Page 139 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Bathe in the sacred truth,” I breathe, lifting my arms skyward, voice trembling with joy. “Let Arawnoth’s love scour away your weakness.”

Each smear of ash on a forehead sends a jolt up my spine. My runes blaze. My breath shudders.

“You wear the ashes of Scarn,” I cry, eyes burning like twin suns. “ His blessing. His command— Scourge the weak, embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image. ”

Dracoth’s grip crushes my ribs with pride. My voice rises like fire finding oil.

“Let his molten wrath fill your hearts.” My fingertips trace my scorched skin, Arawnoth’s runes exploding to life in glowing agony-joy. “Let him flood your souls with unbreakable might. Slay his enemies. Shatter their spirits. Crush their pathetic wills.”

They come unbidden—Elder Ignixis’s words, whispered not from memory, but from some burning place in me I didn’t know existed. They rise like smoke from a sacred fire, curling out of my throat with terrifying certainty.

I am lost . Lost to the rhythm, to the chanting, to the psychotic murder smoke curling through my thoughts like fog at a rave. My voice sharpens, slicing through the air—fanatical, euphoric, uncontainable.

“Let their screams praise his name! Let their blood stoke his flames. You are his chosen instruments—his fury made flesh! Leave no bone unbroken, no soul unscorched!”

My hands move before I can think—divine shields erupt into the sky, a choir of radiant runes forming a shimmering lattice of power. Blue sunlight dances across the symbols, each one humming with holy importance.

What does it mean?

I don’t know.

But Dracoth laughs.

Then his hand rises—and from it bursts a molten sun, raw and radiant, wreathing my shields like an eclipse of celestial fire. The sky splits with light, runes refracting the flames like a living furnace. I gasp. So do hundreds of thousands.

The message burns itself into the heavens.

The Cycle Burns Eternal.

Klendathians slam fists to their chests, their eyes ablaze with pride. Armxians collapse to their knees, arms raised in trembling reverence. Even the Smurfs—those blueberry-headed cynics—mutter what might be prayers or OSHA complaints.

Then— it begins .

The most perfect sound in the entire Dracie-Lexie-verse:

“Divine Daughter!”

It starts as a murmur. Then a chant. Then an ocean—thunderous, endless, drenching me in a tide of worship.

My breath shatters. My eyes squeeze shut, and goosebumps erupt over every inch of my skin. The chant washes through me like starlight, like Cristal Rosé through glass.

I should feel shame. Or restraint. Or humility.

I don’t. Not the tiniest bit.

This is rapture . This is belonging .

This is everything .

“Am I not divine?” I whisper. “Am I not glorious? Am I not beautiful?” I laugh—a sound that peals from me wild and bright, half ecstasy, half unholy sermon.

“Divine Daughter!”

Are you watching, Divine Mother? Divine Father? Are you proud of me? Did I do good?

I laugh again, and this time it breaks into something almost too big to contain. My eyes shimmer with unshed tears— not sorrow , but the purest joy I’ve ever known. A truth so sharp and sacred it bleeds.

I was made for this . For this moment. For this bond.

No doubt. No fear.

Only love .

Only power .

Only us .

My Red Dragon—together, forever.

Then—Nebian murder-orbs descend.

A swarm of them, sleek and silver, dart toward the cooling ruin. Their laser-tips flicker, sculpting the slag with surgical precision. Metal groans. Steam bursts upward in hissing veils.

I grip Dracoth’s wrist, pointing like a child at an amusement park. “Look, babes!”

The ruin moves . Sculpted by machine. Forged in heat.

An effigy rises—a towering Mr. Frowny Face, his axe raised high, hollow eyes smoldering pits ready to be filled with eternal flame.

Dracoth chuckles low and deep, his pride rumbling through my spine.

But the murder-orbs aren’t done. No. They appreciate a bit of drama.

Beside him, another figure forms.

Me .

A wild Lexie appears, immortalized in gleaming metal. One hand raised in benediction, the other cradling a very round, very shiny Todd like the Divine Cherub he is.

I gasp. “Look, Chug Bug!” I jostle him gently.

Todd’s single sleepy eye cracks open. His Wrapper-Tok ruffles once in drowsy confusion. “You’re famous!”

His mandibles clack once. Then it’s all too much for his little heart—sleep claims him again.

What’s he like?

“I love it,” I say. My voice is thick with wonder. “I love all of it.”

The crowd’s chant continues. The drums pound. Dracoth’s chest rumbles against my back like a thunderstorm filled with pride and hunger and the unspoken promise of forever .

I squint at the statue. “...Okay but, like, they could’ve been slightly kinder on that midsection.”

Dracoth snorts, amused. The bond between us pulses—hot with laughter, with desire, with something more ancient than either.

The crowd, of course, cheers louder. Because why wouldn’t they?

