Page 124 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

The Old Ways

“ T his is going to be so much fun,” Princesa grins up at me, her fingers tracing the contours of my face. “Like a giant EDM party—only with more blood and fewer glow sticks.”

She glances around the half-melted Nebian factory.

Dust-choked machinery lies fused to slagged surfaces, ossified in puddles of cooled plasma.

Metal limbs, frozen in time, reach from the abyss like monuments to broken ambition.

The scorched walls hum with the clamor of gathering spectators and darting Nebian vessels.

When we arrived, there were thousands. Now?

It sounds like a standing army waiting for the war horn.

“It’s soon, isn’t it?” she asks, excitement crackling through our bond like wildfire.

Her confidence honors me. Yet she seems oblivious to the possibility I may fall.

“Very,” I growl, feeling the fire rise in my chest. The Rush beginning to sear through my veins.

“Nervous?” she asks, casually stroking the sleeping Todd nestled across her shoulder.

My eyes meet hers—crimson bleeding into the choking air. “Rage. For what he did to you.”

“Good. Cringe-Eyes is no match for you, babes,” she snorts. “Unless they cheat. Bunch of loser-turds.” Her nose crinkles. “Anyway. You’re ready to kick his ass. Todd and I will be waiting when you’re done. Then we can talk about that Smurf infestation problem.”

A new sound draws my attention—footfalls on slag and stone.

“Oh, would you looky here? I’ve found the mating puffrios,” Drexios sneers, stepping through a blasted-out hole in the wall, a long wooden pole slung over his cloaked shoulder.

“Great...” Princesa sighs. “Just when things were getting good—a wild Drex-iot appears.”

“I love you too, Pinkie, ” he hisses near her face, his single red eye narrowing. “Oi, where’s Fire-on-Head? Wanted to show her my new scar.” He barks a laugh.

Princesa recoils, her face twisted with revulsion. “She’s a double agent now. Codename: Red Squirrel.”

“Oh?” Drexios crooks a brow. “Can’t trust the pretty ones.” His eye gleams with mischief. “Least we know you’re a safe bet, Pinkie. ”

Princesa reddens. “Please.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Coming from a one-eyed, STD-riddled, drug-addicted psychotic? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Drexios’s grin deepens. “Better get this banner a-flappin,” he says, unwrapping the cloth from the pole and letting the flag unfurl.

A dragon blazoned in red spreads its wings wide, seeming to stir with life as he waves it overhead.

“Can’t have you waddling out there with nothing but your dick in your hands. ”

Pride and fury swell in my chest like twin suns rising.

“Brilliant!” Princesa exclaims. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

“What the void is it?” Drexios mutters, squinting up at it. “Looks like a sneachir mated with an arrohawk.”

“It’s a mythical Earth monster,” Princesa purrs, pressing closer against my armor. “A dragon. My. Red. Dragon.”

“That so?” Drexios grins, scrunching his face. “Wonder what it’d taste like.” He bears his fangs.

“Drexios. Is it time?” I growl, cutting through the nonsense.

“Oh... oh yes, it is, War Chief,” Drexios says, head tilting forward, eye gleaming. “You should see ’em out there. Every warband, every warrior. Even the voiding Shorties. Never seen anything like it.”

I don’t answer. Just march toward the exit, the husks of broken droids cracking beneath my boots. The sound of the masses grows louder—no longer a murmur, but a thunderous, living roar.

“You see any swirly cunts... well, you’re probably already dead,” Drexios says, falling in beside me. “But if you can, get the void outta there.” He glances up, tone rare with sincerity. “If he fights clean, you’ll tear his voiding spine out and we’ll plant it at Gorexius’s tomb.”

I nod. Grasp his pauldron. “You have my thanks, Drexios. I will honor your loyalty.”

We step through the breach.

My breath catches.

The plateau ahead—a crumbling shelf of black basalt ringed by lava—hosts a living tsunami of flesh and metal.

Warriors from every clan stretch to the horizon, their armor a patchwork of seasons: sky-blue, bone-white, speckled gray, orange-rust. Above them, Nebian starfighters hover, flanked by Battlesuits like vultures awaiting a corpse.

A deafening cry erupts from a million throats: “WAR CHIEFTAIN!” Drexios waves the dragon banner. My heart swells to bursting.

Directly before me stands my warband— the Ravager Berserkers . Their faces stern and strong—the pinnacle of our people. I know each of them. Have bled beside them. Jazreal. Corsark. Sarkoth. Razgor, to name a few.

My loyal Shorthairs also, almost lost among my towering brethren. They cheer the loudest, beating war drums, stomping feet, thumping chests that shake the blackened slag ground—a tide of fury and power.

“BERSERKERS NEVER SURRENDER, NEVER DIE!” I bellow, fist raised high.

