Page 123 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Silence. Thick and coiling. Like poison in the air. Like an axe suspended above the heart.

Her mouth forms an “ O .”

Then, slowly, her eyes drop. A grin curves her lips. “You’re still nervous, aren’t you?” she says softly. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

My heart plummets, disappointment dragging me back to reality. To sanity. Love is a kind of madness. Or so the ancient fools claim.

“I speak the—”

“You’re not going to rest with the ancestors because you’re not going to lose.” She cuts me off—not angry, just playful.

Now, I’m the young fool, grasping for meaning, fumbling through the storm of emotions she invokes. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I conjure phantoms in fear. Nothing but smoke. And it reeks of weakness—weakness I must purge if I’m to face Krogoth as an equal.

She lets go. My hands fall to my sides.

“You’re my Red Dragon,” she says, pressing her palms against my chest plate. “No one can beat you. I’ve watched you smash through walls, bust down doors like they were—”

I stop listening. Words are useless now. Annoying vibrations. She repeats the same mantra. But only strength matters.

My strength.

Perhaps that was always the case. It’s only power that binds those who follow me—Princesa most of all.

Who I am beneath does not matter.

Only fire illuminates the path. I must become that fire.

“Scourge the weak. Embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image,” she intones, stretching up to smear my forehead with ash. Her fingertip draws a crisscrossing circle in the air. “Now, you’re ready.” She nods, smiling.

“Yes,” I growl. The ash flares against my skin with unnatural warmth.

“Now it’s your turn, Chug Bug.” She scoops up more ash and turns to her pet. It squirms, mandibles clacking in protest.

“Stop resisting Divine Father’s blessing, you little scamp.

” His needle-like legs blur with frantic motion, but she clamps down on his squishy body, dabbing ash onto his trembling head.

“Scourge the jelly-sticks, embrace the chunk. Let the poops be reborn far away from my divine presence.” Her mock-sermon is absurd, but Todd rubs his head against her finger anyway, croaking in his insectoid way.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My head snaps toward the sound.

“Enter,” I command. The door shimmers from solid to holograph—Nebian tech, strange and clever.

Consul Juliara steps in, flanked by two laser-armed guards. Her beady yellow eyes slowly sweep across the room, clicking her tongue with distaste at the deep gorges and dents I’ve made.

“The sooner this... barbaric business is concluded, the better.” She sighs, as if carrying the weight of her entire people. “Which, mercifully, is soon. I’m here to escort you to the shuttle. Follow me,” she adds, already turning on stubby legs. “And try not to... break anything.”

“Rude. Prick,” Princesa mutters behind me.

I squeeze through the doorway, trying not to buckle the frame any further. But sparks fly as my father’s arcweave armor scrapes the thin metal like parchment.

“Wee. Lightshow,” Princesa murmurs in delight.

A smile tugs at my lips—whether from her words or the relief of being able to straighten in the corridor, I can’t say.

Two hulking purple Nebian Battlesuits fall in behind us. I feel their presence like claws at my back—a threat. A warning, born of fear. They reek of it. I taste it in the cold, sterile air. My primal instincts flare. My claws twitch.

Consul Juliara marches ahead, her legs a blur of pompous urgency.

They’re amusing—the Nebians. I could stride over her as if she were a mere stone.

Reduce her to blue pulp in an instant. And yet, she holds her nose high, clad in her ridiculous white robe with the circular disc framing her head, pretending it makes her more.

But without their tech, they are nothing—just arrogance wrapped in conceit.

“I trust you understand... the importance of this contest.” she calls over her shoulder. Her bulbous face twists. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I growl.

“Obviously,” Princesa sighs in tandem.

“Of course, I’m referring to the enlightened, twin-sunned empire,” Juliara clarifies, her voice sharp with contempt.

“I care not for petty tribal squabbles among the lesser aliens. I find the whole affair repulsive . A stain on the history of our people. Still, I understand the Imperator’s. .. complicated position.”

Nebians pass us as we walk. They offer stiff bows to the Consul—until my shadow falls across them. Then their blue faces blanch, and their hearts falter. They scatter from our path like ash.

Pathetic.

“That birthday present idea sounds really appealing right now, doesn’t it, babes? ” Princesa barks a short laugh.

“Indeed,” I concede.

“Please try to focus,” Consul Juliara chides, swaying with elegant disdain. Her blonde hair spills past her disc-shaped headpiece like a golden curtain. “You’ve already proven yourself disappointing in this matter.” Her gaze slices to Princesa.

“Hey!” Princesa shrieks. “Listen, blueberry head—where the hell do you get off—”

“ I .” Juliara lingers on the word like a blade.

