Page 28 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Alexandra
Homage
I pull Sandra into the expansive throne room, its vastness immediately swallowing us.
The towering throne of obsidian and bone looms ahead, set against a floor-to-ceiling viewport showcasing the void.
Dracoth’s hulking frame fills the massive seat effortlessly, as though it had been carved specifically for him.
It’s even crafted from his favorite things—volcanic rock and death—like the perfect birthday present.
The immense metal door swooshes shut behind us, drawing the sharp attention of every guard in the room. Even Jazzy is among their statuesque number, flicking a glance in our direction from beneath the long, slightly drifting banners.
Before Dracoth, a group of bone-through-the-nose space-knights stand clustered, their jet-black armor gleaming under the eerie, pulsing light.
They look laughably small beneath Dracoth’s massive presence.
As we approach, they glance over their shoulders, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe.
Ignixis is standing to Dracoth’s left like some lingering shadow cultist, a smirk twisting his blacked scorched head as he glares at us.
What’s more surprising, however, is the sight of Drexios at Dracoth’s right hand.
He’s miraculously upright and uninjured despite the brutal beating he received yesterday.
The only signs of his ordeal are his ragged, torn scaled cloak barely clinging to his right shoulder, a black eye patch and the jagged cracks in the smashed marble floor beneath him.
His smirk is alive and well. His eye gleaming from under his shadowed brow, like he knows an embarrassing secret he’s bursting to reveal.
I hate it. He should be in a hospital bed somewhere, licking his wounds and reflecting on what a rude prick he is.
But instead of being grateful for his pathetic life, he stands there giving us the stink eye.
“Um...” Sandra’s voice squeaks beside me, hilariously small in this grand venue. “Hello... everyone,” she stammers, giving a nervous giggle and a little wave. Her freckled face turns as red as the Klendathians.
Poor, simple Sandra. She’s like a little lost ginger sheep. As her ever-fabulous shepherd, I really must teach her proper etiquette—assuming the murder-bots don’t get us first.
“As you were,” I cut in, loud and commanding, emphasizing my authority with a dismissive flick of my hand. My other hand absently strokes the sleeping plumpness that is Todd.
An awkward silence lingers. Their gazes remain locked on us, probably because we’re stunning, exotic beauties. But I don’t care. All but Dracoth are beneath me. With my head held high and my back straight, I stride toward the throne, Sandra trailing in my wake.
Finally, the attendees snap their attention back to Dracoth, and the low murmur of hushed mutters resumes.
“I am Corsark, son of Magnus,” one of the five soldiers before Dracoth proclaims, clamping a fist to his armored chest. His voice booms through the hall with resounding pride. “I served your father, our great War Chieftain, for three hundred years.”
Three hundred years!
I’d be spitting out my mocha if I had one.
Oh, how I miss my mochas.
This Corsark stands with not a single gray hair in his long, meticulously braided black mane, the only hints of age being the faint creases nesting near his steely yellow eyes.
If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was in his early thirties, not three hundred.
Three hundred! That’s ridiculous. I swear, if I hadn’t seen those buff grandpas under Scarn’s mountains, I’d think Klendathian’s lived forever.
What the hell age is Dracoth, then? Two hundred? Ugh, he really is robbing the cradle.
Corsark continues with his overly animated gestures, the epitome of a war-meathead lost in his own heroic monologue. “...And in the flames of Argon Six, I claimed two confirmed Nebian Battlesuit kills...” I tune out the monotonous embellishments.
All meat, no substance.
As Sandra and I edge closer to the throne, a horrible realization hits me like an eviction notice stapled to my forehead.
There’s only one chair!
My heart pounds, and my mouth opens and closes like I’m trying to catch flies. This is an outrageous oversight. I’m so very tempted to interrupt Corsark’s meat-headery with a loud protest. But a side-eyed glare from Emperor Dracoth, First of His Name, stops me cold.
Look at him up there, sitting stone-faced and massive, his head practically scraping the vaulted ceiling.
That should be my head up there! My head, my throne!
The pastel redecorations can wait; this needs to be fixed yesterday .
Sandra and I stand awkwardly, like wide-eyed orphans outside a closed adoption agency. The bitter taste of neglect washes over me—like someone shoved the sourest Lemon Drop Martini down my throat.
“ Psst .”
The hiss comes from my left.
“Psst!” Louder now, pulling my attention to Drexios, who’s beckoning us with a crooked finger. His perpetual smirk, sweaty face, and patched eye scream trustworthy —if trustworthy were a bloodthirsty great white shark grinning with its jaws wide open.
