Page 50 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“No... no... these are—” Razgor pleads, glancing desperately between the masked faces surrounding him, searching for understanding. He finds none.

“With pleasure, War Chief,” Drexios purrs, dark amusement lacing his words.

In a single fluid motion, he unslings his long energy blades in an impressive flourish, twin arcs of searing blue that blur through the air. With a savage sneer, he lunges forward, cutting through the nearest droid.

His weapons hum through the air, warping the heat around them.

Each strike leaves a ghostly blue afterimage—like the droid’s death is burned into reality itself.

The machines armor offers little resistance—his blades carve through it like molten knives through wax, leaving only slag pooling at his feet.

Jazreal joins the fray, his spear twirling in a cyclone of glowing azure destruction storming through the mass of murder-bots. More space-knights follow suit, their weapons igniting, the corridor erupting into a symphony of zaps and clangs —a symphony of destruction that makes my heart soar.

Every crumpled machine, every decapitated frisbee-head, is a breath of relief. A tension lifted.

Razgor, however, looks like he might pass out. One hand braced against the wall, shaking his head in silent horror.

I couldn’t care less. Actually, I’m glad. The murder-bots must be stopped. Dracoth feels the same. He watches, unmoving, completely silent. Yet through our bond, I feel his satisfaction mirroring my own.

The acrid stench and haze of molten metal fill the corridor as the last machine is rendered to sizzling pieces.

Dracoth steps forward, his armored boots crunching through the smoldering wreckage. We press onward, deeper into the monolith, the chemical scent thickening with each echoing footstep.

Occasional battle droids emerge in the distance. They don’t last long. The space-knights tear through them, almost tripping over themselves to land the killing blow. They seek to impress Dracoth. To prove themselves worthy.

It’s cute, really.

Even their ridiculous jock-like banter is starting to grow on me. Anything is better than the eerie silence. There’s something comforting about it—something familiar and human in a place that has never known laughter, only suffering.

I don’t know how I know this. I just do . Through my bones, like an icy finger trailing my spine. Is it the heavy grimy air, or the faint scent of something metallic that someone or something has tried to wash away?

“Wait. War Chieftain.” Jazreal suddenly raises a halting hand, his masked face locked onto the vaulted ceiling above. “Plasma turrets. Though it might be disabled.”

“Wonderful,” I deadpan, squinting into the darkness, seeing nothing, which only emboldens the dive-bombing butterflies in my stomach.

Dracoth moves without hesitation. His wrist cocks downward, armor pulsing an ominous searing blue. Then—

Zap.

A crackling energy blast rips through the air, bathing the corridor in dazzling azure light before slamming into the ceiling.

“Muscles can shoot!” Drexios announces, clapping his chest.

Above, molten slag droops like stringy mozzarella, simultaneously making my stomach growl with hunger and tighten with fear. The sizzling remnants finally slough off, thudding to the floor with a thick, wet plop.

“I used to be a good shot too,” Drexios continues as if anyone asked. “But some big ugly bastard keeps taking my eye.”

He slides off his mask, sneering over his shoulder before whistling like some kind of deranged cuckoo bird. While, for some godforsaken reason , he jabs a finger into his eyepatch.

Ugh! So gross.

“Nothing wrong with your mouth, sadly,” I mutter, my face scrunching with the force of a thousand lemons.

“Hah!” He barks out a laugh. “Bet your Elerium on that, Pinkie ! Bring that fire-on-head next time. I’ll have the pretty female screaming agreement.”

His sneering smirk makes my eyes roll hard enough to break records. Aided by the raucous laughter of the bone-through-the-nose space-knights trailing behind.

“Screaming with boredom ,” I snap, but Drexios only rolls a shoulder. His ragged, red-scaled cloak sways behind him as he strides ahead, utterly unbothered.

The corridor splits ahead. Three paths. No clear difference—only slight variations in the alien glyphs carved into the walls. They probably spell doom a hundred times over.

Dracoth wastes no time reorganizing the soldiers. Jazreal leads a squad to the right. Sarkoth takes another to the left. I blink repeatedly, my mouth opening and closing in different ‘O’ shapes as I flick my gaze between Dracoth and Drexios.

“...Catching znats are we?” Drexios barks a laugh, noticing my reaction. “Well, isn’t this cozy? ”

He feigns a dramatic shiver, making some stupid noise, before suddenly straightening like a soldier at attention.

“Uncle Drexios reporting for duty!” He slams a fist to his armored chest. “Executing mission: Babysit Pinkie, and the young War Chief. Priority alpha.”

I glare at him like the insane fool he is. “I wouldn’t trust you to babysit a single credit,” I scoff.

But he just stands there, rigid as a statue, holding his ridiculous salute like he’s waiting for an officer to inspect his shiny boots.

We press on, weaving through the dark expanse. More corridors intersect and diverge, each one identical to the last. Dracoth halts our group before every junction, brow furrowed in thought, before silently choosing a direction.

When I ask him how he knows the way, his gaze grows distant. “The Voidbringer,” he says simply.

I want to believe him. I really do. But with every new turn, I doubt him more.

This place is a demented maze. Even Mr. Frowny Face couldn’t memorize all this.

It feels like we’re both the mice and the cheese at the same time.

Well, actually, these guys would be rats. I’d be a super cute Minnie Mouse.

Drexios stops suddenly, sniffing the air like some overgrown werewolf. “Oh. You smell that? It’s making me all tingly.” A shudder rolls through him as his gaze sweeps the vast corridor.

“Blood,” Dracoth intones.

The ominous word sends my stomach into backflips. It’s this creepy place. The not knowing that sets me on edge. If it were just pervy space-hobos lurking, I’d be thrilled to squash them like bugs. But this...

This feels like we’re being led into a trap. Like we’re being hunted.