Page 39 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Pain

I nside the accursed chamber, malignant energy crackles and sears the air in a rhythmic thrum. Sickly green threads pulse faintly, thickening as they weave like putrid veins toward the room’s heart.

Suspended in the void, a machine—massive and oblong—looms like a slumbering beast. Black metal slick with condensation and glistening ice, as if it consumes heat itself.

Thick, cord-like conduits slither from the walls, pulsing with energy, twitching like arteries feeding a ravenous hunger.

Each surge casts rippling emerald hues across the chamber, mirroring the endless lattice of beams in the void beyond.

This Crucible is not just a machine. It is the devouring heart of that infernal system.

Our breaths spill out in ragged plumes as we step inside. My every muscle is coiled, my eyes scanning the dim expanse for treachery. Unnatural frost gnaws deeper with every step, latching onto my armor in crystalline flecks.

Then, the whispers begin.

Faint at first. Distant laughter, broken static. They swirl at the edges of perception, a lurking presence just beyond comprehension. But the closer I draw, the louder they become—until they are a cacophony, a chorus of disembodied voices that claw at the edges of my mind.

It’s wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.

A primal instinct bristles beneath my skin, a hunter’s dread when a venefex’s eyes lurk unseen in the dark.

“The profane,” Ignixis whispers, his voice nearly swallowed by the static. His teeth chatter, his frost-laced robes drawn tight around his withered frame for warmth that does not exist.

But I stand, molten and uncowed before the Crucible. Divine Arawnoth burns within me—fury, strength, unbreakable will. I ignite all, blazing a trail of fire and death toward the destiny that is mine and Princesa’s birthright.

Tendrils of vapor curl from my body, wraiths of heat in the frigid air. The frost dares to cling, but it vanishes the moment my Rush ignites, bubbling beneath my skin like liquid flame.

Above, the Crucible lingers, silent, pulsing faintly, waiting.

“Drexios was correct,” I growl. My lips curl in disgust. “This machine does nothing.”

War Chieftain...

The voice that is not a voice vibrates in my skull, bypassing my ears and embedding itself directly into my mind. I swivel my head, frantically searching for the source, finding nothing. Unease and fury gnaw at my guts. This invasion, this subterfuge taints me with its mere presence.

War Chieftain...

It repeats—a single, resonant thought, that is neither male nor female, but something ancient and vast, echoing in my skull as if spoken from the depths of the void.

“Something speaks?” I demand, sweeping the room, my gaze lingering on the huddled Ignixis.

He does not look up. “I hear only Arawnoth crying out in rage,” he rasps, his voice weaker than before, his form hunched like spent coal.

Useless old gas-cloud.

A deafening bang splits the air. My claws unsheathe instinctively as I whirl. The machine has lowered, the thick black conduits slackening, writhing like severed serpents. The once-sealed core now lies open—a circular maw of nothingness, its edges lined with jagged, fang-like protrusions.

My heart hammers, Rush and adrenaline flooding molten blood.

This is it.

The truth I have sought, the answers clawing at my soul . My past. My destiny .

I glance back at Ignixis, who grunts as he shifts into a cross-legged position, emptying a fistful of ashen soil in a perfect circle around himself.

“I’ll be here if you need me. Never forget that, young Dracoth,” he murmurs. His tired eyes flick to mine, holding something raw—something fleeting. Then, just as quickly, it is gone. A sneer replaces it. “Go now, into the heart of the profane. Do what must be done.”

Ignixis erupts into booming chanting, evoking Arawnoth’s strength and guidance as I whip my head around, fixing the void of nothingness with an unbreakable glare, my heart soaring for what is to come.

I step into the freezing, devouring void.

Darkness swallows me whole.

Then—pain.

Searing, all-consuming cold lances through my body.

Countless wires or needles pierce my skin, burrowing deep, writhing like icy parasites beneath the flesh.

I gasp into the nothingness, twisting, thrashing— fighting —but in this void, I have no body.

Only awareness , fragile as a sputtering torch in a storm.

Klendathian.

The ancient voice does not speak. It booms through my skull, flooding my mind with a deluge of images. Not mere images—sensations. Sights. Smells. Heat—a fever dream projected with vivid and horrifying clarity.

I see Klendathor.

My homeworld, my cursed cradle. A titan adrift in the void, bathed in the violent glow of a flaring purple sun. A bloated moon hangs above, its dull indigo reflection cast upon the world’s turbulent surface.

