Page 45 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Alexandra
Vengeance
T he enormous throne room door slides open—far too slowly for my liking.
I’m eager to leave this cursed place. Not just because of the murder-bots or the creepy Crucible, but for the death of my teacher.
Ignixis’s loss stings, sharp and acrid, like cheap hairspray in my eyes. But I must be strong for Dracoth.
For all his pretenses of strength and honor, I know what lurks beneath his Mr. Frowny Face—the doubts he carries, the burdens he refuses to name.
I’ll support him like a sexy push-up bra.
It’s fine, really. Ignixis burns within us now.
I can almost feel his glowing green eyes watching me from the shadows of his hood, hearing his cryptic words, his insults that were so obviously meant to challenge.
Like me, he was chosen by Arawnoth—not divine, but something close, something linked to the molten heart of our God.
But if Arawnoth’s defeat consumed Ignixis, then how has it affected Dracoth?
Concerned, I glance up at him. He strides forward with purpose, his hard face smeared with ash and singes—unreadable, boring, but deliciously dependable.
He carries me effortlessly in his bulging arm, the lovely heat of his armor seeps through my robes.
The massive new suit that looks like a volcano and a battle tank had a very angry child.
His muscles, at least, are still in top form. That’s for damn sure.
The guards lining the vast throne room snap their fists to their chests, gauntlets clanking like metal heels.
They stand rigid beneath the towering banners, the heavy fabric barely shifting in the still, crisp air.
A perfect display of power and respect. Their deference makes my heart flutter.
Just like my Goddess Mother said: We are divine. We are dignified.
And then Drexios ruins it.
“Would you look at that?” His irritating voice, laced with mocking awe, pulls me from my lovely thoughts. But it’s where it’s coming from that has my teeth grinding with outrage— my throne.
“Ah, you can almost smell the burning metal from here,” he drawls, inhaling theatrically.
He’s lounging, legs thrown over the obsidian, bone-infused armrest, hands clasped behind his head like a drunkard sunbathing in the Mediterranean.
“And the voiding voices have stopped. Not that we’ll live long enough to—”
“Drex-iot!” I cut in, savoring the smirk melting from his stupid face. “That’s my seat, our seat. Now, if you’d be so kind—”
“Void kindness,” the rude prick snaps, sneering. The expression twists the vertical scar over his useless eye. “I’m keeping the throne nice and warm for the young War Chief. Wouldn’t want him getting piles, now would we?” His infuriating smirk returns, directed toward my red taxi.
Dracoth doesn’t react. Just crooks a finger at Drexios.
The long-haired bore reacts instantly. One moment he’s lounging, the next he launches off the throne in a blur of motion—fluid, feline, but frantic, like a cat leaping off a hot stove. His armored boots slam onto the marble with a boom , the impact shuddering through the vast chamber.
“Good doggie,” I coo, my tone dripping with tooth-decaying sugary sweetness. Unable to stop myself, the constant sight of him being put in his place, a gift that keeps giving.
His eye twitches. Perfect.
“Pink sorceress,” Drexios hisses through bared fangs, his crimson eye gleaming ominously in the dim purple light. “Did your trembling legs finally give out under your plumpness ?”
Rude prick!
He stalks forward, fingers curling into fists. “This is no place for those too weak to bear their own weight.”
I suppress the urge to recoil further into Dracoth’s arms. Instead, I reach through our sacred bond, seeking the comforting, blazing inferno of my Mortakin-Kai.
“Enough.” Dracoth’s growl is quiet but absolute.
He stops Drexios in an instant, a single massive hand pressed firmly against his chest plate. The loser glances between us, his face twisting with impotent rage, his whole body trembling as I dig my nails in deeper with a smirk.
Finally, Drexios barks a frustrated roar, before whirling around to storm off toward Jazzy, like last season’s back catalogue.
“You know, you should really address me properly. War Chieftainess,” I mock with a sharp laugh haunting his retreat.
“Or Blessed Daughter. Oh, and let’s not forget our little Divine Cherub,” I add, interrupting Todd’s beauty sleep with a stroke.
His mandibles parting lazily with what could only be agreement.
“Both of you,” Dracoth rumbles. His arm shifts slightly, jostling me like a gorgeous sock stuck in a spin cycle.
I shoot him a murderous glare, only to meet his steely crimson gaze that glows faintly in the dim light. Look at him. Face frowning, eyes blazing. My big red murder-orb, energy radiating from every inch of him. Commanding. Stubborn. Hm. Kind of hot, actually.
