Page 23 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
“This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it?” Sandra asks, her soft voice trembling slightly as she peeks shyly at the passing warriors. “These guys are a lot more frightening than the men back in Scarn.”
“Bunch of grandads,” Princesa scoffs, tossing her golden hair back with defiance. Then her eyes flick to Ignixis. “Oh, no offense, Iggy.”
Ignixis only glares, his blackened, runic features twisting into a scowl. “Have no fear, pleasant one,” he mutters, turning to Sandra. “There will be no violence—assuming our young Dracoth here can suppress his childish urge to break and murder everything in his path.”
My eye twitches at his goading words. I should have broken his lying, manipulative jaw years ago.
Sandra frowns, twiddling her thumbs as her sapphire gaze settles on me. “Um, that’s not very reassuring, to be honest,” she murmurs, glancing away with a flicker of mischief.
Even Sandra mocks me now? Princesa has corrupted her innocence.
Indeed, the pair share a knowing giggle.
“Yes, well,” Ignixis coughs, attempting to clear his old gas-cloud throat. “Drexios believes you’ve come to petition for the role of his Second,” he rasps, letting the words hang in the air like a virus bomb.
“Hardly,” Princesa snorts. “We’re nobody’s stinky Second. Isn’t that right, my little second dropper?” she coos, stroking the pointless, clacking cyloillar as if it were aware of anything.
My glare snaps to Ignixis, my shadowed brows darkening. I suspected such treachery. This explains Drexios’s sudden willingness to meet.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Ignixis chides, flicking his frail hand at me as if I were a mere znat to swat aside. But I am not. My scowl intensifies.
“Will you strip the skin from my flesh and wear it like a cloak, or some such nonsense?” He lets out a long, weary sigh. “How tragic that genius is only appreciated after its light has faded. Such a cruel fate I bear.”
“Silence, you old gas-cloud,” I growl, tearing my gaze away from his smug face. The endless moaning is more insufferable than his treachery.
“So...” Sandra ventures hesitantly, her voice soft. “There is going to be fighting, then?” Her wide eyes dart nervously to the war trophies and bloodstained banners adorning the walls.
The fear in her sapphire eyes pierces me—a loathsome pang of unease twists in my chest. Pleasant little Sandra, who is unwittingly in harm’s way, without the strength to protect herself. It would be... wrong if something were to befall her.
“I will convince Drexios,” I declare, giving Sandra a slight nod of reassurance.
Sandra manages a faint smile, though her incessantly twiddling thumbs betray her lingering unease—a nervous blur of pink movement.
“Of course you will, babes,” Princesa chimes in, her voice bursting with excitement. Then, leaning toward Sandra, she whispers close enough for her breath to tickle the female’s ear. “Don’t worry, Sandra. I’ll protect you with my divine shields while Dracoth burns them to ash with Arawnoth’s love.”
“Oh... that’s... um, good to know, Lexie.” Sandra stammers with a nervous giggle.
Our party continues in silence as we move deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the Ravagers’ Ruin .
The viewports dotting the black marble walls let in pulsing green light from the unending churn of drones and machines darting through the void.
Reinforcing our precarious situation and the greater threats my so-called Scythian allies pose.
Warriors pass us frequently, offering Jazreal and Sarkoth nods of respect or quick words of camaraderie. While they judge the rest of us with curiosity or suspicion.
It’s strange to see so many warriors. My own Battlebarge is a hollowed-out husk compared to this thriving fortress of strength.
Even the very walls speak of it, lined with banners and trophies, some alien, others damaged beyond recognition.
Ancient and magnificent, each tells a tale—a battle won, a people conquered.
It sings to me, sending molten Rush coursing in my veins.
This is where true warriors reside. Not the feeble, withered cowards hidden beneath Scarn’s mountains.
Here, among these battle-scarred walls, dwell my true Magaxus brothers—those whose hearts beat strong and proud for the glory that is ours by birthright. Our divine gift to the universe: death.
It’s with furious fire pumping through my veins when we finally halt before a massive, foreboding door. Unlike the others, this one is crafted from black metal, each side emblazoned with a glowing red eye dripping green blood. This must be it—the command bridge.
Sarkoth beckons with a hand, stepping through as if it were any other room, but to me, it’s so much more. Inside lies not a simple command bridge, but a throne room.
A raised dais dominates the space, upon which sits an imposing throne of black obsidian, its surface veined with jagged bone.
Massive, monstrous skulls and spines form the armrests, while the towering backrest reaches high above, crowned with a fiery banner.
The banner’s vivid depiction shows an unknown beast bathing a world in flames.
Framing the throne, a panoramic viewport stretches from the gleaming black-marble floor to the arched ceiling lined with flowing purple lightstrips.
Through the void beyond, Scythian Voidbanes lumber among the endless stars.
Seeker drones dart past in swift blurs, weaving through a lattice of green pulsing energy that blankets the heavens in an eerie glow.
“War Chieftain, I bring you Dracoth, son of Gorexius,” Sarkoth announces, performing a curt Klendathian salute toward a half-turned throne.
My teeth grind at that title—the one that belongs to me!
Sarkoth strides to join his war brothers, who stand silently along the walls beneath intricately embroidered crimson battle standards hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and immaculately disciplined, they stand like statues, their long hair flowing down their backs.
A bitter thought creeps in: if my father hadn’t fallen to the usurper Krogoth, I too might have stood among them.
A deep, rumbling sound draws my attention to the throne. The dais rotates, and at last, I see him.
Drexios.