The heat of it burns. The acrid, sulfuric stench chokes.

I loathe it.

The thought comes sudden and brutal. I could tear it apart. Should tear it apart. It is disgusting—vile. Teeming and writhing with too much life. Dangerous life.

But there is caution too. A creeping unease, like a phantom finger trailing down a spine that no longer exists. They watch. Always watching. They who interfere. They that should not be.

Aberrations.

No.

These are not my thoughts. They belong to another—to the Scythians.

I feel them burrowing deep in my skull, wyrms feasting on my brain, seeking to change me, break me.

But I reject them. I see Klendathor for what it is—the sacred cradle of the universe’s finest warriors.

Uncorrupted. Pure. A people driven by purpose.

True purpose. Pride swells in my consciousness.

Then my pride turns rancid.

A savage explosion of pain detonates inside me.

Thousands of icy hooks sink into my flesh, rending and tearing with the cold, ruthless efficiency of machines.

They rip me asunder. Shred me into nothing.

I am cast adrift in a vast ocean of emptiness, left to languish, my thoughts fragmenting and splintering into a million jagged shards.

I drift—a torn, broken thing—lost and alone for eternity. The emptiness is absolute.

“Silence.”

The voice makes itself known—a whisper like a caress over the remnants of my mind.

Suddenly, I am aware of just how quiet it is. No breath. No heartbeat. Not even the distant rush of blood in my ears. Only the void.

“No pain.”

The concept brushes the edges of my shattered consciousness.

And it is true. There is no pain here. No lungs to breathe. No scars to ache. No body to feed.

“Oblivion.”

The word drifts into my mind, sweet and soft, like the promise of the deepest sleep.

The burdens I have carried, the weight of expectation, the chains of duty—they melt away. No longer important. No longer relevant. Just foolish concerns from a forgotten age, in a place that knows no time.

“Solitude.”

No more battles to win. No dominance to assert. No one to challenge me. No one to scheme, to manipulate. Here, in this place without meaning, none of it matters.

I feel myself dissolving, becoming nothing, as if I never was.

It is strange. Alien. A stillness I have never known. Never imagined.

I welcome it.

“Peace.”

The voice coos, fading into the distance.

Peace.

The word stings, sharp and bitter. It offends .

Peace? Why would I desire peace? Why would anyone? The thought is grotesque. Revolting. How can life exist without struggle? How can the Gods test our mettle if we are not tempered in the fires of war?

“No.”

I murmur the word, and my fractured mind begins to knit itself back together.

How could the Gods exist in oblivion? My ancestors... My Princesa .

By Arawnoth’s molten core, this thing—this void —it nearly took her from me. An existence without ever knowing her touch, her biting, clever wit, her soul that burns as bright as mine? It is an anathema to the blood coursing through my veins. To all we Klendathians hold dear.

What moments ago felt pure and freeing now curdles into the rankest foulness. Disgusting. That I even entertained such weakness... I would retch if I could.

A world without meaning, without bonds, without fire— must be crushed.

Reality shifts.

I stand atop a ruined Nebian Starcruiser. Its immense, sleek hull is a smoldering ruin, still glowing with partially melted plasma. The acrid scent of fire and scorched ozone fills my lungs. The heat of flames kisses my skin, casting my armored frame in a deep crimson glow.

All around me, my warriors surge forth, pushing deep into the enemy forces.

The Nebian lines are broken. Overwhelmed. Outmatched. A few fight bravely in their Battlesuits—until my Ravager Berserkers reach them, tearing them limb from limb with plasma claws.

Glorious.

Fierce pride surges deep within me.

A Nebian male crawls from the wreckage, bloodied and broken—a pathetic, tiny creature. He looks up at me, tears in his eyes.

I give him the gift of a swift death, stomping his skull into deep blue paste—a mere znat beneath my boot.

“Let them be reborn in strength!” I roar, as Rush and elation flood through me.

Above, the skies burn. Clouds flash azure and crimson as if the gods themselves wage war in the heavens.

Nebian Starcruisers weave and dart through a vast host of Voidbanes, their superior lasers cutting down many. But for each one they destroy, two more take its place—an endless tide. Hulking, relentless, inevitable.

Their shields flare, flicker—then fail. And then, the slaughter begins.

Seeker Drones cling to the enemy hulls, drilling, cutting, swarming. The Nebian warships, once swift and graceful, now plummet like dying stars, crashing into the burning industrial zones below. The impact sets off a chain of roiling, crimson chemical fires.

Victory.