Page 61 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

The Revered Mothers do not react to her words or when she stands between them with hands raised high. Suddenly, silver-edged barriers spring to life—one by one. Layer upon layer. Until shimmering shields coil around them, a dome impenetrable, unbreakable.

“Divine, isn’t it?” Her tilted smile is smug, satisfied. Through our bond, her pride and elation burn like an inferno.

She saunters forward—chin raised, arms high, hips swaying. Arawnoth’s blessing blazing across her chest and neck. Regal. Confident. Untouchable.

When did this happen? When did the frightened, broken female she once was become this—a living Goddess. A creeping realization or something sharp and sudden? Regardless, pride swells in my chest. Her strength is the result of our union. Together, reforged, we stride like Gods.

She stops before me.

“You’re in my way, babes,” She smiles. But her silver-red eyes burn.

“No.” My hand shot out, slamming against her barrier. A jolt of force ricochets up my arm, stinging my fingers. “This is my burden.”

“Your burden?” She barks a cruel, hollow laugh.

“Oh, my poor, simple Drazard. You can’t carry it, can you?

Your burden I mean?” She exhales sharply, the sound twisting my guts into knots of shame.

“A dragon who can’t breathe fire.” Her voice drips with venom—disappointment, mockery, and something far worse: pity.

“Honestly, it’s so disappointing. Typical, I’m the one with Murder-Bot Stress Disorder, and yet here I am—forced to deal with the murder-bots myself. ”

She storms ahead, leaving me reeling. My heart hammers against my ribs. Shame and dishonor claw at me—but beneath that, something else stirs. Something deeper, sharper, carving through me like a claw.

A gaping wound tears open in my chest, a yawning rift I can’t ignore. I need to close it. I need to—

“Princesa...” I reach for her. My fingers meet nothing. They glance off her shimmering barriers. “Stop.”

“Make me!” Princesa snaps, her head whipping around, a sneer twisting her lips. “Can’t can you?” Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the sneer vanishes, replaced by a faint, knowing grin. “Do try to keep up.”

With that, she turns toward the looming door, her black robes billowing in her wake.

She breathes deep, eyes squeezed shut. The Klendathian females, herded forward by the shimmering dome of her divine shields, follow.

The Revered Mothers—huddled together as they are—stand almost a head taller than Princesa, yet she strides like the regal War Chieftainess she is, the unwavering conviction of a Goddess striving for her true form.

Where my pride once burned, icy shards of doubt now pierce me. She surges ahead, reaching for heights I might never attain again, threatening to leave me behind—a mere stepping stone on her path to ascension. I can’t— won’t —allow that.

She is mine !

“Form a defensive line!” I bellow, my gaze sweeping over Drexios and the warriors. “Razgor, stay close.”

Razgor nods, though his hands tremble as he fumbles with his arc blaster, his breathing rapid and shallow.

“Try not to shit yourself.” Drexios barks a laugh, moving into position. “They’re just voiding droids, can’t fight for piss.” His red eye narrows, his lips curling into a smirk, relishing the coming battle.

Princesa steps forward.

The door hisses open.

Beyond, a skittering army of ancient droids scurries between towering metal stalks, trampling the gory remnants of broken clones into green-red paste. The cacophony of their legs clicking and clanging against the metal floor is deafening, a metallic downpour heralding the coming storm.

Their flat heads snap toward us, an ocean of red lenses glaring. Plasma cannon limbs pivot, locking onto us with jerky, yet precise, motions, their eerie synchronicity chilling.

“Fire!” I roar, a signal for the chaos to begin.

Searing azure light blooms ominously from hundreds of droids, turning the red-lit room a pulsing, lurid purple. I aim my arc blaster at the nearest group, my plasma shield flashing to life, its heat a welcome kiss against my skin.

A barrage of molten bolts hurtles toward us in perfect unison, distorting the air with the heat of a thousand suns as they streak through the room. Worry grips my heart as the majority of the bolts converge on Princesa, a blinding wave of blue death about to engulf her.

Then—a gift from the Gods.

The blasts halt mid-air, seemingly striking an invisible wall. But I see it—the faint shimmer of Princesa’s barrier, refracting the light. The plasma bolts continue to zap and hiss, slamming into her defenses, only to slide harmlessly down their length, pooling on the bubbling floor.

“Ugh. So fucking creepy!” she shrieks, waving her arms toward two clusters of droids. Immediately, a force slams into their skittering frames, sweeping them against the wall with the screech of metal grinding against metal.