“What are you both, voiding imbeciles?” he sneers, his whispered voice cutting through Corsark’s droning like a shout.
I shoot him a withering glare as Sandra and I shuffle to stand beside him, like we’re at a police lineup for a lunatic asylum escapee.
“Oh, stop,” Drexios drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re making me all tingly.” He even shudders dramatically, the creep.
“I’ll make you all pancaked , you rude prick.” I hiss through a smile faker than my mother’s veneers.
Drexios shows no sign of offense, maintaining his infuriating smug smile.
“Pancaked?”
I sigh, careful to keep sound below the endless boasting echoing from Corsark. Still, I decide not to answer Drexios. No way I’m giving this creepy lunatic the pleasure of my voice.
Apparently, Sandra missed the memo. “A pancake is a soft, flat, sweet bread from Earth,” she chimes in eagerly, her voice brimming with the kind of mistimed naivety that makes my eyes roll.
Read the room, Sandra.
Drexios leans closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “Which is it, female?” His voice drops to a whisper so cold it sends shivers down my spine. “I’m to be all... soft. Flat. Or sweet?”
How is it possible, there’s someone creepier and weirder than Ignixis?
“Flat!” I blurt out, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a few nearby guards. My cheeks burn as I glare silver daggers at him. “Flat—like your hand when Dracoth crushed it. Remember? Oh, I bet that hurt,” I add, lowering my voice to a syrupy tone laced with venom.
“This?” Drexios thrusts his massive hand in my face, his fingers wiggling like deranged sausages. “Didn’t feel a thing. High as an arrohawk’s ass, I was. And those healing pods...” His voice trails off, his eye glazing over in a haze of fondness. “Oh, those sweet, sweet fumes fixed me right up.”
Before I can interject, he snaps back to the present, wiping the slick sheen of sweat from his scarred face with a jerk. “Say, you aliens got any scoomer?”
Scoomer? Sounds like something with handlebars.
I cross my arms and exhale sharply, frustrated this prick is not only here asking stupid questions, but he escaped his rightful suffering.
His breath edges closer, grazing against my neck, sending a cold shudder down my spine. I feel his shadow stretch over me like a smothering cloak. I can’t help myself—I turn my head, only to jerk back as his face looms inches from mine.
“You deaf? Got any scoomer or not, female?” His tone sharpens with impatience.
“No!” I snap, louder than intended, earning disapproving frowns from the guards. “No scoomer, no scooters, no hoverboards, and definitely no fucking patience!” My words are a venomous hiss.
His reaction? Nothing. Just that maddening smirk. He swivels his gaze to Sandra.
“Hey fire-on-head, how about you?”
Sandra, the ever-pleasant one—as everyone is quick to point out—turns with her signature sweet smile, completely wasted on this tower of prickdom.
“Oh, I don’t even know what that is. Sorry,” she says, leaning in slightly like she’s sharing a secret.
“You pinkies are sorcerers but don’t know what scoomer is?” He raises a jagged eyebrow, incredulous.
Sandra shrugs while I roll my eyes, wishing he’d just shut up.
My wish dies instantly.
“Void, the old bastard has my balls in a barrel full of vipertails.” Drexios mutters, flicking a glare toward Ignixis. My teacher is listening to Corsark’s endless bragging but somehow still manages to cast an unsettling side-eye in my direction.
He’s like a giant gecko!
“The hypocrite, voiding reeks of bloodroot but moans Arawnoth forbids scoomer.” Drexios sneers, claws dragging scratches down his neck and cheeks. “Crazy cultist confiscated every last bit of it.”
I round on him, fury igniting in my chest. My teeth grind as I speak. “You’re the crazy one for turning your back on Arawnoth’s flames. He should sear your soul to cinders for doubting him.” My glare could cut steel.
His single red eye widens in mock surprise before his smug smirk resurfaces.
“Well, well,” he says, leaning closer again, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air.
“Would you look at this. You reek of it too, don’t you?
” He circles his head like a predator sniffing prey, taking exaggerated whiffs.
“Yep, a little pink, plump cultist wafting out.”
Straightening with a sudden movement that makes me flinch, he adds, “If the Elders were half as breedable as you, I’d be guzzling down Arawnoth’s blood and squirting rivers of borack shit too.” He barks a laugh.
“Oh, you don’t need any help in the bullshit department, Drex-iot. ” I retort, refusing to look at him as my fists clench into tight balls.