Page 128 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Embrace Weakness

P eacock Big-Chief gently sets me down on the craggy black rock—a decent enough Gray Taxi, though clearly his heating needs fixing.

Separating me from Mr. Frowny Face and Cringe-Eyes is a ring of bubbling lava. It hisses and spits—almost warm enough to replace my personal furnace of man meat.

I clutch Big-Chief’s vibrant feathered cloak tighter, but the cold still creeps across my skin. Not real cold, but the weird kind—like when a ghost brushes your neck in the dark, or when you realize your ex just liked all of your new photos.

Goosebumps erupt like a tiny army of Whack-A-Moles.

It must be the excitement—that finally, after everything, Dracoth will tear Krogoth apart like a wet bill, and that smug look on Bitch Brick’s face will melt away like bubblegum ice cream in a desert.

Ah... soon she’ll regret ever being a cheating-loser-turd.

The air is thick with tension, electric as the red lightning flaring across the billowing black clouds. It’s posted on the bone-through-the-noses masked faces. Millions, maybe a million billion, span the horizon. Eyes superglued to the combatants, too afraid to blink should they miss the slaughter.

“Quick, you’ve no respirator,” Peacock Big-Chief grumbles with concern, massive hand holding out a translucent breathing mask. He’s not very observant—must be his age. I’ve not worn one since well... ever.

I give him my sweetest smile and lift a hand. “Oh, no thanks. I like the ash.” I stick out my tongue. Salty flakes land like corrupted snow. “They taste yummy, like spicy salt chips.” I inhale deeply, enjoying the fleeting warmth filling my lungs.

“Salt... chips?” he echoes; pale gold eyes widening.

“Shame there’s no popcorn,” I sigh, casting a wistful glance toward the sky. Feels like I’m front-row at Madison Square Garden, about to watch a brutish, heavyweight slugfest—only more blood, fewer gloves.

Maybe I should’ve worn something flashier?

I mean, those sleek Nebian ships are hovering overhead like giant Smurf promotional balloons. They’ve probably got super-advanced blueberry head cameras beaming this event to every corner of the cosmos.

Oh, how exciting! I could be on screen right now. Sexy-Lexie. Wife of the mighty Mr. Frowny Face. Look how poised and graceful she is under such immense pressure!

Wait? Maybe I should look more concerned? Add a little worried frown for flavor? Or go full Jackie Kennedy— minus the exploding head, obviously.

Suddenly, I’m brushing ash from my hair, straightening my robes until something silver catches my eye—Todd.

His stinkingly cute bowtie... crooked. Trillions of alien eyes might be watching, and here’s my sweet Chug Bug looking like he crawled out of a laundry pile. Perfection tarnished. Reputation ruined.

“You’re not decent!” I snap, lunging to adjust the angle. A few degrees—like so. There. Crisis averted.

Todd, for his part, remains blissfully unconscious to the near disaster—curled on my shoulder like a multi-limbed croissant, softly snoring in rubbery little croaks.

I scan the towering masses, hoping to spot a hawker selling jelly sticks—something to bribe Toddy Woddy awake. But instead, I find something better . More delicious than jelly sticks—at least according to Todd: Bitch Brick .

There she is—dabbing tears from her scarred cheeks while Sandra strokes her arm like a comfort puppy.

They’re flanked by Sumo Face and Blonde Goth.

They’ve got losers corner written all over them.

I hope Dracoth drags this out. I’ll savor her tears like a fine Dom Pérignon with a side of ash flakes: Extra salt. Extra smug.

Big-Belly Chief’s voice booms like thunder, a deafening ear assault. Something about ancient Gods—boring ones, obviously not Divine Mother or Father—definitely a blasphemy.

Then—silence. A vacuum, louder than a gnomish fashion show. Like someone yanked the plug on this entire deathball planet.

“This will be a battle for the ages,” Peacock Big-Chief murmurs beside me, eyes fixed ahead, his massive form taut with tension. “By the Gods’ grace, let Gorexius’s murderer fall this day.”

Yes, Mother that would be rather lovely.

CRACK!

“Ahhh!” I yelp, clutching Todd to my chest. Crimson lightning splits the sky between Dracoth and Krogoth, blasting obsidian shards into the swirling ash.

Todd’s poor little heart!

SWOOSH! BANG!

My poor little heart!

Dracoth strikes—massive axe howling, a thunderclap of violence. The sheer force nearly bursts my eardrums. Nearly bisecting Cringe-Eyes in one glorious chop.

I mean, okay yes, babes, but maybe slow down? Draw it out for our fans?

Then kinky Krogoth lashes out with a whip —questionable, confusing—giving me ideas for later. As if that noodly chain thing is going to stop my Mountain of Muscle.

It whistles ominously, building speed, a distorting chain of barbed links that keep growing faster and faster.

Krogoth’s arm becomes a blur of motion. I lose sight of the weapon entirely.

The only thing left is the sound—a buzzing drone like a murder-bee swarm, confirming he isn’t just windmilling like a lunatic.