Princesa doesn’t stop. With haughty grace she advances, each step measured and graceful as if she’s casually strolling through a busy crowd in Star City.

Barriers appear, shoving aside any droids that dare to block her path. She and the females are sheltered from all danger by her impenetrable shields.

The same can’t be said for us berserkers.

Blasts hurtle toward us from every direction, their impacts thudding into my plasma shield, jolting through my arm. Yet, we stand firm, united. We form an unbreakable wall of war brothers. We match Princesa’s steps, keeping her barriers at our backs, returning arc blaster fire over our shield wall.

Our blasts strike true. Each warrior boasts centuries of experience—long-haired, undefeated veterans.

Battle, their oxygen, victory, their sustenance.

Relief floods through me, noticing the ancient droids lack shields.

Our plasma bolts punch gaping wounds in their metal frames, turning their wired innards into steaming molten slop.

Drexios cackles maniacally, throwing plasma grenades into the dense packs of droids. Each detonation shakes the room as a blinding light erupts, an explosion of plasma tearing through the masses of skittering droids.

Even Razgor screams obscenities. Frenzied eyes waft Rush, carried away in battle’s alluring embrace. His arc blaster sweeps in a haphazard horizontal line, hitting some, missing many. An eager amateur. He shows promise.

“War Chieftain, Sarkoth and my groups are now converging at the shuttles. The voiding Scythian scum surges. Such a joy it is, to finally rend them to ribbons!” Jazreal’s simmering thoughts project through my warvisor.

I can’t see his face, yet I know he’s snarling with righteous vengeance. Centuries of repressed fury, now bursting forth. I almost feel it scorching the very air, like the endless plasma blasts exploding all around me.

“Hold the shuttles, no matter the cost. We escort our people’s rebirth.” The projected command carries my pride—the weight of this moment.

“Rebirth?” Jazreal echoes in question.

But I do not reply.

The battle rages, hot and heavy. My Rush blazes like an inferno, pouring liquid fire into my veins.

Muscles tense with the murderous need to break rank, to charge into the droids with the force of a hyperspeeding Battlebarge.

It would be easy—pleasurable, but I cannot.

Ultimate victory balances on a claw’s edge.

The immense cloning chamber now hisses with scalding steam, the result of countless plasma blasts scorching the air and burning through the floor in large, bubbling pools.

Sweat beads on the necks of my warriors, yet they do not falter.

Each is a legend. The best of the best. They return fire with methodical precision, every retaliatory bolt another droid destroyed.

The rising temperature and acrid scent of scorched metal fills my lungs. I welcome the heat. It fuels me. For I am molten. The chosen son of Arawnoth. None, not even the Scythians, will stand in my way.

We pass many towering metal stalks of cloning vats. Each step is hard-won. Agonizingly slow to my Rush-enhanced senses. The droids continue to swarm around us, an encirclement of endless plasma fire and glaring red lenses.

We must be nearing the chamber’s exit. Need to be.

“I’m never leaving without my little chug bug again,” Princesa sighs. Her casual tone is utterly absurd, given our desperate struggle for survival. “These gross murder-bots keep coming, and his wee clackers aren’t even here to comfort me.”

Drexios snorts as he hurls another grenade over his shield. “I always knew Pinkie had voiding space madness.” He flashes me a smirk, his scarred face twisted in amusement. “A War Chieftain who bonded a vipertail. The barb so near, a tragic tale.”

Madness is catching.

His laughter erupts in sharp bursts, wild and manic, only to be drowned out by the deafening explosion of his grenade. A shockwave ripples through the battlefield. Twisted metal and sizzling plasma droplets rain down against our shields, hissing as they collide.

A massive metal tower buckles, half its base partially melted. It groans in protest, tipping to one side, falling like a colossal arm of vengeance. The battle droids bump into each other, scrambling to avoid the darkening shadow with skittering limbs a blur.

It’s too late.

The impact shakes the floor, the chamber trembling as if caught in the grip of an earthquake. A cloud of dust billows outward, flames roaring through the wreckage. Droids are crushed beneath the twisted metal stem, limbs twitching in their final, pitiful spasms before they go still.

“Woo!” Drexios cheers, pumping his fist into the air. “Did you voiders see that?” He sweeps his gaze over the warriors, grinning as laughter erupts around him. “Worked better than I expected.”

“Void off,” the black-haired warrior Varax snaps, shaking his head. “Lucky bastard.”