It’s almost perfect. But there’s always next time.

“Absence has made Klendathor’s air all the sweeter,” Dracoth rumbles, inhaling a wind-tunnel breath that nearly yanks the car-sized red leaves off branches thick as Earth trees. “Though this Draxxi air is too light. Too... soil-like.” He sniffs with loud disapproval.

“Tell me about it,” I agree, sinking deeper into his warm embrace like some sexy-Lexie marsupial.

“Why are the trees so bloody massive ? And what’s making all these creepy noises?

Wee Todd’s booties are shaking.” I clutch him closer—my adorable, rubbery stress-ball—while my eyes dart over the dense forest. Every eerie bark or alien croak has me swiveling like a disturbed bobblehead.

But there’s nothing. Just trees. Big trees. Bigger trees. Forest stacked on forest, climbing so high they vanish into the purple-tainted sky.

Who grows trees this big? Rampaging hippies. That’s who.

“So do Krogs and Rocks really live in a treehouse?” I ask as Dracoth trudges through knee-deep foliage like a not-so-jolly-red-giant who’s late for his flight.

“Yes,” he growls, glancing upward like he half-expects Godzilla to drop in for tea—which, given this planet, isn’t out of the question. “All Draxxus do. They crave mold and dark places. As all grubs do.”

Did... did his lip just twitch?

Might be a trick of the violet light seeping through the canopy, but I swear that was a smirk.

“Oh my Gods, was that a joke?” I gasp. “Babes, I’m so proud.”

No response. Just pure, concentrated Mr. Frowny Face.

“Well, we thought it was funny,” I coo, stroking the sleepy Todd, his spindly legs stretching. “Didn’t we, you chunky bug-burrito?” He only lets out a tired little croak that definitely sounds like “No.”

Tough crowd.

“Ugh, I hope we find it soon,” I groan. “I mean, we didn’t pause our Dracie-Lexie-verse tour just to miss the birth, right?”

“No,” Dracoth says, eyes scanning like a giant toddler who wandered too far from the picnic.

I squint. “We’re not lost, are we?”

“No.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes at him like he’s a suspiciously symmetrical boulder someone glued a face onto. “Babes, give me something to—”

Then I see it. A wide tree crests above the reddish grass. This one has windows. And a door —an actual door!

“Oh!” I point. “I found it!”

Dracoth’s crimson eyes flick down to me, lingering for a sizzling moment. I meet his look with the most innocent cinnamon-bun smile in history, drizzled in syrup and absolutely up to no good .

I suppress a giggle. At his reaction and this... house. It’s like the fattest tree in the galaxy mated with a royal lodge and popped out a hippy fever dream. The closer we get, the bigger it looks—towering like their own private arboreal apartment block.

We reach the ornate door. Dracoth raises his fist.

Suddenly, a wave of anxiety hits me like a surprise parking ticket. I clutch Todd and the wrapped gift tighter. Why do I feel like I’m showing up drunk to my judgiest aunt’s house?

BANG!

In typical Red Dragon fashion—the door flies open. Probably screamed on the way in.

“ Babes ,” I sigh. “Did you just break their house?” I grimace, realizing I sound suspiciously like Elder Ignixis.

Dracoth stares at his fist like it might explode. “The wood is weak.”

“Uh-huh.” I snort, stepping inside.

“Ooh!” I murmur like a startled cow.

The interior’s all dark, glossy wood, engraved and glowing faintly.

Dozens of doors lead who-knows-where. Hand-painted portraits line the walls—young Big Chief Krogs and family in stiff poses.

Immense fur rugs lie like they were peeled off Godzilla’s fluffier cousin.

The place reeks of old money and polished hardwood.

Very crusty country club vibes.

“Hey, this place might be better than—”

SCREEEEEEE!

A piercing siren shrieks. I wince, covering Todd’s head. His brain is not on board.

“WHAT. THE—”

“Intruder detected.... Medium contamination potential.... Class Large Pest.... Deploying countermeasures...”

Oh no.

A dozen sleek, black ovoid drones zip from hidden compartments like murder jellybeans with trust issues.

“Murder-bots!” I shriek, throwing up one arm to shield Todd and the other to conjure divine barriers.

They snap into existence just as the drones slam against them, trapping the little buzzing turds.

“Hah!” I crow, triumphant as they flail against their cage like flies on force fields. “Even treehouses aren’t safe from their tyranny.”

Dracoth peers through my barriers like he’s studying an ant farm. “AHI drones. Harmless,” he growls, shooting me a look that screams ‘You beautiful idiot.’

“AHI,” I scoff, flickering my hair like I’m on a catwalk. “Obviously stands for Asshole House Insurgents. ”

We carry on. The ancient wood beneath us creaks like we’ve wandered onto the set of Pirates of Klendathor: Curse of the Bone-Through-the-Nose Baby Shower .