Page 48 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Monolith

T he shuttle rumbles ominously, jostling me in Dracoth’s arm. A shiver runs down my spine despite the lovely warmth radiating from my personal red radiator, taxi man.

Instinctively, my hand reaches for Todd, but I grasp nothing but air, and my stomach sinks.

Poor wee chug bug. I left him with Sandra, who absolutely refused to join this—whatever this is.

Even after I practically begged her—something that really should be beneath me.

But I couldn’t look her in the eye and promise the station was safe.

It must be safe, right? I mean, the murder-bots are deactivated.

That’s what I told Sandra. But then the image of that hulking black obsidian monolith crept into my mind... Freaking haunted castle is what it is. Probably full of creepy ghosts and space cobwebs. It gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking about it. My hands clutch my robes tighter.

At least the bone-through-the-nose space-knights aren’t afraid. This rattling, roaring shuttle is packed with them. They all stand with one hand grasping the bar overhead, boasting about who’ll rack up the highest kill count and whose balls are the biggest—you know, standard boring jock talk.

Ugh. I miss Sandra.

“War Chieftain,” Jazreal calls out, his voice rising above the din of rowdy warriors and the shuttle’s descent. “What is the warband’s objective in this Gods-forsaken place?”

Through our bond, I feel Dracoth’s eager uncertainty, though he hides it well. His face is carved from two-week-old brioche—deliciously soft when I warm it up.

Mmm. Bread.

“Reconnaissance and possible extraction,” he growls, crimson eyes flicking to the oddball of the group, wedged into the corner like an anxious sardine. “Razgor, your expertise will be crucial.”

Silence falls. Every warrior turns to Razgor, their eyes gleaming with curiosity. He looks up from his wrist console, blue eyes darting between us. Then, realization dawns, and he jolts like he’s been hit with one of my mother’s rants.

“Yes... well, it would help if I knew exactly what we’re dealing with,” he stammers, growing more confident until he sneaks a glance at my man—Mr. Frowny Face himself. “...With all due respect, great War Chieftain.”

Classic nerd behavior. He even looks the part—armor fresh from the shop, gleaming without a single scratch marring its dark surface.

He’s smaller than the rest, short blond hair making him stand out from the mane-wielding techno-barbarians crowding the shuttle.

I was expecting an ancient, creepy mini-Demon Egg-Head scientist, but this guy looks young.

Early thirties, maybe? Then again, with Klendathians, who knows? He could be a few centuries old.

Which reminds me.

“Hey, babes, how old are you?” I ask, shifting my sexy self in Dracoth’s arms, seeking his attention.

“Twenty,” he rumbles without hesitation.

“Twenty?!” I echo, aghast.

No way. He’s just a baby—a big murder baby.

This news is kind of upsetting. It makes me feel old, even though I’m only twenty-four.

When I was twenty, I was partying it up, travelling the world, living my best life.

Meanwhile, he’s been storming across the universe, bashing skulls, and collecting people’s spines like they’re limited-edition Pokémon cards.

“I was born... or grown here,” Dracoth adds, his voice little more than a mutter, our bond flaring with doubt and something heavier.

Jeez. Tough neighborhood.

Before I can probe further, a voice cuts through the shuttle.

“Open your eyes, Razgor, it’s the Scythians,” a dark-haired warrior barks, grinning. “We’re finally dealing with the Scythians!”

The space-knights erupt into raucous laughter, but Razgor purses his lips, subtly shaking his head like he’s just been handed all my shopping bills at once.

“That’s not what I meant!” he sighs, exasperated, though his words drown, lost and alone in the crowd’s mirth. “You fools think the Scythians are a monolith,” he mutters under his breath.

Dracoth’s gaze sharpens on him. I recognize that look—slightly narrowed eyes, fangs just barely poking out from tight lips. Part irritation—part I am contemplating murder.

Ugh, he’s so impatient sometimes.

“Stick with us, Razgor,” I purr, batting my lashes as I trace Arawnoth’s blessing across my chest and neck. Watching him squirm is just a bonus. “And all will become clear soon.” I smile with regal confidence.

Total lie—I have no idea what’s going to happen.

“Yes... of course, War Chieftainess,” he utters, nodding quickly.

“There’s no need for such formalities, Razgor,” I chuckle, my eyes narrowing into silver slits. “Please, call me Blessed Daughter.”

