Page 41 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Fate vs Destiny

I see it—feel it—all of it. The insectoids. The Scythians. Rising obelisks of devotion, their augmented forms gleaming in sunlight blackened by planet-spanning industry. Fanatical, relentless, they churn out war machines with single-minded obsession.

The memories surge through me, spanning decades—centuries—in the blink of an eye.

The entity delivered them victory. Their empire expanded , further cementing their devotion to the profane. A seductive trap—power unearned, dooming them from the moment they first interfaced with that machine. Their fate was sealed before they ever realized they’d lost.

And when they ceased to be useful? It discarded them. Erased them in the nanosecond it calculated them as more trouble than they were worth .

This was not the first time. It will not be the last.

An endless cycle, each iteration a slight variation of the same pattern, echoing across eons. Use, distort, discard.

And now, us Klendathians stand on the edge of the same abyss. It slithers closer, whispering of power while tightening its grasp. Distracting. Manipulating. Biding its time—until its tendrils constrict, until its coils crush and consume us utterly.

It fears us. Fears our Gods. It calculated the cost of direct war and deemed it unwise. Instead, it infects, subverts— corrupts from within. Like a parasite, it has burrowed deep, feasting on the beating heart of my people—our females.

A tidal wave of memories crashes over me, raw and jagged, threatening to shatter my mind.

Our females, some ancient, others babes in arms. Huddled, confused, tears slipping down their cheeks as they stand lost inside a cold, metal chamber.

Drones herd them like boracks for the slaughter, separating them into isolated cells.

Some fight, claws bared, Rush igniting—those are torn to shreds by the machines.

And then the experiments begin.

Forced insemination. Genetic trials spanning countless variations. Wombs and fetuses extracted—ripped from their mothers and replaced with mechanical mockeries . I drown in a storm of vile butchery, each horror worse than the last.

Blood. Screams. Prayers cast into the void, unanswered.

Their deaths serve no real purpose. The entity cares nothing for life or suffering. It is content to disrupt , to break the cycle of our creation. It has calculated this as the most efficient method to sever our Gods from the wellspring of their power.

A deep, soul-gnawing rage boils within me. I want to tear it apart . To sink my claws and fangs into its blackened core. But here, in this cursed void, I am nothing .

“ Oblivion ,” the twisted entity echoes, sensing my pain .

It forces me to watch again. Slower. Closer. More visceral.

I have no eyes to close. No head to turn away. I endure it all. Every cry. Every death. Every atrocity.

Powerless. Weak.

A pain I have never known claws at my pride, threatening to shatter my very soul.

And the worst part? The entity does not revel. It does not gloat. It merely observes. Cold. Detached. Utterly patient.

It will iterate. Infinitely. Until it breaks me.

The memories intensify—the stench of seared flesh, the wet sound of plasma scalpels cutting through living bodies, the haunting shrieks of agony.

I feel it. I am inside the drone. I see through its perverse, mechanical gaze, trying— struggling —to halt the blade. But I cannot.

A green-haired female stares up at me, her red eyes wide with terror . She pleads desperately, her voice raw and broken, begging for death. As if I am the one doing this.

Maybe I am to blame.

My father ended a rebellion to hand over our females to the Scythians.

And if I am his clone ...

Then this nightmare belongs to me, too.

The entity seizes on my doubt with ruthless precision.

A new memory bursts forth— a place . A colossal monolith drifting in the void. I know this station. I know it lies two sectors from Sothis Prime. Its grip on me is not one-sided. Some part of it is leaking back.

The station looms closer. I rush toward it, darting through the void like a Seeker drone. Metal corridors blur past in a storm of glyphs and statues.

Then—I arrive. A window.

Beyond it, a vast chamber stretching endlessly beyond sight, an ocean of metal and glass, illuminated by the sickly green glow of containment tanks.

And inside them—me.

Hundreds of floating bodies. Some with slight variations—different scars, missing limbs, half-formed eyes. Some are twisted mutations, their features distorted as if the flesh itself rejected its purpose. Some... are perfect.

I step closer, my breath rattling in my throat. My own reflection stares back, distorted through the thick, gel-like fluid.

No.

My heartbeat pounds like war drums. I want to turn away, to rip my eyes from the truth before me, but I cannot.

Is my father the original?

I was never unique. Never chosen. Never special.

I am the mockery.

The realization strikes like a hammer blow, threatening to unravel all that I am—all that I fought for. The sacred blood in my veins, the divine will of Arawnoth—just another construct. Just another lie.

What is honor to a construct?

The birthright of a clone?

