Page 59 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Hail, my name is Razgor,” he says, approaching my mother, waving a hand before her vacant face.

“Blink if you can hear me.” He clicks his fingers.

But there is no response. She remains motionless, head bowed, hair curtaining her face.

Razgor sighs loudly, swiping at his wrist console, bathing her in a shimmering blue light.

“Sad. Just like the others,” he tuts, shaking his head.

My breath catches.

“What’s wrong with her?” Princesa asks, giving voice to my own thoughts.

“Physically? Nothing,” he replies, a faint smile curling his lip as he examines his holographic display. “Psychologically? Well... those wounds are beyond my capabilities.”

“Wait, that’s good right?” Princesa’s gaze snaps between us, brightening with hope. “That means there’s nothing preventing her from healing!”

“Perhaps,” Razgor begins, his tone measured, lacking her budding optimism. “But you must remember—these females have been held here for two centuries.” His eyes fall to my mother, his lips pinching with sympathy. “And Gods know what they’ve endured. What they’ve witnessed within these walls.”

“Two hundred years of this?!” Princesa gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

Razgor nods grimly. “I’m afraid so. There’s no telling what it’s done to their minds. Eyes that no longer wish to see. Ears deaf to the cries of others. Prayers that went unanswered.” His gaze darkens. “The brain retreats to survive. Well... that’s all I can speculate until I examine them further.”

He turns to me, and somehow, he wears a faint smile. “The good news, War Chieftain—” He flicks a hand toward his holographic display. “She is your mother. There can be no doubt.”

Azure runes shimmer in the dim light. Meaningless symbols repeating what I already know. What beats in my heart. The truth carved into my very soul.

“I know...” I murmur, my gaze falling to my clenching, throbbing fist. “Her name?”

Razgor hesitates. “Her name?” He echoes, surprise flickering across his face. “I... I don’t know.” His fingers fidget over his console. “In the Scythian system, they were simply assigned numbers. She is... Number Twenty-Seven.”

A number. The idea sickens me. A cold, mechanical mark where a name should be.

“But,” Razgor continues, his brow furrowing, “what I do know is that these females were set aside—preserved for natural births.” His voice drops.

“Perhaps a backup for their cloning? To introduce new genetics? Or...” he hesitates.

“To selectively breed warriors as immense as yourself?” His brows shadow his eyes as he shakes his head.

“Sorry I can’t provide more answers, great War Chieftain. ”

I barely hear him.

The answer is obvious. Even if I were not haunted by the memories. Even if the Red Titan’s shadow did not loom over me in the dark.

I see it now. The silent watcher, towering over my mother and me.

His icy presence, suffocating. The confusion.

I feared him, longing for recognition that never came.

The most powerful Chieftain to ever exist. Seduced— or broken —by the Voidbringer.

Stolen females. The most beautiful he selected, preserved for his pleasure.

“Gorexius’s slaves,” I sneer, the words oozing like the vilest venom.

Was this his price? A twisted bargain? Sugar to sweeten the poison? The future of our entire existence, weighed against the pathetic, carnal lusts of my father.

My guts churn. The thought nauseating. Disgusting.

An offensive to everything I stand for—everything Arawnoth teaches.

This is why strength must be sought. Why heedless pleasure must be shunned.

Because this is the result. Twisted depravity.

A degeneracy that has metastasized, festering in the soul of my people—so deep, so embedded, that to slice it out may spell our deaths.

A chance I’ll gladly take, a price I’ll gladly pay.

I will be that blade. My legacy will be reforged—a cleansing fire.

Razgor nods. “Yes, that’s possible,” he murmurs, conceding.

“Come,” I command, my hand resting gently, coaxingly against my mother’s back. “There’s nothing here for us but cursed memories.”

She raises on unsteady feet, my touch steadying and guiding her toward the broken exit. Each agonizingly slow patter of her feet, each waiver of her quivering legs is excruciatingly to watch. She’s so frail. A flower denied the sun’s warmth. The soil to grow.

Such weakness should disgust me. But I would give anything—face any army—if it meant her life, her freedom.