His smile drops faster than the price of second-hand fashion. “Blessed... Daughter?” he echoes dumbly, like a parrot that’s just been fed existential dread.

Thanks to my divine grace, my smile doesn’t falter. “Yes, that would be the very best,” I say sweetly—enough fake sugar to fuel an entire soft drink empire.

Razgor nods, eyes downcast, but I notice the furrow in his brow. He’s thinking.

Seriously, what’s so hard to understand? It’s just two words! Typical. I try to help the boring nerd, and what do I get? Disrespect. Let’s just say he might be the last person I bless with my divine protection. The rude prick.

Before I can stew any longer, the floor rumbles.

The walls groan, shuddering like a tin can in a cyclone.

The force rattles through my bones, jostling me and the entire squad.

Then—an ear-splitting screech of metal grinding against metal.

My stomach lurches, and I clutch Dracoth tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Which blind bastard is flying this rust bucket?” Jazreal shouts, grimacing, his head snapping from side to side.

“My apologies, Death Herald, my hand slipped,” comes a nervous voice, barely audible over the groans and curses filling the cabin.

The shuttle finally settles, though the tension lingers. Space-knights grumble and shove at the unfortunate pilot, muttering well-earned obscenities.

“Move out, Berserkers!” Dracoth roars, his voice a twelve on the Beaufort scale, stiffening my spine like I’ve been dunked in ice water.

He wastes no time tearing open the shuttle’s hatch with a mighty yank, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. I grimace. If only Ignixis were still alive—he’d have lectured the overgrown meathead for that.

One by one, we leap from the shuttle into the waiting dark. My breath catches.

Before us looms a colossal structure, blacker than the void itself.

So dark it drinks in the starlight. Almost invisible but for the stars it obscures—a shadow of a terrifying fortress someone forgot to paint.

Spires stretch impossibly high, their edges sharp as blades, their surfaces crawling with alien statues, their insectile forms frozen in eerie reverence.

Every inch of this place is etched with worn glyphs that could only be threats and warnings.

Above us, a soft blue light ripples like a disturbed pond. More of the Ravager’s Ruin shuttles pass through the barrier.

My stomach flips as I stare into the abyss.

No clouds. No atmosphere. Nothing. Just space—big empty, endless, scary space.

My breath catches. How am I breathing? How am I not floating off to become the most beautiful star in the galaxy?

It’s wrong, like I’m walking on the surface of the moon without a suit.

Sensing my unease—whether through our bond or my frantic babbling—Dracoth squeezes me tighter. His touch steadies me.

More shuttles touch the sprawling hangar’s surface, their landings far smoother than ours.

From them, more space-knights pour forth in their hundreds, an army of towering techno-barbarian, man-meat ready to murder.

It would be kind of hot if I wasn’t standing exposed on this cursed murder-bot fortress.

Yet, despite the sheer mass of soldiers, an eerie silence lingers between each long breath.

No wind. No movement, no animals, not even the ambient hum of machinery.

Just creepy stillness. The air is sterile—cold, lacking the fresh crispness from our flagship.

It’s the lifeless cold of stone sealed too long in the dark, reeking with its chemical scent, like someone dumped bleach by the gallon.

Then a voice makes me cringe further.

“Would you look at this great big shithole? We’re just little znats buzzing around.

BZZZ!” Drexios flutters his fingers mockingly, taking in the ominous scene.

“Don’t see why we’ve brought half the voiding warband, when we could just melt this place from orbit and be on our merry way?

” He casts a singular red eye over his shoulder at us.

Razgor snorts, his face lit with something disturbingly close to awe. “Are you crazy?”

Dumb question.

“This predates any known Scythian structure.” He gestures wildly at the monolithic horror looming over us. “You see these glyphs? Those statues? You almost never see these in modern construction. In fact, I’ve only—”

“Get that door open,” Dracoth commands, cutting through the academic droning with a flick of his massive hand toward a sealed entrance. Its seams are barely visible in the dark.

“You heard the War Chieftain!” Jazreal bellows, slamming the butt of his spear against the metal floor.

Soldiers rush forward, first hesitating as if expecting the door to open at their presence. It does not. Next, two warriors press against each side, muscles straining, teeth bared. The metal doesn’t so much as groan in protest.

Dracoth exhales sharply, his annoyance and anticipation flaring through our bond. He stomps forward like a bipedal tank, his hulking new armor clanging heavily with each step. The space-knights scramble out of his thunderous approach.