Page 46 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Through the Crucible, I faced the twisted heart of the Scythians.” Dracoth’s voice deepens, turning grave.

“An entity that defies reason and logic. A parasite that butchered our females. One that intends to erase all life.” His gaze flicks to Drexios, unyielding.

“Honor demands revenge. Our survival demands its eradication. The universe cries out for justice—we are its harbingers.”

He lets his words hang, heavy as my basic mother’s makeup bag. Then, he adds, “Soon, you will see the truth for yourselves. Their accursed space laboratory awaits. Spread the word to your war brothers. This is why we fight. This is why the Scythians burn in our fury.”

A swell of pride surges through me at his declaration. Surprise, too.

“Well said,” I purr, reaching up to stroke his rough chin, close enough to breathe in his musky scent. “Although, I didn’t know you could string so many words together. You might need a nap, Babes.” I giggle, unable to resist the jab.

Dracoth lets out a grunt—low, irritated, but also... delicious.

“Slaying droids and drones lacks the oh-so-bloody personal touch my claws crave.” Drexios grumbles, never happy, always complaining, proving once again why he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

Then, with a shrug. “But killings, killing.” He laughs manically, a glint in his ruby eye.

“I’ll prepare the warband for boarding parties. ”

He pivots toward the exit, his ragged half-cloak fluttering behind him.

“Are there any scientists onboard?” Dracoth’s question halts Drexios mid-step. And, with it, my fleeting peace of mind.

Jazreal stiffens. “What of Elder Ignixis?” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, but the concern on the half-functional side of his face is unmistakable.

The question lands like a stiletto heel to the shin—a sharp, brutal reminder of pain too raw. Dracoth’s gaze falters, shocking like a mountain collapsing. Through our bond, I feel it. His despair, his anguish flaring brighter than the blazing streaks of azure sparkling outside.

It’s fine, I’ll pick up the slack.

“Elder Ignixis heroically sacrificed himself for this opportunity,” I declare with sharp, precise words, flicking my hand toward the floor-to-ceiling window behind me. “That was his fate, his destiny—the one chosen by Arawnoth’s molten will.”

My heart blazes with passion, the words spilling from my lips like liquid fire.

“The road the herald willingly walked. Knowing the cost. Knowing salvation’s prize.

He led us to this path, with his strength, with his resolve.

And how was he repaid? Shunned. Condemned. By the very people he died to protect.”

I let my breath steady, though my chest still heaves with fervor.

The space-knights stare at me—wonder and shock glimmering in their eyes, feeding the flames of my conviction.

With reverent hands, I snatch Ignixis’s ashes from my robes, still pulsing with divine heat through the pouch into my cupped hands.

“I hold his sacred ashes.” My voice drops, resonant with power. “Me. The Blessed Daughter of Arawnoth and Aenarael. His student. His witness. I watched with devotion as Father claimed his soul, burning him away with his divine love.”

I turn to smile at Dracoth, feeling his pride and adoration flowing beneath his stoic facade.

I soften my tone, letting it slither through the chamber like a whispered prophecy. “Elder Ignixis burns within us now. His devotion, His wisdom. His fire, infused into our very hearts. Come, receive his blessing. Let him ignite the path and drive back the darkness.”

I hop down from Dracoth’s long legs, the pouch of ashes held before me in trembling hands.

The space-knights stare at me with wide-eyed disbelief, but I stand firm, tall and regal. Not an ounce of doubt, only fervor blazing in my soul. I love it! Love how it makes me feel, the words spilling out like a passionate trace.

Jazreal’s gaze flicks to Dracoth, mouth agape, as if waiting for a fly to land on his tongue.

“The War Chieftainess speaks the truth,” Dracoth rumbles, a mountain looming behind me. “Ignixis spoke in the Crucible. He summoned Arawnoth. He heralded the battle of the Gods.”

“The Gods walk among us,” Jazreal mutters, lowering his gaze in thought. Then, suddenly—he straightens. “I will receive the prophet’s blessing.”

His boots echo like church bells against the marble floor as he strides toward me. Others follow. The space-knights in their obsidian armor, their faces solemn, their eyes alight with reverence.

A thrill sparks in my chest. Giddy with passion, I nearly laugh.

Once, I called him a creepy Demon Egg-head.

Now? A prophet in the making. It’s the least I can do, really—after all he’s done.

Bringing Dracoth and me together. Teaching me the sacred words.

Giving us this chance to kill the murder-bots.

Even if his methods were sometimes more questionable than a ten-dollar Prada purse.