“Get. Off. As you put it, when you remove Krogoth and lead your... brethren against the Scythians. As was promised by that repugnant Warrior of Peace .” She sighs, long-suffering.

“Barbarians always forget their end of the deal the moment they get what they want.”

Our boots and the whirling Battlesuits hammer the orange-rust floor, shaking the walls lined with intricate statues and decadent murals.

“Did I not facilitate your talks with your fellows?” she continues sharply, eyes locked ahead. “The Praetorians granted you access. Do you recall, or has that detail slipped your undeveloped craniums?”

Princesa vibrates beside me with fury, until she strokes Todd’s back vigorously. “Of course I remember. I’m human, not a goldfish.”

“And yet a... goldfish as you call it, might have achieved more. Despite your unique advantage you still failed to secure the votes. Disappointing. Though not unexpected, considering your... volatile nature.”

“Okay. Fucking rude,” Princesa snaps. “You try winning a vote against a super-bitch who mind controls people.”

She tugs on my arm, eyes glinting. “Psst. Hey. How about a hit of that yummy Mr. Frowny Face bond juice?” she whispers conspiratorially, brows arching suggestively. “I’ll make us blueberry smoothies.”

Tempting.

The vast hangar yawns open ahead, flanked by more Nebian warriors and Battlesuits.

The hinges squeal as pressure seals release, cool plumes hissing outward.

Rows of Starfighters gleam in the artificial light, filling the expansive area.

Maintenance drones buzz like znats over their sleek, polished frames.

Impressive weaponry.

“I did not become Consul by tolerating excuses,” Juliara shouts over the buzzing of drones and purring of Elerium engines. “But by demanding results, human. An astute mind, builds many bridges when crossing dangerous waters.”

She strides toward a sleek purple vessel as a Nebian pilot approaches, visor lenses replacing a traditional helmet.

“Consul Juliara,” he bows. “The ship is ready for launch.”

“Excellent.” She flutters a hand, dismissing him like dust. “We leave immediately.”

“At once, Consul.” He bows again, and I suppress a sneer at his sycophancy.

The scent of ozone and ionized Elerium tingles in my nostrils as the Starfighter’s hatch slides open with a smooth hiss.

Juliara and her entourage board quickly.

The Battlesuits lock into their orbital drop harnesses with a hiss of hydraulics, while the rest of the party files into the ship’s tiny seats near the bow.

I step in and frown. The cramped seats clearly won’t hold me.

“How unfortunate,” Juliara observes, a trace of amusement in her voice. “You’ll have to stand. Do mind your head—I’d hate to see another one of my bridges collapse so soon.”

“I am no one’s pawn, Consul,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous.

Princesa sidles up at the worst possible moment, arms wide, face pleading, Todd clacking. Her next words already obvious. “Beep. Beep. Red Taxi,” she announces.

I glare.

“What?” she protests. “You’re way more comfier than those Smurf chairs.”

I scoop her up, tucking her against my side. Her squeal of delight—music to my ears as she nestles against me like a second skin, moaning in pleasure.

Consul Juliara titters, catches herself, and presses a hand to her lips—but can’t stop the genuine smile dancing in her yellow eyes.

“No one’s pawn,” she repeats, snorting. “BEEP. BEEP. OKAY!” Her composure collapses as she bursts into laughter, blue skin darkening. It’s infectious. The warriors join her, hesitant at first—then with stormy abandon.

“I think we broke them, babes, ” Princesa murmurs, eyeing the Nebians with wary amusement.

The deck shudders beneath us. A low rumble rises as we lurch into motion. Through the viewport, we speed toward the docking hatch. For a heartbeat, I brace for impact—then the field ripples, distorts, and we pass through cleanly, emerging into the star-speckled void.

“Ah. Absurdist,” Consul Juliara says at last, wiping the tears from her eyes. Her voice is quiet now, thoughtful. She stares at me for a long, unreadable moment, fingers tapping her wrist console. I meet her gaze, impassive. Unflinching.

“My Horaxus used to carry me like that, many cycles ago,” she says, voice brittle with memory. Her eyes drift to the stars. “Tell me... do you know of the so-called ‘ Warrior of Peace ,’ Xandor?” The name spills from her lips like vipertail venom.

“Krogoth’s Second,” I confirm. A Gods-blessed Mortakin-Kai. Another formidable warrior, most likely.

“I want his head,” she says, arcweave sharp and hard. “One hundred million credits are yours if you deliver proof.” She flashes her wrist display. The numbers glow in galactic basic. Cold. Precise.

