Page 57 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Precious

“ O h, I like answers,” Princesa purrs, her softness shifting into the groove of my arm.

“I just hope they’re the good kind—and don’t take too much longer.

” She sighs, warmth radiating from her core, her intoxicating feminine scent tickling my senses.

“There’s only so much excitement a lady can handle.

” Her fingers delicately trace the lines of my neck, her breath husky.

The contrast is jarring.

This place—its crushing horrors, the grotesque revelations—mingles with her caresses and arousal, creating a potent cocktail that sends my mind reeling. But I don’t show it. I stride forward—a titan of war, unbreakable. A pillar of strength for others to follow.

“I bet under that big scary mask of yours, you’re wearing another—my Mr. Frowny Face.” Princesa giggles, though her voice carries a sharp edge. “But only I know who you really are, underneath. The fears, the doubts... they burn deep inside you, spreading to me.”

Her gaze drops as she idly spins her diamond and Elerium bonding rings. “It’s not good enough, Dracoth.” Her voice lowers to a whisper, warm breath brushing my long ear. “You’re my Red Dragon, and nothing can change that. Be the man you promised to be.”

My fingers coil into fists, tendons straining under my power.

She pries too deep. Knows too much. There is no sanctuary. Nowhere to hide. The fortress of my thoughts lies unbarred, open before her relentless onslaught. And like a merciless venefex matriarch, she strikes where I am most vulnerable.

No.

She is right. There should be no weakness to exploit. I must become harder. Harder than the peaks of Scarn, harder than arcweave. A blazing inferno that cannot be extinguished.

As Arawnoth teaches. Let her challenge harden my heart and strengthen my resolve.

“That’s so much better,” she coos, resting her head against my arm.

“They’re altered clones!” Razgor blurts, shattering the tension. His wrist console glows a soft blue as he scans the final opened vat.

“Wakey, wakey, Razgor,” Drexios sneers, rapping his knuckles against the cringing scientist’s head. “Did that clone batter you senseless? Got a touch of amnesia rattling around that big brain of yours? Of course they’re clones, you voiding imbecile!”

“ALT-ERED.” Razgor enunciates each syllable, failing to swat Drexios’ arm away. His face twists with irritation. “And will you STOP hitting me, you brainless barbarian?”

“Stop,” I growl, cutting through the bickering. My gaze lingers on Drexios. He merely shrugs, settling against the glyph-engraved wall, one leg propped up.

“Speak,” I command, my masked face snapping to Razgor.

“Yes... yes, War Chieftain,” he stutters before exhaling sharply.

“As I was saying before being so rudely accosted.” His eyes dart to his shimmering blue wrist console.

“The clones’ genetic material shows clear signs of tampering.

Here—see these markers? Their telomeres have been altered, leading to those. .. strange outcomes.”

His gaze shifts to the two twisted, malformed clones sprawled in crumpled heaps beside their vats. “Not just those two. All five.”

“Five?” Drexios’ brow arches in mock surprise. “Oh, I think you’re missing one, little scientist.” His eyes flick to me. A slow, knowing smirk twists the vertical scar on his face. “The biggest, baddest clone of them all—our young War Chieftain.”

Pride surges through me. Even Drexios, the ever-mocking, gives begrudging respect. Hard-won and deserved. Inevitable. For I will surpass my predecessor—my so-called father. The one Drexios faithfully served for centuries.

I see through him. Beneath his crude jabs and sharp wit, there is cunning. Drexios understands people. Knows what beats in their hearts. Fearless, he exploits weakness like the blades he slides into gaps in armor. I need only point him in the right direction.

“Well... you see...” Razgor’s voice wavers, doubt flickering across his unblemished face. “I... took the liberty of... ah, scanning your genetic material.” His eyes snap to mine, his body tensing as if expecting my displeasure.

I am not displeased. Only impatient.

“What?” Drexios barks, his face twisting with mock disgust. “Were you stalking his latrine? Is that it—”

“Ack,” Princesa interjects, grinning. She tilts her head toward the slightly trembling scientist. “Leave him alone. You’re doing the very best job, aren’t you, Razgor?” Her voice drips with sweetness—but there’s sharpness beneath it.

“Yes... yes, of course, War—um, Blessed Daughter.” Razgor’s eyes flick between Drexios and Princesa like a malfunctioning targeting system. “It was just some hair I scanned.”

His fingers dart over the holographic controls. The projection morphing into spiraled strands, their meaning unclear.

“Your telomeres are normal, great War Chieftain.” Razgor smiles, nodding his head eagerly.

