Page 125 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Are. You. Fucking kidding me right now?” Princesa snaps, stabbing a finger toward Sandra. “That little ginger snake. After everything ? She’s gonna stand with them? ” Her voice cracks with disbelief. “We’ve seen each other poop, for Gods’ sake.”

I barely hear her. My gaze is locked on Krogoth. The Rush roars in my ears. Stormcleaver’s grip groaning beneath my crushing fingers.

He speaks to Smashed Face, both of them glancing toward me. Their eyes flick to Stormcleaver . Calculating. Strategizing.

Then Krogoth turns to his Mortakin-Kis . He lifts her into a fierce embrace, their foreheads pressed close, noses brushing, sharing an intimate moment together, whispering words stolen by the howling wind. When they part, he squeezes her shoulder. She wipes away tears.

Touching.

“Look how scared she is,” Princesa sneers, delight curling her lips. “Serves her right. Friend-stealing, cheater-bitch.”

Krogoth vaults effortlessly across the lava chasm with unnatural grace, his silhouette framed against a low-hanging crimson sun—a dying ember smothered by swirling obsidian clouds. Red lightning strobes beneath them, each bolt a whip-crack from Arawnoth’s hand.

His armored boots slam into the far side, a mosaic of blackened slag and glowing fissures cracking beneath the impact. Lava belches into the scalding air.

“I will take the War Chieftainess,” Vorthax offers, arms outstretched, eyes fixated on Krogoth.

“What am I, a football to be hoop-ringed or something?” she snaps.

“Keep her safe,” I order, lowering her gently into his arms.

“Hey!—”

“On my honor,” Vorthax replies, wrapping his feathered cloak around her.

“Remember, babes,” Princesa calls, her silver eyes narrowing. “You’ve so got this. Scourge the weak. Embrace strength.”

Hard. Sharp. Utterly confident.

I nod solemnly toward her as Vorthax carries her away.

“Farewell, Alexandra.”

“Wait! What the hell is that supposed to—” Her voice cuts off as Vorthax leaps the gap, vanishing into the crowd beyond.

Chieftain Borrthak beckons, his rotund face a grim mask. Krogoth stands nearby, murmuring with Chieftain Aelioth, face shrouded in shawls, piercing blue eyes locked on me like an arrohawk sizing up prey. New Chieftain Voryx lingers awkwardly—like a lost borack before the butcher.

As I approach, Voryx slinks away. Aelioth claps Krogoth on the back and bounds from the arena, sand trailing behind him like torn cloth in the wind.

“Hail, High and War Chieftain,” Borrthak bellows, voice heavy as thunder over the hush. I don’t answer. I just stare at Krogoth, hands flexing on Stormcleaver’s hilt. His breath rasps behind a respirator—a weakness.

My heart hammers in time with the war drums and the red lightning’s crackle. I’ve dreamed of this moment since the day he shamed me—shaved my head and stole an unearned victory. Back then, the blood rage was total. Every waking thought bent toward vengeance, toward this Krak-Tok.

That hatred only deepened when I learned he murdered my father—betrayed our people. My rage became a furnace. I nearly lost myself to it—an inferno consuming my soul.

But fire forges, too. I’ve bled for this. Fought through storm and slaughter to stand before him—not as a victim, but as his equal.

Then I learned of my father’s corruption. The nightmarish nature of the Voidbringer. The fate of our females... That hatred faded—a flickering ember cooling to something like respect for a fellow Chieftain burdened with impossible decisions.

Until... he hurt her .

That ember reignites—an inferno, roaring anew. A blaze only his blood can extinguish. Even the memory of it almost drives my axe into his skull.

I respect his strength. Finally, a worthy foe—a gift from Arawnoth.

But respect ends where his brutality began.

The joy burning in my chest now is not honor—it’s the anticipation of tossing his severed head at Princesa’s feet.

“Dracoth, do you choose the old ways?” Borrthak bellows, arm sweeping across his massive belly toward the weapon racks, glinting with crude metal blades. “Or the new?” He raps my vambrace, tapping where the arc blaster and plasma claws rest dormant.

“The old,” I growl, raising Stormcleaver . Its plasma channels stay dark—I want to feel its raw edge cut through his bone and marrow.

A deafening drone of approval from the crowd ripples across the cracked, blistering plateau.

“Very well.” Borrthak turns. “Krogoth, do you choose the old ways?” His arm sweeps wide again. “Or the new?”

Krogoth’s gaze lingers. Not on my weapon. On me. Like he’s searching past armor and scar tissue, digging for something beneath the flesh.

“How do I know,” he says slowly, “you’re not just another corrupted machine—like your father?”

“My father was broken by the Voidbringer,” I growl, slamming a fist against my chest. “But not I . I am trueborn of Klendathor. My heart beats proud and strong with Arawnoth’s molten blood.”