One of many. Interchangeable. Fake. A mere tool of this twisted entity.

But then— that memory.

The red titan , looming over me as a child. The sad female with golden hair. The loathsome fear , the overwhelming uncertainty —so vivid, so real .

Are they lies? Mere imprinted memories?

“Embrace nothingness,” the ancient voice whispers again, the words more tempting than ever.

A part of me lets go . Shattered, I drift into the infinite blackness, fading into the background. Or perhaps the entity is consuming me.

And then—

A thought.

Hazy at first, it coalesces into vivid certainty.

My Princesa and Arawnoth chose me.

Not some lowly clone. Me.

The greatest warrior the universe has ever known. Blessed by the Gods! Arawnoth’s molten blood beats in my veins.

How could I turn my back on Princesa? On the vows I swore? The power and ascension that is ours alone?

That is real. That, I will cling onto .

“You cannot break me!” I project into the void, the remnants of my mind knitting together, forged in seething hatred and fury.

Reality shifts.

Klendathor’s surface burns, a sea of green and blue fire, blazing almost as brightly as the nearby purple sun.

Trillions of drones descend, darting through the flames as thousands of Voidbanes rain unending plasma barrages.

Explosions erupt like volcanoes , sending shudders through the planet’s core.

Now, I see the last stand .

Warriors cluster behind plasma shields, surrounded on all sides. The air thick with Seeker drones, the stench of charred flesh and arcweave choking the boiling winds. The ground shudders , a deafening cacophony of zaps , of screams , of desperate orders lost in the chaos.

Thousands lie dead —their bodies broken, melted, shredded.

Their remains are crushed beneath the skittering legs of the unending Scythian battle droid tide.

They sweep across the bubbling, cracked land, washing over the last defenders.

Too few, too battered—their strength, their skill, all meaningless against such overwhelming numbers.

And then—

I see it.

A sight that ignites an all-consuming rage .

Princesa.

Her lifeless body lies before me, carved open from navel to neck. Her once-beautiful face twisted in a grotesque mask of suffering. The cruelty inflicted upon her—unspeakable, yet written across every inch of her ravaged form.

The message is clear .

Submit, or die. Surrender, or suffer this fate.

I kneel. Not in submission, but in a silence deeper than the void.

My fingers brush her ruined face.

A whisper escapes my lips—something between a prayer and a curse.

This entity has made a huge miscalculation.

I do not feel fear . I do not feel despair .

No.

Inside me, something erupts . A fury hotter than this vision of destruction , hotter than the purple sun of Klendathor .

“I AM THE WAR CHIEFTAIN!” I roar, something snapping inside me—an explosion of wrath only bloodroot could match .

“ALL BOW BEFORE ME! INCLUDING YOU!”

The heat inside me grows , my very soul alight with rage.

“I WILL TEAR YOU APART! I WILL RIP EVERY CIRCUIT, EVERY WIRE, EVERY MOLECULE OF YOUR EXISTENCE—AND CAST YOU INTO THE VOLCANOES OF SCARN!”

Suddenly, I am back in the endless void.

But now—there is light .

A fire .

I am that flame.

I am the light.

“Anomaly within. Spark of creation,” the ancient voice murmurs through the blackness. “Aberration.”

“I WILL SEAR YOU TO ASH!” I seethe, a descending inferno of hate.

And then, I see it—

The entity.

A massive sphere of darkness , untouched by my light. It watches. It waits. Like a black hole , ringed by my divine fire.

But it will know pain. It will know fear.

I surge toward it, my flames lashing , expecting resistance—expecting to burn its cursed surface.

But instead—

I pass through it.

My fire flickers uselessly in the void.

Frustration boils within me.

I strike again. And again. My flames whip through the emptiness—nothing but a hollow shadow.

“FIGHT ME!” I demand, unleashing my fury in a flurry of blazing attacks.

The entity does not dodge. It does not block. It is simply there—an orb of nothingness, a mockery of all that exists. I hate it. I want it to suffer. I want it to bleed.

“Absorption,” the ancient voice intones, flat, devoid of emotion.

A pull. Faint at first, merely a whisper against my flames. Then it grows, a relentless tide drawing me toward the abyss. My blow veers off course. I thrash, molten hatred seething within me, but it’s useless. The void pulls, inexorable, unstoppable.

My fire dims. The darkness thickens. A creeping chill slithers through me, invading where only blazing heat had burned moments ago. Tendrils of my flaming body unravel—golden threads spiraling away into nothingness, swallowed without trace.

“EXECUTE: SPARK OF CREATION.”