Page 22 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Dracoth
First the Worst
W e step out of the creaky, battered shuttle into an immense docking bay. The walls, layered in gleaming black marble, reflect the soft glow of violet spotlights overhead. This area is immaculate, and even the recycled air feels crisper, almost reminiscent of the clean winds of Klendathor.
A sudden clang reverberates through the chamber, causing Princesa and Sandra to flinch. Their frightened eyes dart to the now-sealed docking hatch. Its heavy bulk shields us from the Scythian horrors lurking beyond—for now.
“Your cloaks,” Ignixis rasps, shuffling forward with bony hands outstretched, his gnarled fingers grasping for the clasps of my armor. He moves like a nightmarish specter made flesh.
“Begone, you old gas-cloud,” I growl, shifting my weight to evade his groping hands.
“Must you always be so obstinate, young Dracoth?” he sighs uselessly, persisting in his efforts.
“Just give him the damn thing, babes,” Princesa interjects, her voice cutting through the tension with a mix of impatience and amusement.
She’s already shrugged off her chieftainess cloak, the scorched white-blue scales glimmering in the dim purple light.
She hands it to a wary Sandra, who takes it with a bemused expression.
“Though our poor little chug bug has no blankie now,” she adds, stroking the pointless creature perched on her shoulder as it stretches its plump, segmented body.
I glare down at Ignixis, reluctant to part with the symbol of my authority.
“You’d think I was asking for your very soul.” Ignixis smirks, narrowing his glistening green eyes. “I promise I’ll return it to you later,” he titters.
Unamused, I glare down at him, my expression as hard as the black marble surfaces surrounding us. Ignixis’s faint smirk twists into a venomous sneer.
“Drexios also believes himself War Chieftain, you stubborn boy!” he hisses, jabbing a gnarled finger at me. “You’d prefer he attack us outright before we’ve even exchanged words?”
It makes no difference. Though...
“Very well,” I concede, deciding it better to avoid killing elite warriors that rightfully belong to me.
With the flick of my thumb and a sweep of my arm, my glorious sneachir cloak flutters through the crisp air of the Ravager’s Ruin .
Ignixis snatches it mid-flight like a darting arrohawk with a groan of exasperation.
I turn to Princesa, who stands expectantly, a knowing smile curling her luscious lips, her arms raised.
“Come,” I command, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself. This ritual, comforting in its familiarity, never fails to amuse me.
“Yay! My Red Taxi,” she squeals, leaping forward. I catch her effortlessly, cradling her against my chest, her rightful place—close to my molten heart. Each beat pounds savagely with desire for my infuriating, beautiful goddess of death.
“Hmm, cozy,” she purrs, nestling into the crook of my arm as if it were her second home. Her delicate fingers trace the sharp contours of my jaw, her eyes simmering like pools of boiling mercury beneath alluring, half-lowered lashes.
“I really like our new ship, Dracoth,” she says, smiling wickedly.
Praise Arawnoth for blessing me with my marvel, my Princesa. Once weak, uncertain, and denying her very nature, she is now reforged through me—unleashed. Her ambitions and desires burn hotter than the purple sun of Klendathor. Only she is strong enough to match me—my Mortakin-Kis.
I lean in, gently brushing my nose against hers, her delicate skin warm against mine. Our eyes remain locked, our breaths mingle like molten fire meeting liquid mercury in this intimate space that belongs to us alone.
“Ah, young love,” Ignixis drawls from somewhere behind me. “It reminds me of my days before the sacred words,” he sighs dramatically, his voice tinged with mock wistfulness. But I pay him no heed; my focus remains on what matters—on what’s mine.
“Terribly wicked, sinful days of idle futility,” Ignixis adds, cackling at his own jest. “Make no mistake!”
“We tarry,” Jazreal grumbles, striding toward the massive doors of the docking bay. “I’m eager to stand with my war brothers again.”
“He’s just jealous,” Sandra whispers conspiratorially, her fiery hair framing her mischievous grin as she wedges herself between Princesa and me.
Princesa barks a breathy laugh. “He should be jealous,” she teases, breaking our embrace. “You missed your chance with a gorgeous babe like Sandra.” Her gaze follows Jazreal as he moves with the lethal grace of a stalking venefex.
“Isn’t that right, Jazzy?” she shouts after him, earning a derisive grunt for her trouble.
We fall into step behind him, our party approaching the immense black arcweave doors that rise like a monolith, towering even over me.