Jazzy kneels before me, his head bowed expecting me to smear ash on his forehead.

“Scourge the weak. Embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image,” I murmur, pressing a pinch of sacred ash to his lips.

His green eyes snap to mine. Surprise flickers there, but I do not waver. Instead, I push harder, my face a regal mask. “Let his spirit blaze from within.”

He hesitates—then swallows. His lips purse like he’s sucked a lemon.

“It’s... warm,” he mutters, wonder dawning on his face. “I can feel the heat burning inside me.” He barks a laugh, rising smoothly to his feet.

“He truly was a prophet!” His voice swells as he turns to the soldiers. “He foresaw this! Knew you would reject the Scythians when the time was right.”

Jazreal whips around, his hair trailing like a ridiculous toupee.

“He told me—no matter your words, he knew your heart. That under your command, I would find the vengeance needed to cleanse my soul of shame. Back in Scarn, he swore me to secrecy. That is why I joined you. That is why I reclaimed my place as Death Herald.”

Oh my. Such a sneaky schemer, Ignixis was.

If I continue my training, if I delve deeper into the sacred words—will Arawnoth grant me glimpses into the future? Assuming Divine Mother doesn’t turn me into a hamster or something equally horrible for daring to seek another God’s favor.

Ah, the price of being so exquisitely special.

Dracoth’s expression barely shifts—but I see it.

That infinitesimal widening of the eyes.

The quiet shock at Jazreal’s words. It’s so subtle I might be the only one capable of noticing.

The big block head cared deeply for Ignixis.

It was so obvious! But in typical, Mr. Frowny Face fashion he didn’t realize until Arawnoth claimed him.

Tragic, really. Men only appreciate what they’ve lost, not what they have.

“Another gift,” Dracoth growls, clenching his fist before his face, “that I will honor with death.”

Drexios barks a laugh—grating, supremely irritating, like the ping of a rejected credit card.

“So, the old cultist finally got himself killed.” His face twists into part sneer, part smirk—a skill unique to his stupid face. “Not so wise now, is he? A vipertail so shadowy. Leading others astray, yet he’s the one to pay.”

He erupts into manic laughter. My fists tighten around Ignixis’s ashes, heat pulsing through my palms. But before seething words ooze from my lips, Dracoth speaks.

“The scientist, Drexios?” His voice rumbles like an avalanche.

“Scholars!” Drexios’s laughter dies instantly. A frown creases the deep vertical scar down his face as he rakes his claws over it. “I know just the coward for you, young War Chief.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, fluttering his fingers like he’s casting some nausea-inducing curse.

“ Razgor .”

An awkward silence lingers. Drexios stares at Dracoth, waiting—hoping for a reaction. He gets none.

“I’ll give him the good news,” he finally continues, flashing a wicked grin. “Bye. Bye, then. I’ve got scoomer to liberate.”

Not if I find the scoomer first.

He bows with absurd theatricality, shuffling backward toward the looming doorway like some insane clown no one hired or wanted.

The last thing we need is an even crazier Drexios running loose. The image of him sweating through withdrawal like a hobo junkie actually makes me smile.

“I don’t know about you, babes, but can we fire him out the airlock?” I glance over my shoulder at the towering man-meat that is my Dracoth, high up on his throne.

He glances down, not speaking the words I long to hear. “Pretty please,” I add, fluttering my eyelashes. The effect wasted as he merely turns his attention to the viewport.

Ugh. I must improve my fluttering skills.

With a huff, I whirl back toward the bone-through-the-nose space-knights waiting politely in line before me. Sarkoth kneels closest, his long brown hair draping over his bowed face. Even kneeling, the brute still towers over me by half a head.

“Blessed Daughter,” he murmurs. His reverence swells my heart—the respect I deserve, finally given.

“Scourge the weak. Embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image,” I intone, pressing a clump of Ignixis’s sacred ashes into his mouth.

He stiffens.

Arawnoth’s warmth blooms inside him, flickering behind his eyes like an ember catching flame. His gaze snaps to mine—an unspoken question hanging there. But there are no answers. Only Arawnoth’s love.

I smile and beckon the next space-knight forward.

One by one, I anoint them, their awe feeding my soul like a banquet.

It’s like I’m in a trace, moving automatically.

My back aches, my feet throb, but I cannot stop.

It’s rapturous —their bowed heads, their reverence, their whispered Blessed Daughter .

It’s intoxicating. More delicious than a hundred Luxury Manhattans.