Then—crack! Lightning again? Perhaps a hand moved? No—wait... is that blood ? Actual blood? Near Dracoth’s eye?

A gasp escapes me. I reach instinctively to touch Todd, fingers brushing his rubbery back.

Then—the impossible happens. Dracoth steps back. A tank in reverse. Chanel in a clearance bin. The universe’s most awkward ballerina pirouetting into nope .

Another ear-piercing crack. No motion. No swing. No thunder. Just blood. Another green line opens across Dracoth’s side.

Icy tendrils coil around my spine. What the hell is this? Some kind of BDSM nightmare minus the safe word? Invisible attacks? His cheater powers?

“Curse him!” Peacock Big-Chief snarls, fangs glinting like new stilettos. “He moves like the wind.”

“Winds... very stabby today...” I murmur, a joke limping offstage. Someone throw a hook to take Dracoth and me offstage.

Maybe this is one of Dracoth’s galaxy-brain tactics? Like that time the murder-bot swarm chased us through the hellish asteroid field. It must be! Lure the admittedly fast Cringe-Eyes into a false sense of security, and then—bam! Strawberry smoothie with extra chunky bits.

I exhale. Shoulders drop. Ah. Of course. Obvious once you think about it.

It’s bizarre to watch—Dracoth hopping backward like the floor’s turned to lava. While Krogoth is now the Mr. Frowny Face. A pursuing hive of swarming invisible murder bees. A lawnmower on the blink. A jet engine someone forgot to turn off.

“This is a farce,” Peacock Big-Chief growls, feathers bristling—an angry turkey gobbling. “It was a mistake to challenge Krogoth Star-Eyes.”

“Relax,” I purr, placing a perfectly calm hand on his vambrace. “Dracoth’s got this. You’ll see.” My voice is syrupy sweet with total confidence.

He’s sure taking his sweet time though.

Peacock Big-Chief glares down at me with pale-gold eyes, but I barely register it. I only see Dracoth—being pushed closer to the gravy-ring of lava that borders the arena.

Come on, Dracoth. Come on. Freaking do something already, YOU BIG RED BALLERINA!

Then—it happens.

His axe flies—a helicopter blade of murder and justice, answering my prayers. Krogoth leaps, rising absurdly high, like he really does have a jet engine rammed up his ass.

Something flashes. My breath hitches.

Dracoth catches something in his hand. The kinky whip—a one-ton Krogoth Cringe-Eyes hooked. Dracoth yanks hard. Krogoth sails through the air before crashing onboard the USS Loser Express .

“Told you!” I yell, in delight, clapping my hands like a performing seal.

Dracoth charges—a big red murder-bus with no brakes, shaking the earth. His sword-like claws extend with a satisfying SHRIEK . They’ve never looked so sexy. Shish kabob’s about to skewer some choice victory meat.

Krogoth springs up from the ash-strewn stone like a demonic grasshopper—what even is this guy? But I’m too hyped to care. I roar in bloodlust, my voice lost in the bone-through-the-noses stampede of cheers. They clash—a blur of snarling limbs and screaming metal.

Snap!

Dracoth slams his shield into Krogoth’s stupid, prancing face. Green blood spatters the fissures like divine pesto.

Delicious .

“The Gods smile on us,” Peacock Big-Chief breathes.

“Isn’t Aenarael glorious?” I reply, grinning like I’ve just won the lottery.

Krogoth stumbles, one hand to his broken nose, coughing, choking like a fifty-a-day smoking habit has caught up to him. Then Dracoth—the massive stud—scoops up Krogoth’s weird breathing mask thingy.

“Look! He can’t breathe!” I laugh, gripping Peacock Big-Chief’s wrist and jabbing a finger forward. “Oh, this is so over.”

Across the crowd, I spot Bitch Brick . Her Plain Jane face twists in horror, one hand trembling over her mouth. Picture perfect. I wish I could snap a photo and frame it above my bed. The moment we win. The moment she regrets ever messing with me—frozen forever.

Lexie-verse is spluttering into reality.

“Even this cursed land rejects you, Krogoth.” Dracoth booms, voice like thunder cracking the sky. He smears ash over his body like now’s the perfect time for a little volcanic exfoliation. “You wither. While I burn with rage. I rise—reborn from the ashes of the shame you inflicted.”

Gods.

“What is he like?” I squeal, grinning so hard it hurts.

Heat blooms in my core, molten and glowing. He’s such a drama queen when he wants to be. The fans are going to eat this up like a five-layer raspberry gateau. Right here—right now—my legs are turning to hot, wobbly Jell-O.

Dracoth charges forward—a blood-slicked, ash-smeared murder train with no brakes.

His brutal axe crashes down with such Mr. Frowny Face speed its savage edge is a blurring arc.

Krogoth rolls like runaway toilet paper down a flaming hill, barely avoiding the eruption of obsidian shards.

While he sneakily thrusts his spear at Dracoth’s shield.