Until, of course, he bends forward before the throne and tries to dump me off like an unwanted child at an orphanage of hobos.
“Hey!” I exclaim, clinging to his arm like a desperate koala. “You’re taking me to the top.”
I glance at the looming obsidian throne, still ungraced by my divine buttocks.
“Remember your promise?” I challenge with a glare, my meaning extending beyond the throne, to everything.
Dracoth emits a faint grunt, practically a lecture by his standards. Still, he clambers onto the immense throne of jagged bone and rock, absurdly large and over the top—just like him.
A contented sigh escapes me as we settle into the high-backed seat, savoring how small the bone-through-the-nose space-knights look from up here.
Yes!
This is where I belong. Raised high, revered, glorious and gorgeous. The sense of grandeur and power flares from my chest, my fingers absently tracing my glowing runes.
“Drexios.” Dracoth’s voice snaps me back to the present, firm and unyielding. “Strip the remnants of the Crucible from this ship. Every circuit, every bolt, every shard of metal. Vent them into the nearest sun.”
“Went that well, huh?” Drexios muses, fingers darting over his glowing wrist console. “When War Chief Gorexius returned from the Crucible, he didn’t start an apocalypse.” He barks a short laugh. “Except for the enemies the Scythians pointed at. Those pathetic wretches we obliterated.”
The ship’s weapons hammer through the hull—like the start of a roller coaster I can’t escape.
“The Scythians are now that enemy,” Dracoth announces, his fingers tightening over the monstrous skulls carved into the throne. Bone groans in protest beneath his grip. “I will scourge the galaxies of their filth.”
His words linger like new perfume. But is it cheap dollar-store trash or the finest money can buy?
The towering guards remain still, though a few sneak glances toward the viewport looming behind the throne, where swirling blue streaks of energy blasts bathe the chamber in ghostly light.
The sharp clang of metal striking stone reverberates through the room.
Jazzy.
He pounds the butt of his spear against the marble floor like he’s calling last orders.
“It warms my heart, after these long, terrible years.” Jazreal steps forward, as graceful as a cat, his long black-grey hair cascading behind him. “To see the hated Scythians finally get what they deserve.”
His voice trembles with righteous fury, his sneer sharp as a new suit. “The unspeakable atrocities we committed in their name. And what they later did to our females...”
His head bows, chest rising with heaving breaths. “I should have spoken up then. Should have tried to stop your father. If I’d known the true cost—the horror of what was to come.”
Then, in a flash, he whips around, eyes burning, his fervent gaze sweeping over the guards. “Well, I say to the void with them! Death to the Scythians! ”
“Death to the Scythians!” The guards echo, a thunderous cacophony of raised voices and fists slamming against chest plates.
Ah. That perfume was sweet indeed.
My heart soars at the sight. The murder-bots must die. I don’t know how that’ll help me reach the top, but my every instinct screams for their destruction.
Drexios, however, looks between the cheering space-knights with confusion etched into his stupid face.
“You limp-dicked cowards!” He jabs a finger at Jazreal, then waves it at the others. “All of you! Gorexius led us to the finest battlefields the universe had to offer, and now you dishonor his memory by bleating like whipped boracks?”
“You dare call me coward, Second !” Jazreal snarls, his scarred face contorting with fury. His spear ignites in a searing blue flash as he strides forward, each step coiled with barely restrained violence.
“Oh no,” I deadpan, Sahara-dry. “Someone stop them.”
Hopefully, Jazzy runs Drexios through like the universe’s ugliest shish kebab. I lean forward in my red frowny seat, preparing to enjoy a bloodbath.
Dracoth, naturally, has other ideas.
“Cease!” He roars like an erupting volcano, so close and deafening that poor Todd and I nearly jump out of our beautiful skins.
Jazreal freezes mid-step, his green eyes locked on Drexios. Across from him, Drexios’s fingers twitch toward the energy blades strapped to his back, his whole body tensed like a coiled spring, waiting to snap.
“Warfare is our birthright. Our divine gift,” Dracoth declares at last, slicing through the sizzling tension.
His voice rings out, loud and commanding, as his gaze settles on Jazzy.
“To deny that is to deny ourselves. Those who follow me will always bathe in battle’s warming fires—the promise I swore to each of you. ”
His head sweeps over the chamber, taking in every warrior, every soul pledged to his cause.
Drexios nods, tousling his ridiculously long green hair—shaved at the sides—like some insane techno-barbarian reject. Slowly, he straightens, arms folding across his chest, a smirk splitting his face.