Page 135 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“But who would I be? Just little ol’ me?

Bald, and weak? No proof I’m elite.” He laughs maniacally, fluttering his scaled half-cloak with a dramatic twirl toward the eye-rolling Princesa.

“Besides, there’s no shame in losing to this big bastard.

” His single eye locks onto mine, expression suddenly sober.

“There’s no shame when battling demons.”

“All I hear are excuses, baldie-dodger,” Princesa sighs, tugging at my wrist, drawing my gaze.

I glance down. Her arms rise, eyes shimmering with soft defiance, her voice almost a whisper.

A smile almost escapes my lips.

“Beep? Beep?” she asks hesitantly, as if afraid of the answer. “Please? Todd’s wee booties are exhausted.”

I lift her effortlessly into the cradle of one arm. She squeals in delight, melting against me, her softness curling into the contours of my body like molten sunbeams.

“Yay. My Red Taxi,” she purrs, breath warm against my neck, a finger tracing my chest. “I missed this.”

So did I.

We move through the corridor, Battlesuits thudding behind. The sound grates on me—like looming shadows waiting to descend and devour. But which shadow falls first? Krogoth’s... or the Nebians’?

We pass them—some armed, others in head-disc robes surrounded by buzzing drones. Their eyes widen as we approach. I watch in amusement as some veer aside, others pivot and retreat, squat legs a blur as they scramble away like startled varmints.

Drexios mocks the murals and statues as we pass—each depicting heroic Nebians slaying horned, clawed beasts. He questions how a people so short could ever defeat anything beyond puffrios.

A fair question. One that draws laughter from the others.

“What do you think Krogoth’s response will be, War Chieftain?” Jazreal asks, green eyes flicking to mine.

“Death or exile,” I growl. I’m ready for either.

A quiet murmur of disapproval runs through the Berserkers.

“I’ll have a pop at Krogoth,” Drexios mutters, flashing his claws in the corridor’s orange-blue glow. “That’ll wipe the smirk off those voiding tree-huggers’ faces.”

“Like at the arena?” Princesa peeks one lazy eye open. “Is that why your head looks like the last busted apple on the shelf?”

“What the void’s an ap-ple ?” Drexios frowns, then waves it off. “This isn’t about Magaxus pride or Ravager Berserker honor. This is payback. And if it saves the War Chief from sucking on Scarn’s lava, then everyone’s laughing.” He grins.

“No one’s taking my Dracoth,” Princesa says, her voice hard as arcweave. “I don’t give a crap what anyone says.” Her eyes blaze silver as she traces runes of fire across her chest.

That fierce resolve flares through our bond. It lights my chest like a forge.

“It won’t come to that,” Jazreal says, shaking his head. His silvery-black hair sways like silk in zero-G. “Krogoth is a warrior of honor.” He shoots Drexios a fanged smile. “And what would you do? You saw how he fought. You’d be a babe for the slaughter.”

“That’s the problem with your snarlbroc jelly-brains,” Drexios sneers, “ Honor. Honor. Honor, ” he repeats, bowing with theatrical scorn.

“Void my nipples.” He sighs, voice lowering to something darker.

“You know what I’d do, Death Herald? I’d choose the new ways —toss a voiding virus bomb at his prancing feet.

BOOM . Over. Just like that.” He flutters his clawed fingers across his face.

“You’re a fool, Second,” Sarkoth scoffs. “No one makes planetfall carrying one of those.”

“Oh, I have ways,” Drexios murmurs, tapping his temple. “There’s always ways.” He bursts into delirious laughter.

“Splendid idea,” Princesa says dryly. “We’d be rid of both of you.”

And half the planet.

A squad of Nebian warriors and Battlesuits guard the towering doors of the Bellatorium. At our approach, they stiffen, stubby fingers twitching toward their weapons.

“Halt,” one barks. His crested helmet gleams under the chamber lights. “Only delegates may enter.”

“You kids play nice now,” Drexios smirks, flashing his fangs.

I turn to the others—warriors I’ve fought beside, bled with, led into impossible fire. The greatest the stars have ever known.

“Farewell, my loyal Berserkers,” I say, nodding once.

The Bellatorium doors groan open, ancient engraved wood grinding under its own history. Inside, I already see it: the long table forged of twisted Scythian parts, surrounded by unique thrones carved for each Chieftain.

