Page 51 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Alexandra
Rotten Fruit
T he looming glyphs seem to close in, pressing against me—our own cenotaph waiting to entomb us all.
“We have a winner,” Drexios retorts as he skips ahead, his feet gliding over the metal floor. “It’s faded. Curling. Lingering. Little teasing whores.” He sniffs again, swaying from side to side like some invisible ghost is leading him by the nose.
I would scoff at his nonsense if my gut weren’t twisted into knots tighter than my mother’s wallet.
“Babes,” I murmur. A little mouse-squeak of a word. Then louder, closer to his ear, “Babes.”
Dracoth tilts his head slightly. I swallow. “Do you think you could, um... fix your little impotence problem? Like fucking yesterday would be preferable.”
His snarl is low, simmering with frustration. He raises his other arm. His body trembles with effort.
A lick of fire flashes. A spark. Then—nothing.
“Arawnoth’s... defeat, ” Dracoth sneers, the word curling in his mouth like venom. “Has weakened me.”
His fingers clench into a boulder-crushing fist.
I sigh. Typical . Once again, it’s up to me to save the day. It’s so disappointing. A red dragon who can’t breathe fire.
He’s basically just a lizard now.
Drazard.
Truly tragic. Like discovering my condo is riddled with mold.
“Ah, would you look at that? Doors!” Drexios interrupts my troubling thoughts, gesturing ahead to where I see only darkness. “Doors, doors, doors. So many places to be, but I’m just little old me.”
He hums the words to himself, skipping ahead.
Dracoth quickens his pace, the others following suit. Drexios has already disappeared into the first room, the glyph-engraved doors sliding open with a smooth swoosh at his approach.
We step inside. Our breath catches.
The room is a maze of large metal tables, their surfaces pitted and scarred—stained with what can only be blood. Thick, segmented restraints dangle from overhead, bolted at one end, the other ending in sturdy clasps.
Trolleys of horrific tools are scattered about, their edges dulled with age but still capable of making my skin crawl. Forceps. Scalpels. Bone saws. Syringes. Some are caked in dried, flaking residue.
Machines loom in the corners, their tarnished surfaces blanketed in dust. Mechanical limbs hang motionless in the dark—waiting. Expecting. As if they’re still anticipating the next victim to arrive at any moment.
My breath quickens as the weight of this room crashes down on me. Even I can smell it now—the metallic tang of old, stale blood. Unmistakable. It clings to the walls, the floors, soaked into the very metal. Ghostly streaks of dark brown dragged into desperate smears. Handprints.
Some are small. Too small. The thought of what they might signify sends a shiver down my spine.
“Oh.” Drexios exhales, straightening. Hands settling at his sides. “Not going to lie—I’m disappointed.”
I barely hear him. My mind is lost in the horror of this place, in the grotesque relics of suffering lining the shelves.
“I was hoping for something... fresher,” he continues, tone sickly light. “If you—”
“Will you shut the fuck up?!”
The words tear from my throat, a shriek of raw fury. My hands tremble at my sides, my glare hot enough to burn.
“What?” He snaps, tossing up a casual shrug. “You’re pink inside and out. Haven’t you seen a torture chamber before—”
“This place,” Dracoth inhales, his voice low and heavy. I rise with his breath, lifted in his arm, as if we both carry the weight of his next words.
“I saw it.”
He isn’t looking at us anymore. His gaze is locked on the walls, the restraints, and the tables marred by suffering. “Thousands like it. Where our females were defiled. Killed.”
My burning fury turns to ice. I knew the Klendathians had lost their females—taken during a civil war led by Dracoth’s predecessor, his clan, and these very space-knights centuries ago. It seemed distant, abstract, like reading a sad post on social media—awful, but removed from my own reality.
But this... This is different. This is real. This is blood that dried beneath clawing hands. Screams that died in unfeeling, metal restraints. A slow, cold horror slithers up my spine. This isn’t just history. This isn’t just ancient. These were countless women’s last moments.
My gaze shifts, and I finally take in the shelves lining the walls, filled with rows of jars and containers, their glass long clouded, contents rotted away—or worse.
Not all are empty. Some hold... things. Fragments of bone.
Clumps of hair. Shriveling, decayed masses barely preserved in sickly, inky fluid.
“By the Gods...” Razgor breathes, horror dawning in his eyes. He rushes toward one of the hulking machines, scanning it with his wrist console.
The space-knights push inward, filling the room, their voices lowering to curses and prayers. Hard faces twist in disgust. Despair.
Everywhere I look is more evidence of pain. The deep, frantic grooves etched into the tables where hands would have lain. Single hairs caught in tiny snags—different colors. Different lengths. My stomach clenches. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the rising nausea back down.
