Page 63 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Ascension

S o annoying.

More murder-bots continue to flood in from the intersecting corridors, their skittering limbs scraping against metal. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve crushed their creepy forms against the walls, their bodies folding and warping under my divine will.

It’s so easy, I can’t help but laugh—an angelic sound against the chaos, an amusing contrast to the roaring detonations.

The high-pitched thrums of weapons fire and the bone-rattling impacts shaking the corridor.

The rap-tap-tap of thousands of insectile legs—like an army of metal-booted Todds tap-dancing their way into oblivion—mingles with the furious grunts and barks of the space-knights struggling to keep up.

Dracoth really knows how to show a girl a good time. No romantic alien restaurants, no sunbathing beneath swirling nebulas, no exotic shopping planets filled with high fashion.

Nope.

Not my Mortakin-Kai. He takes me to war zones. And not even the fun, squishy space hobo kind—no, he drags me to disgusting, metal-infested, murder-bot hellscapes.

A fresh wave of machines swarms ahead, blocking my path.

Look at them.

Stupid insectile ironing-board bodies, their uncanny multi-jointed limbs, the way their tube-shaped cannons glow and hiss with building heat. A full-body shudder wracks me, a sickening ripple crawling from my scalp to my toes.

So. Disgusting.

Shimmering molten balls erupt from their weapons, but I’ve already summoned my barriers into existence. The blazing projectiles splatter harmlessly against the invisible surface, warping the air with heat before slithering down like spent candle wax, pooling and bubbling on the floor.

With a flippant flick of my wrist, fresh barriers materialize—silver-edged, glowing, perfect.

The blood-red lighting catches their shimmering outlines, the sickly green glyphs scrawled across the walls twisting beneath their divine glow.

A single pulse of my power, sends them crushing into the murder-bots, sweeping them from my path like overgrown dust balls.

I’m so over this, I don’t even spare them a glance as I storm past.

But the groan of twisting metal, the shriek of gears grinding into failure, the sharp pop of rupturing frames—all of it brings a smile to my lips.

My powers have grown. There is no doubt. The downpour of molten energy blasts slamming against my barriers barely register. A dull awareness tickling the back of my mind—direct messages from losers left on read.

I’m ascending to new heights.

Exciting!

While Dracoth... Poor, tragic, Dracoth. He’s sinking. Fast.

What am I supposed to do with him? It’s sad really. I’ve invested so much time, so much effort. I mean, obviously he’s helped me get this far, but...

Do you stick with your driving instructor just because they taught you how to drive?

No, that would be ridiculous.

Maybe I was too harsh on him... Sandra will yell at me if she finds out. I can already picture her freckled little face, the narrowed eyes of judgment. She’ll be like: “ Lexie... how could you? Your magic boobies have gone too far! ”

Ugh . Please.

The truth is, I’ve already outgrown him. What use is he if I can reach the top myself?

I married the chosen of Arawnoth, a fire-breathing Red Dragon. Not a matchstick-sputtering salamander. His little sparklers are cute and all, but Todd already has the cuteness quota covered.

My fingers trace the pulsing embers flaring over my runic-scorched chest and neck, their warmth strengthening my resolve.

Even the Gods has forsaken him. How can Dracoth claim to be diminished when Arawnoth still blazes within me?

An inferno of passion and lust for life raging, igniting my blood with his love.

Even Aenarael blesses me—her power hums beneath my skin, my godlike barriers stronger than ever. Her voice, her acceptance lifts me higher, sending my heart soaring.

My divine mother and father—their love sets my soul ablaze. The parents I always deserved.

My suffering has finally been rewarded.

And don’t get me started on Dracoth... crying ? It was like finding out he’s a secret alcoholic with a smelly feet fetish. The memory alone is enough to douse the firestorm inside me with ice-cold disgust.

I glance over my shoulder at his mother.

She trudges forward, hunched, clinging to her gown for heat, despite the blistering sauna-like haze closing in.

The other women are no better. Most are oblivious.

Imprisoned in their memories of pain, their gazes lost, empty.

A few press their hands against the shimmering dome of my shields, their whispers frantic, half-muttered prayers to gods that answered too late.

It’s rude of me to drag them along like this. But what choice do I have? Typical Mr. Frowny Face—charging in without a plan, leaving me to clean up the mess. Making me the bad guy.

But I will not abandon them. They’ve suffered enough. And I will see to it that they get the care they need.

And if I happen to walk out of here—divine, untouchable—the long-lost Klendathian females in tow, their deliverer, their savior... well, that’s just an extra bonus.

