushed. ”

“It’s, um... impressive,” Surfer Bro stammers, trying not to impale himself on a particularly pointy piece of throne-shell. “Your craftsmanship is... second to none.”

“Silence.” Big Belly’s eyes snap open like divine mousetraps.

From Zen to zap in an instant. “You do not speak here, Second,” he growls.

“Not while you defy our traditions with those... whores .” He makes a rowing gesture with one massive oar-hand, like he’s trying to physically paddle the alien hussies out of the room.

Surfer Bro launches from his throne like toast from a holy toaster. His alien companions squeal as they’re flung aside like cheap drama props. “You don’t speak for Clan Aquaxus!” he roars, slamming a fist into the table of twisted metal.

“Oh dear!” the Imperator gasps, sounding delighted. “I never thought I’d admire the Fallen Scythians, but the way they maintained unity among such... fiery tempers? Impressive. ” He chuckles. His minions chuckle. The whole Smurf village joins in like it’s open mic night at a dictatorship.

Then he leans forward, voice syrupy with mischief. “That table you struck—does it remind you of anything?”

“Scythians,” Dracoth grunts, the only sign he’s not as sleepy as Todd.

“Correct,” the Imperator nods, beaming. “I thought you might appreciate the gesture. You people often wear totems of the vanquished—I assumed you’d like one as a centerpiece.

A fetishism that borders on unshakable delusion.

” He shivers theatrically, Elerium eyes aglow.

“There’s something so... wild about your barbarism.

Vicious. Pure. A kind of bloodthirst we’ve lost in our own pursuit of enlightenment. ”

Counselor Sour-Face rolls her eyes. The other one’s mouth drops open like he’s just been sentenced to ten years of Sock-Chair meat.

“ Enlightenment ,” Peacock Big Chief spits like it’s a naughty word dripping poison. “And yet,” he growls, “you bar our movements and communications like a master tightening a slave’s leash.”

“Of course,” the Imperator replies, all smiles, zero shame. “We can’t have... untoward actors manipulating such an important vote, can we?”

My stomach drops straight to my leather booties.

His glowing orange gaze sweeps across the table, lingering on me for a thundering heartbeat.

Fuck. Does he know?

Of course he does. I’ve been limbo dancing between his Robo-Nibs all bloody morning like I’m auditioning for the Space Olympics. Wait— that means he’s on my side, right? He wants Dracoth to win.

Aw. I always had a soft spot for Papa Smurf.

But where is Bitch Brick? Why isn’t she here yet? Is she plotting some last-minute psychic sabotage? Slipping love notes into Mummy Chief’s robe? She seems the type—manipulative. Petty. Evil.

And then—right on cue—Todd’s mirror rune pulses bright silver. A warning. A shield.

The huge summit doors groan open behind me like a Hungry Hippo preparing to swallow me whole.

My heart skips so many beats I’m basically a zombie.

All eyes snap to the source. Heavy and light footfalls intermingle, cutting through the held breaths. They echo down the long corridor like chimes before a disco rave.

Krogoth strides in like a titan, raven-black hair cascading over his clawed mantle, purple eyes burning like dying stars. His gaze? Locked on Dracoth. Pure pissing contest. And trailing at his side like the last girl on prom night?

Bitch Brick.

She clings to his arm like an angry child’s drawing of royalty, stuffed into a wrinkled purple gown—her last taste of royalty.

Her eyes pass over me—barely a flicker. Not long enough to register my full-bore seething loathing. My teeth clench at her petty slight. Like an ostrich, she thinks burying her scarred head in the sand will make me disappear. But not this time. Now I’m the Divine Daughter.

I won’t be ignored. I can’t be erased.

She’s whispering already. Constantly. Buzzing in his ear like a psychotic, oversized ham radio tuned to Paranoia FM.

It’s unsettling. What is she saying? What is she reading? Everyone’s thoughts? Feeding them to him like a psychic IV drip? Whatever poison she’s blasting like a malfunctioning fire hose, it’s working.

Krogoth’s glare snaps to the Imperator, hands clenching tight enough to crush bone.

Touchy.