Krogoth’s face remains unreadable—stone resolve, carved in silence. Until, finally, his gaze shifts to his Mortakin-Kis, as if searching her face for answers.

“DO NOT LOOK TO YOUR FEMALE!” I roar, stabbing Stormcleaver’s hilt into the cracked obsidian ground.

“Krogoth Star-Eyes—demigod who gutted the Scythian Empire—now reduced to a coward who brutalizes fragile females.” I spit, lips quivering with fury.

“The Ancestors turn their heads, weeping at your name. Deny my challenge and your shame will echo for eternity.”

His mouth curls into a sneer, fangs bared. “Your Mortakin-Kis was killing my Pebbles—my unborn children.” His voice shakes with rage. “I will bear any punishment. Face any judgment with my head held high for protecting them.” His eyes burn like twin violet suns. His hand clenches.

“Then bear it now , coward.” I snarl.

I pull the obsidian ring from my finger—the one Consul Juliara gave me.

“See this?” I hold it aloft between my thumb and forefinger.

“A stun ring. A gift from the Nebians.” I spit, the taste of it bitter as poison.

“But I don’t seek victory through trickery.

I seek vengeance —won by blood and fire.

Honor demands it.” I crush the ring effortlessly in my fist and cast its remains at his feet.

Krogoth breathes deep. Nods. His gaze lingers on the crumpled metal.

“I choose the old ways,” he says finally, turning to Borrthak.

The crowd surges—a drone of approval rising like a hive stirred to life.

“Very good,” Borrthak bellows, lifting both arms to the ash-choked heavens. “The Gods have heard your pledge. The old ways shall bind this duel.”

He lowers his arms, gesturing to the weapon racks glinting under dim crimson sunlight. “Now bare your flesh. Choose your arms.”

A million throats still—a deafening silence among thundering red lightning and howling ash gales.

One by one, the pieces of my father’s armor crash to the slag—like meteorites from a fallen age. Thick, heavy plates thud into the cracked earth. My shoulders roll, unburdened. The weight of legacy shed. The blistering ash kisses my bare skin like fire—branding me in war paint from the void.

Now unarmored, I wear only black leather leggings and my bone belt. They clatter in the gale like eager chimes, singing for their new brother to join them.

I stride to the weapon racks—not for a weapon, but a shield. Against Jazreal in my arrogance and hubris, I discounted the need for one—a near-fatal mistake. A brutal, bruising lesson learned.

Before me lies a spread of options—everything from small metal bucklers to towering wooden slabs.

I choose a medium-sized, circular shield of burnished metal.

Against my massive frame, it covers barely half my chest. Perfect.

It won’t hinder my axe swings. I slam my arms together, testing the weight and feel. Sturdy. Balanced. Good.

Satisfied, I return to Borrthak’s side. Krogoth is already waiting, bare-chested. Triple scars run from his collarbone to navel—a brutal gift from my father. His beginning I will complete.

But it’s the weapons he carries that catch my attention.

A massive, rectangular wooden shield, big enough to cover most of his body, rests beside him.

Strapped across his back is a wicked four-pronged spear—expected.

But clutched in his right hand is something else entirely.

A blade whip. Rare. Cruel. Unpredictable.

Borrthak steps between us, inspecting, nodding with grim approval. We are armed in accordance with the old rites.

The crowd begins to murmur, the tension thickening like clotting blood. Every breath tastes of sulfur and metal. The air crackles with anticipation.

Borrthak raises his arms high. But I don’t see him.

I see only Krogoth.

His blade whip coils and shifts in his hand like a living serpent. He glares through the ashfall with hatred, as if he means to peel the skin from my bones inch by agonizing inch.

“Dagdorix of the Star-Eyes, God of Valor,” Borrthak begins, voice deep and reverent, “bless these two—”

But his words fade. My gaze drifts upward, to the crimson sun smothered by black, boiling clouds. Its rays pierce through the murk and bathe me in warmth—as if Arawnoth himself bears witness.

My eyes close.

I offer no plea for victory, great Arawnoth. Only this: fill me with your divine fury. Let my blood boil. Let my heart thunder with your molten will.

I open my eyes.

Krogoth stands across from me, his body shimmering with heat, muscles slick with sweat and ash. His long black hair clings to his frame in damp ropes. Red lightning flashes, casting netherworld shadows over his impressive form.

His eyes—those violet, misting stars—lock onto mine. They do not blink. They do not forgive. They see me only as a mountain to be hollowed out.

Borrthak’s prayer ends.

Silence.

Then—a bolt of lightning splits the sky. It strikes the runed plateau between us, cracking stone, spewing lava.

“Commence!” Borrthak roars, his voice swallowed by thunder.

Arawnoth’s judgment begins.