Normal.

Is that what I am?

“Brilliant!” Princesa squeals, clapping her hands with glee. “See? All that worrying for nothing, babes.” She peers up at me, her silver eyes swirling with my crimson. “I always knew you were—”

“Um,” Razgor interrupts with a nervous cough. “Actually, it only proves you’ve not been altered at the genetic level.”

The balm for my shattered identity continues to elude me.

“I do hate ‘ actually’s’ ,” Princesa sighs, disappointment dripping from every syllable. “Well, I actually think this is enough proof to lay this stupid issue to rest. I’m so over it.” She waves a dismissive hand.

“What about Gorexius?” Drexios tests the strength of his blades with a meaty slap, sounding almost bored.

“You didn’t manage to lap up some of his juices, did you?

He sneers, sweeping the flat of his blade over his tongue, eliciting laughter from the other warriors.

“A slimy little snarlbroc sucking on rocks.”

“Don’t... don’t be ridiculous!” Razgor snaps, his face darkening. “Though...” He hesitates. “You do stumble onto a good point.” He turns to me, expression sincere. “If we found Gorexius’ genetic material, we could compare it to yours. Then we’d know for certain if you were a clone.”

“No,” I growl, resuming my advance toward the exit. “I could be the clone of others.”

“True,” Razgor concedes, falling into step with the others in my blazing wake.

“You’re like a clone fetishist, you know that?” Princesa huffs, arms folding beneath her ample breasts. “Freaking clone-atic.”

The glyph-engraved door swooshes open, and immediately a strange sense of déjà vu washes over me. I hesitate. Yet the corridor beyond resembles the last one. The same narrow, dark tunnel. No visible doors along its length.

Something pulls at me. A whisper of a memory, buried deep. A sense of knowing. Like I’ve been here before in another time, another life. I stride forward, boots striking the metal with steady force. The prickling on my neck worsens—a presence. Watching. Following.

My warvisor detects the myriads of deactivated plasma turrets hidden within the walls and ceiling. Without breaking step, I aim my arc blaster in smooth, precise motions. Molten plasma streaks through the air, sizzling, illuminating the darkness like light through water.

The warriors follow my lead. A cacophony of rhythmic zaps fills the corridor as our weapons glow in unison. Each shot finds its mark. Turrets melt from their housings, their arcweave armor liquefying into sludgy rivulets that slap the floor with wet plops.

The fortress of defenses only confirms my suspicions. They guard something important.

Then, a sudden flare of crimson light. The corridor glows red, bathing us in blazing, pulsing radiance. I halt. The warriors freeze. Our gazes sweep the corridor, searching for the source.

Then—nothing. The light blinks out as if it had never existed.

“Could be power surges,” Razgor mutters, fingers stroking his chin.

“I don’t care what it is, I just want it to stop.” Princesa waves her wrist console’s glow around her as if it were her divine barriers.

“Quickly,” I growl, hastening my pace, unease clawing at my gut. Goddess Aenarael’s parting words are no longer just a warning, but our desperate reality—the Voidbringer will soon escape.

We break into a march-turned-jog, armored boots pounding against the metal. Labored breaths draw in the scent of molten circuitry and scorched metal. The silence only broken by the searing heat of plasma fire tearing through the fidget, darkness.

Again. A blinding flash of crimson, illuminating the entire corridor. The once dormant glyphs now pulse with sickly green veins through their carvings—like the arteries of some ancient beast. A beast that is awakening. A beast that is about to devour us whole.

Then as quickly as it came, the light flicks off like a switch. Darkness returns.

The uneasy silence lingers—until a voice breaches my warvisor network.

“War Chieftain,” comes Jazreal’s thoughts, projected with cool precision. “We’re detecting strange, intermittent movement all around.” There’s confidence in his thoughts. But beneath there’s an undercurrent of concern.

“Death Herald, the beast awakens,” I project, the simplest metaphor, urging haste. “Inform Sarkoth. Take what surviving clones you have and secure our exit. Expect heavy resistance.”

A momentary delay lingers before Jazreal responds. “At once, War Chieftain. May you die a glorious death.”

“What the hell’s happening, babes?” Princesa asks, her beautiful face scrunched in frustration as she tries to pierce the darkness. “If I could see anything, I’d summon barriers to help... whatever needs helping.”

But I barely hear her.

Because of the sight emerging before me—remnants from a distant past that haunt my every dream. Now vivid. Now real.

I stagger against the wall. Overwhelmed, my vision spins, my guts churning.