“WAR CHIEFTAIN! WAR CHIEFTAIN!” The chant echoes, rising with the pounding war drums—raw, primal, unstoppable. The fire in my chest roars into an inferno. It’s intoxicating, almost overwhelming.

I stride forward, towering over the greatest warriors the universe has ever known—and I stand the pinnacle of that strength, a titan, a demigod.

Slaps to my shoulders. Cheers. Blessings. I take them all.

Jazreal falls in beside Drexios. “Hail, Divine Daughter. Hail, War Chieftain,” he shouts to be heard over the clamor, nodding to Princesa and me. “He’ll seek to keep your size and strength at a distance. Spear, most likely,” he smirks, twisting the working side of his face. “It’s what I’d do.”

“You did,” I correct with a subtle grin.

“Hah. Our battle was glorious.” He sighs, almost wistful. “But this... this will echo through the ages.” His gaze lifts to the churning obsidian clouds. “Stay on him. Stay patient. Wear him down and that strength of yours will prevail.”

“I won’t forget our training.” I nod, clasping his wrist, meeting his emerald eyes. “It’s been an honor, Death Herald.”

He smiles. “The honor is mine, War Chieftain. May you die a glorious death.”

“And you,” I say, eyes locked ahead.

Ash lashes across the plain like divine tears, thick enough to choke lesser warriors. Only the Magaxus—ash-gray, speckled gems—stand unfazed. We are Scarn’s children. Fire and ash our breath. The other clans? Weak things. Warvisors. Breathers. Fragile.

I near the heart of it now. Clan Draxxus waits. They glare . They watch. Hatred and awe war across their faces as the ground trembles beneath my approach.

“Out of the way, you voiding Draxxus bastards!” Drexios roars, swinging the dragon banner like a battering ram.

“Void you, whoreson!” comes the snarled reply, the crowd shoving back against us.

“Right, hold this.” Drexios thrusts the banner into a baffled Jazreal’s hands. “Come on then, you tree-hugging cunts!”

He launches into the mob, headbutting a green-haired Draxxus warrior before laying into the others with wild, joyous violence. Fists fly. Blood spatters. Screams rip the air—alongside laughter.

Mayhem.

I ignore it. The chaos clears a path. I clutch Princesa tighter as we press forward, Jazreal trailing behind, the dragon banner raised high and proud.

“We can’t take our little puppy anywhere without him snapping,” Princesa sighs, craning over my shoulder to watch.

We reach the heart of the plateau—a scorched ring of basalt surrounded by molten rivers, a pit of fire awaiting the fallen.

I leap across the bubbling fissure and land hard, the blackened stone cracking beneath my weight.

Heat blurs the air. Ash falls like cursed snow, cloaking the masses in a deathly shroud.

The other four Chieftains are gathered, locked in grim debate. Their voices die as I approach. Chieftain Vorthax steps forward, pale gold eyes sharp behind his breathing mask.

“Take this, son of Gorexius,” he thunders, extending his massive axe— Stormcleaver —gifted to him by my father. “His spirit will rejoice, knowing vengeance was forged by his hand and yours.”

I wrap my fingers around the worn hilt, the weight settling like an old promise. Most couldn’t lift this weapon. But in my hands, it sings through the air like a swooping arrohawk.

“Thank you, Vorthax.” I growl, tracing the golden runes etched into the arcweave. “I’ll return it bathed in Krogoth’s blood.”

“Do it,” Vorthax says, clutching my wrist with a trembling hand. He leans in, ash coating his bright-feathered hair. “And you’ll have my eternal gratitude.”

Then—a war horn sounds.

A deep, bone-rattling THRUMM rolls across the slag field. A million voices hush, a sea of longhairs turns as one—toward him .

Krogoth .

For a heartbeat, I see his shadow falling over her again. That moment—sharp and brutal—stabs through me like a thousand obsidian needles. Princesa’s limp, broken body choking for breath, crushed in his grasp.

My chest heaves. Fury coils through me, tight and lethal. Every muscle begs to shatter his spine into shards.

The horn sounds again. Lower this time. Almost mournful, as if even the world grieves for what’s to come.

Then...

“ HIGH CHIEFTAIN! ”

“ KROGOTH STAR-EYES! ”

The cry rises like thunder, drowning out the drums, the horns, the wind. Stomping boots. Fists beating against armor. A war tide of sound.

“Oh look, Todd,” Princesa coos, jostling her pet creature. “Naughty Cringe-Eyes is coming for his spanking.”

The sea of warriors parts. Krogoth strides forward, black cloak and hair whipping in the gusting ash.

His light-gray armor gleams like bone beneath the soot.

Purple eyes misting with Rush find mine—neither hateful nor afraid.

There’s something else. Resolve. Respect.

Like a mountain to climb. A universe to claim.

Can he feel my rage, my fury? I will strip the flesh from his bones for what he did to my Princesa.

Rocks strides beside him. Sandra too. And the broad warrior with the smashed-in face.