“Bye-bye,” Princesa coos, fluttering her fingers at the others. She doesn’t look back—eyes locked forward, glowing with defiance and determination.

I glance down. She smiles up at me.

We step inside. My footfalls echo through the opulent hall. All eyes turn. Chieftains straighten—uncertain, watching, whispering. Even Sandra... even Rocks.

Except Krogoth. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Arms folded. Purple eyes glowing like twin forge fires. Rocks lounges across his lap, watching me like an arrohawk. Whispering into his ear.

What does she see? What does she say? When even my own thoughts feel like mud and mist?

I gently lower Princesa to the polished floor, though her hands linger on me a moment longer. Her breath is tight.

“Sandra...” she whispers, our bond flashing with bitter sorrow. I give her hand a quiet squeeze.

Then I raise Stormcleaver .

The sharpened arcweave edge still marred in Krogoth’s blood, its shaft etched with our shared handprints—a relic of our shared suffering, power, and impossible resolve.

The Chieftains stir. Tension bleeds into the room like fog.

I keep my eyes locked on Krogoth as I slowly turn the axe, presenting it sideways across my arms—a gesture of peace.

“My thanks, Chieftain Vorthax,” I say, lowering my head, returning Stormcleaver . “A brutal weapon... in the right hands.”

“It never sang sweeter than in yours, young Dracoth,” Vorthax rumbles, voice raw with feeling. He steps forward and crushes me in a fierce embrace, whispering low: “Hold your head high, son of Gorexius. You honored your father—and our people.”

We break. My eyes shimmer.

Words I yearn to believe. Need to believe. But they wilt under the harsh truth.

I lost. I failed Princesa. Failed Vorthax. Failed everyone .

He claps a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me. His pale-gold-eyed face creases with a gentle smile—one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And forgives me anyway.

“ Keep it ,” Vorthax says, gently pushing Stormcleaver back into my grip. “Let it sing sweetly again. I’m sure your father would like to hear it.”

He sighs—long and heavy—eyes drifting toward Krogoth. “Seems the Gods have spoken. They demand change. My days of battle are done. I return to Klendathor... to lead the Astranix from hearth and home.”

“I... don’t deserve this,” I mutter, the weapon trembling in my hands.

“You do! ” Vorthax laughs, deep and hearty. “It belongs to you now. Perhaps it always did.”

“My... thanks,” I nod, voice strained. I dare not say more, lest I shame myself further.

With care, I lay Stormcleaver across the jagged throne of sparking obsidian—the seat of Clan Magaxus.

“Come,” I growl, gripping Princesa’s soft hand. Together, we move toward Krogoth and Rocks. Their faces—blank, unreadable. Sandra stands beside them, hands clasped tightly, a warm smile blooming like a sunflare that seems to brighten the world.

“Oh, you got another present,” Princesa whispers, eyes alight with mischief. “Must be your lucky day.”

Krogoth rises from his tree-like throne with liquid grace, his furred cloak shifting as he gently ushers Rocks behind him—not out of fear, but as a warrior poised for any outcome.

I halt, glancing down at him. Not with rage, vengeance, or hatred. But with acceptance. With shame. And with profound respect.

My knee bends.

My head lowers.

Gasps erupt across the hall—none louder than Princesa’s.

“Krogoth Star-Eyes,” I growl, voice steady, words flowing as if from someone else. “The rightful High Chieftain. I acknowledge your strength and skill, and hereby rescind any challenge or grievance against you.”

“Oh, me and Todd too,” Princesa chirps brightly.

Silence.

Then—footsteps. A calloused hand presses against my scalp.

“Arise, War Chieftain,” Krogoth commands, his voice warm and firm.

War Chieftain?

He bends and helps me to my feet. His purple eyes shimmer in the orange-azure gloom.

“We bared our souls as brothers in blood. And brothers do not bow. Though we fight, such things are natural. Necessary.”

He turns slightly, addressing all the Chieftains now.

“How else can a warrior know his brother’s mettle? The strength of his fist? His resolve? The fire that dwells in his heart—unless he’s felt it in battle?”

He looks back at me.

“Or the honor he bears in Krak-Tok? In that space... all is stripped away. Only the soul remains.”

His hand clasps my back.

“And yours, Dracoth?”

He smiles.

“It blazes hotter than a thousand suns.”