A collective gasp ripples through the Nebians, while I struggle not to react.

“One hundred million credits!” Princesa chokes, glance flickering between Consul Juliara and me. “That’s, like... a lot , right?”

“A fortune,” I concede, nodding. “But I’m no assassin.”

Princesa swallows, eyes glinting. “I mean, let’s not be too hasty—”

“Everyone has a price,” Juliara cuts in, her gaze distant, tone cold. “Though yours may lie beyond riches.” She sighs, turning her attention to my Princesa. “The offer extends to you as well. Or anyone you trust. I’ve seen your strange weapons—those mobile energy barriers.”

“I’m not some mobile thingamajig,” Princesa snaps. “My powers come from—”

“Spare me,” Juliara silences her with a raised hand. “I’ve no patience for mystic ramblings.”

Through the viewport the blazing crimson sun dips from view, revealing the smoldering ruin of Argon Six .

The southern hemisphere is a cracked, molten gash, magma bleeding into its choking clouds.

Even from this distance, crackling red lightning flares across the surface like pulsing veins in a wounded god.

A world that’s known only constant warfare, its final lifeblood shall bear witness to my ascension. The battle of demi-gods.

“Toasty,” Princesa breathes. “Looks like hell from up here. Ah... I did miss it.”

“You like it?” Juliara smiles. Then, without warning, the ship’s walls vanish.

My vision reels. I reach for a seat to steady myself, instinct bracing for vacuum.

Princesa shrieks in terror, clutching her pet, almost squishing his fleshy body against her—until we realize the walls haven’t vanished. They’ve turned translucent .

“Relax,” Juliara grins wickedly, “just a projection of the exterior. Some prefer it. But I’ve always found it unsettling.”

All around us, space yawns in every direction. The illusion leaves me with the eerie, weightless feeling of drifting, disembodied, lost. Dust scattered on solar winds.

“I think I’m gonna barf,” Princesa groans, dry-heaving into her palm.

“See? We are in agreement,” Juliara says, satisfied. The walls re-materialize instantly—smooth, regal purple.

Then she turns to me again. “Now, War Chieftain. Take this.” She extends a black ring, its design subtle, crafted from smooth arcweave. Wide enough to imply it was specifically crafted for me. “Consider it... another one of my bridges.”

I accept it slowly, examining it between thumb and forefinger. Already predicating the shame I suspect lies ahead.

“Clench your hand twice, quickly,” she explains. “And it will emit a microscopic stun. Close-range only. Meant to incapacitate an unarmored target.” She demonstrates with a subtle flex. “Do try to time it with an actual blow. We don’t want any more... complications.”

I tighten my grip, nearly crushing the loathsome device. “I refuse. This dishonors the Krak-Tok .” I hold the ring out to her like filth.

“I do not give a voiding shit about your supposed honor, savage,” Consul Juliara hisses. “The twin-sunned Empire requires you to win. Krogoth must live—so you may command him. Wield whatever strange weapon he’s concealing, and crush the last of the Fallen.”

“I don’t require treachery to defeat Krogoth,” I growl. “By my hands, I will break him.” My other fist clenches, armor groaning beneath the strain.

“Truly, I don’t doubt you,” Juliara says, eyes raking over me.

“You’re a grotesquely large beast. Barbaric, but formidable.

Though I admit, I know little of such...

primitive contests. But if I were the betting sort, I wouldn’t wager against you.

” She pushes my hand gently back. “But... just in case. If the suns shift, and you find yourself on the edge of death—with no other option but a lifeline... offered by yours truly.”

“THEN I’LL ACCEPT DEATH!” I roar. The idea disgusts me. The loathsome memory of clutching Krogoth’s leg in submission disgust me—anathema to everything I am now. “Proudly. With my head held—”

“And what of the War Chieftainess?” Juliara cuts in, her gaze slithering toward my Princesa. “Would your spirit rest easy, knowing the... precarious position you’ve left her in?”

My blood runs cold. Ruthless. Calculating. Clever.

“Yeah, I think she has a point, babes, ” Princesa says, seemingly missing the veiled threat. “It is my birthday soon, remember?” Her silver eyes narrow—ambition flashing like daggers.

I nearly laugh—and slide the loathsome ring onto my finger.

“Excellent. You won’t regret this, I promise you,” Juliara says with a predatory smile, eyes gleaming like a hungry venefex.

The ship rumbles—crossing into atmosphere. Through the viewport, flames lick across our crimson shields, before thick obsidian clouds and whipping ash swallow the view.

“Ah,” Juliara claps once in delight. “Time to test those bridges.”

Time to crush Krogoth.

And then crush an Empire.