“Refreshing, isn’t it, to be aboard a ship with a functioning docking bay door, young Dracoth?” Ignixis muses. I can almost feel his expectant eyes making my skin tingle. “Let’s hope you don’t break this one.”
I refuse to give the old gas-cloud the satisfaction of a reaction. My face remains an unreadable mask, carved from stone. Instead, I fix my attention on the looming barrier ahead, its seamless surface refusing to part despite our approach.
“Hmm,” Jazreal ponders, half his functional face furrowed in a frown. “They’ve grown sloppy in my absence.” He traces his fingers along the smooth groove of the door’s seam. “There should be warriors here to greet us.”
Frustration coils in my chest, demanding release. I raise my fist and strike the door with a resounding thud that echoes like a dying scream in a vast cavern.
Ignixis sighs in exasperation. “Can you not go ten seconds without doing the exact opposite—”
The door shudders in response, a low rumble shaking the surrounding air before splitting down the middle. Smoothly and without protest, the massive panels glide apart.
“Oh,” Ignixis gasps in surprise, his frail neck swiveling in sync with the opening door. “Brute force and ignorance... perhaps they have their uses after all,” he mutters, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Death Herald!” a stocky warrior bellows from the corridor beyond the towering entrance.
His brown hair cascades down his back, contrasting sharply with the shaved sides of his head, giving him a battle-hardened look.
His jet-black armor, streaked with the scars of countless campaigns, is flecked with fiery red-orange gems that seem to smolder in the dim light.
There’s no mistaking him—he’s a Ravager Berserker, one of their elite.
“It warms my heart to see you walk these hallowed grounds again, you lanky snarlbroc ass,” the warrior adds with a grin as he strides forward, arms outstretched in camaraderie.
“Sarkoth!” Jazreal rushes forward, meeting the Berserker’s embrace with a thunderous clap of arms.
“It is good to see you too, brother,” Jazreal says, pulling back. His gaze narrows slightly, tinged with curiosity. “Though I half-expected Drexios to name you Death Herald in my absence.”
“He did!” Sarkoth barks out a sharp, sardonic laugh. “Voiding bastard always has it in for me.” His dark-brown eyes sweep over our party, assessing each of us in turn. “But now that you’re back, I can finally focus on what I’m actually good at.”
“Sleeping?” Jazreal quips without missing a beat, earning a booming laugh from his old comrade.
“Aye, sleeping with your mother!” Sarkoth retorts, delivering a hearty slap to Jazreal’s arm.
“Well, this riveting conversation is putting me to sleep,” Princesa interjects, feigning an exaggerated yawn.
“And we’ve got a puppy to tame and a new home to explore.
” She leans forward, her voice dipping into a low, dangerous tempo.
“So, if we could move this along, that would be just... wonderful.”
Bold words.
Sarkoth’s brown eyes snap to my Princesa, his grin fading, replaced by a sternness as hard as Scarn’s jagged peaks. My muscles coil like arcweave-forged springs, ready to rip out his guts if he dares move against my Mortakin-Kis.
“Drexios ordered me to bring you to him,” Sarkoth announces finally, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turns sharply and strides down the corridor. “Follow me.”
The black marble hallway stretches before us, its polished surfaces reflecting our every step. Sarkoth leads with a measured pace, and Jazreal skips ahead to join him, their voices rising and falling in animated conversation, punctuated by sharp gestures.
“Can he be trusted?” Princesa’s voice slices through the tension, her narrowed gaze fixed on the pair ahead.
“I trust none of these warriors until Drexios submits,” I reply, my fist curling at the thought, the anticipation of conquest igniting in my veins.
“No, I mean Jazzy,” she clarifies, shifting in my arm as she sweeps a suspicious eye over the area. “He didn’t want to join you, remember? And now here he is, skipping down the aisle with lover-boy, leading us to a reception full of angry drunk in-laws.”
My Princesa grows sharper with each passing day, her words echoing my own concerns.
“A trap,” I growl, my molten gaze scanning the gleaming black walls with renewed suspicion.
“Oh, stop your clucking, the both of you,” Ignixis chimes in, his tone dismissive. “You look like nesting puffrios, gawking at the skies for arrohawks.” He titters before tilting his head downward, his tone low. “But it is you who are the arrohawks set among the prey. Never forget that.”
Two hard-faced Ravager Berserkers stride toward us from the far end of the corridor, their long hair flowing like battle standards.
Their boots thud against the cold metal floor with a rhythmic weight.
As they pass, they greet Jazreal warmly with clasped arms and low laughter, but their sharp eyes cut to me and my companions, filled with unspoken suspicion.