“YOU!” Dracoth’s voice erupts, a volcanic explosion that shakes me to my core.
I gasp as his form grows taut as steel, his presence suddenly towering. He looms over Drexios and the other soldiers—rage carved into every line of his body.
“EVERY ONE OF YOU IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS DESECRATION!” His arm sweeps wide, like the flames of a dying god engulfing all in their path. “THIS IS THE FATE OF OUR FEMALES. LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE WROUGHT. WHAT YOU CONDEMNED THEM TO SUFFER!”
His crimson-silver glare sweeps the room. Some space-knights bow their heads in shame. Others shift uncomfortably, glancing backward, their faces twisted with concern.
The air crackles. Suffocating .
With a flick of my wrist, I summon a divine barrier, sealing the exit. Dracoth’s fury is intoxicating, igniting a murderous wildfire in my veins. If they are responsible for this, then let them suffer beneath his wrath.
“Last time I checked, young War Chief, we aren’t made of metal,” Drexios sneers, his red eye glinting even through the tension.
His hand flicks out—rapping his knuckles against a nearby soldier’s head.
“Hear that? Hollower than a Glaseroid’s ball sack.
Definitely not metal. Nope, no Scythians here. Sorry, boss.”
He grins.
Dracoth moves faster than lightning. Brutal and blinding. One second, Drexios is standing. The next—Dracoth’s massive hand has his armor in a death grip. With an effortless heave, he flings Drexios sideways like a too-smug cannonball.
The impact is deafening. The shelves collapse in a catastrophic avalanche of shattered glass, broken containers, and shrieking metal, burying his crumpled form in the falling debris.
“OUR ANCESTORS WEEP RIVERS OF BLOOD AT THIS SACRILEGE.” Dracoth’s voice is raw with fury. “AND YOU—YOU MAKE JESTS?!”
His eyes leak silver and crimson fumes, his presence a walking cataclysm. He stalks forward, each step a clicking thunderclap, as he closes in on the dusty wreckage.
“EVERY CUT. EVERY DEATH. EVERY ATROCITY. IS YOURS TO BEAR.”
I feel feral joy surge through me. My fingers curl, nails digging into my palms as I lean forward, heart pounding.
“Make him suffer, Dracoth.” My voice slithers from between clenched teeth, delighted, hoping, praying Drexios is about to be torn to shreds.
Drexios stirs beneath the wreckage. A low groan escapes him as he shifts, bracing against the floor with trembling hands. Dust and debris slide from his back. He coughs—a wet, hacking sound—then spits, a thick glob of green splattering across the metal.
Slowly, he lifts his head. A ragged grin splits his bloodied face. “...Void.”
He wipes his chin, smearing the blood like war paint. His single red eye gleams with something twisted. “How sweet of you to care.” A mocking pause. “But you’re a little late, aren’t you? Maybe the female’s spirits would rest easier if you hurled yourself into a wall.”
Drexios groans as he rises, swaying slightly. “You led us down this path—a version of you. The one you call ‘ fathe r’—War Chieftain Gorexius.” His sneer deepens as he sweeps his arm over the stunned space-knights. “Not me. Not the war brothers. You .”
Dracoth’s gaze falters. Through our bond, his doubt and fear roar through his crimson flame, melting through his rage.
Drexios steps forward, his hands clenched, trembling. His voice drops to a venomous whisper. “After all, who could resist the War Chief? Look at you—a titan. A monster. Not even I could. Oh, but how I tried.”
His single eye burns, bright as a molten ruby. “Gorexius ripped the eye from my skull when I questioned his orders. It was so long ago now, but still—” He taps his temple, a slow, rhythmic gesture. “It throbs. It burns, like it happened yesterday.”
He exhales sharply, then tilts his head, his words landing like the twist of a blade.
“Voiding funny, isn’t it? That you did the exact. Same. Thing.”
The room is deathly silent.
Drexios inches closer, his voice rising.
“And now his ghost stands here, screaming at us for his crimes. For orders he forced on us!” He gestures wildly toward the space-knights.
“What’s the matter? Don’t like your handiwork?
Not enough guts? Not enough blood? The scent of urine and gore too long faded? ”
His breath hitches. His sneer curls into something savage. “Come on. Say something? Justify this clone,” he spits inches from Dracoth’s face.
I seethe, my nails digging into my palms. “You have no idea if Dracoth is a clone or—”
My words are swept away in the storm of Dracoth’s bellowing rage. His roar shakes the room, a monstrous, deafening howl of suffering and fury. His energy claws ignite, blinding-hot, distorting the air with searing waves.