Outside the cell, I am met with a sight so beautiful it steals my breath. A sight none dared to dream. Dozens of female Klendathians huddle together, arms clutching their bodies for warmth, eyes downcast and vacant.

Stunning, yet fragile—a spluttering torch in a blistering storm.

The warriors stand guard over them, their warvisors scanning the darkness. Rush wafts from their visors, their hearts pounding like war drums. They stand ready to protect. Ready to die, for this flickering hope.

“Gorexius?” A crimson-haired female calls out, surprising me.

Her brown eyes glisten with recognition and something more... adoration?

“Yes, yes, it is you!” She races forward clutching my free hand, then collapses to her knees, weeping with joy. “You... you haven’t come to see me in a while. I feared the worst. But now you’re back. By the Gods you’re back!”

I avert my gaze as she clings desperately to my leg plate—the same armor my father once wore. The pathetic sight twists my heart into knots.

“I knew you’d come back for me.” Her tear-streaked eyes flick upward, her wet glee turning into a shocked gasp.

“Ah! What happened to your beautiful long hair? Did you... did you lose your honor?” She glances around, lowering her voice.

“I don’t care... I’ll always love you, Gorexius.

I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Her voice is sweet, eager.

“Remember? You used to bring me those treats. The zarberries favored ones. You said I was special—that’s why you brought them just for me. ”

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t Gorexius,” Princesa’s voice cuts in, sharp. “This is his son, Dracoth—my Red Dragon.” She shoots me a withering look. A strange unfamiliar emotion ripples through our bond—a sour, bitter sensation.

“Oh.” The red-haired female blinks up at us, confused. “But... I never had a child... did I?” Her face darkens, lips parting in a hesitant, trembling breath.

“No.” She shakes her head, her grip tightening on my arm, nails digging into the plating. “No, that can’t be. You’re here. You came back for me. Just like you promised.”

She searches my face desperately, brown eyes shimmering, pleading. “Gorexius.” She breathes the name, voice trembling. “Say it. Say you’re him. You remember me, don’t you? Ruzeta?”

I say nothing.

“You must remember.” Her voice grows faster. “You said you’d take me away from here, back to Klendathor.”

She stares, waiting for the answer I cannot give.

Her hands tremble, clutching at my armor. “Please.” I pry her fingers away—gently, but firmly. “I love you, can’t you see that? I’ve been anxiously awaiting your return.”

“Gorexius ...” Princesa wavers, her voice unusually shaky. “He’ll return soon from his—”

“Gorexius is gone.” My declaration shatters Princesa’s burgeoning lie. “He died a slave.”

“No.” Ruzeta shakes her head violently, sending tears and ruby-red hair spilling. “That’s not possible.” Her voice cracks. “He can’t be gone. No... he’s a great hero. You must be mistaken. “He’ll return. He always does.”

She smiles faintly, nodding to herself, longing for a nightmare now banished.

I reach down, gently prying her fingers from my leg. Untangling her trembling digits.

“But you will live free. All of you.” My gaze sweeps over the gathered female’s, none seeming to hear my words. “A beacon of hope. A torch of redemption.” I lift Ruzeta to her feet, guiding her to stand. “Revered mothers—you stand tall and proud.”

Ruzeta wipes at her tear-streaked face, though the tears continue to fall as she retreats, stepping back toward the others. While the warriors around them begin to stir. A current runs through them—stronger than any battlelust, deeper than any war cry.

“War Chieftain. Blessed Daughter.” Their voices rise in raw, fervent emotion. “You deliver a gift from the Gods themselves! We will follow you anywhere. Into the pits of the netherworld itself, if you command it!” The black-haired Varax steps forward, his voice ringing with passion and fire.

This moment will echo for eternity—the rebirth of our glorious people. My berserkers feel it too, the weight of it crackling in the frigid air. Their hearts soar with new purpose. No longer fighting for mere pleasure, but for something more. To protect the future, and redeem the past.

I clap the warrior on the shoulder, my gaze sweeping over the grouped females.

My voice is a solemn promise.

“We’re going home.”