The anticipation is delicious. A giddy flutter stirs in my stomach, little Lexie-moths taking flight. Dracoth, left behind, out of the picture. Forsaken by Arawnoth, drowning in his sad, bitter tears. While I alone ascend the bone-through-the-nose throne.

Her Royal Bone-ness.

The keeper of the sacred words. The caretaker of Ignixis’ holy ashes. Savior of the Revered Mothers. The blessed daughter, rippling with divine power. Who would dare doubt me? Who could challenge me?

No one here. Only Rocks and Krogoth remain. But they—like everyone else—will underestimate me. And by the time they realize their mistake, it will be too late.

Behind me, the corridor is a graveyard of ruined metal.

Smoldering murder-bot husks litter the path, their twisted remains fused to the walls like some hellish junkyard.

Space-knights trail in my glorious wake, their shoulders sagging, their energy shields sputtering, armor scorched and singed.

Their weapons fire desperately, but the cracks in their endurance are showing.

I lift a hand, prepared to grace them with a protective barrier, when I catch sight of the annoying prick Drexios hurling a grenade into the thinning mass behind us.

Temptation strikes like Fifth Avenue’s new season’s catalogues.

I’m so very tempted to seal him off. Let him remain with Dracoth, drowning in an endless tide of murder-bots. A fitting lesson. Arawnoth teaches it—adapt or die, overcome or be reforged in his divine image.

The grenade detonates, a thunderous shockwave rattling the corridor. The walls tremble as shards of metal and debris pelt my protective bubble like demented hailstones. Nerdy Razgor stumbles, clutching his arm—armor half-melted, the limb a floppy noodle.

Drexios and another space-knight half-carry, half-drag him forward, their movements urgent, labored.

Fine. Whatever.

With a dismissive flick of my wrist, I summon another barrier, sealing off the passage behind us. Adjoining corridors close in shimmering silver, cutting off the ceaseless march of the murder-bots.

The dumb machines slam into my divine wall of graciousness, firing uselessly, twitching and spasming like wind-up toys banging against a locked door.

I’m too kind, really.

The path ahead is clearer now. Most of the droids have been reduced to scrap, their numbers thinned, drawn away—swarming Dracoth deeper within this accursed haunted labyrinth of horrors.

The few that dare to emerge, I dispatch without effort, my shields sweeping them aside like shopping receipts into a bin.

Yet, with each step, a cold stillness creeps in.

A silence so heavy, so absolute, it presses down like a frozen tide, winding its way beneath my skin. No matter how tightly I clutch my robes, the chill gnaws deeper, sinking its fangs into my bones.

It’s like someone forgot to pay the energy bill for my heart.

My blood—once blazing, once divine—twists into something treacherous. Something bitter, like a half-melted lemon Slurpee.

“COME! COME AND BE SLAUGHTERED!”

I freeze. Dracoth.

My Dracoth.

His guttural, defiant roar cuts through the abyss, distant but unmistakable. My head snaps over my shoulder, heart hammering against my ribs, eyes straining to pierce the darkness, desperate to see him, needing to see him.

Oh, Dracoth!

His rage booms through our bond, roaring like a furnace, hotter, wilder, more primal than ever before. It calls to me, drags at me, tethers me in place. It’s intoxicating, a heat that coils deep in my core, an undeniable pull I can’t—won’t—ignore.

But beneath that familiar fire, something else churns.

A sinking weight. Regret. Shame. Doubt.

All our gazes are drawn behind us, pulled toward the blackness. We hear it—the distant clang of metal, the shriek of weapons, his bestial war cries shaking the walls.

Fuck .

My breathing stutters, erratic, uneven.

What if he actually dies? I need to go back. I shouldn’t have left him. What the hell was I thinking?

My fingers spin absently over the glowing Elerium and diamond rings on my hand. No... The Elerium Goddess ring means more. A symbol from the Gods, its swirling orange light churns, flickering against my skin, urging me to remain strong.

It’s too late now, anyway.

What’s done is done. His fate is in his own shovel-like hands now. I made the right choice.

Didn’t I?

Perhaps, through struggle and sacrifice, Arawnoth will bless him again.

Yes! That must be it. This is a divine test from Father. And I? I am simply the beautiful, impartial classroom assistant.

I must be firm, resolute... and utterly elegant.

Hang in there, you big meathead. Don’t trip over your Bobo the Clown feet.

With a slow, measured sigh, I turn away from the abyss and resume my advance toward the exit. Yet the tension refuses to fade.