Page 64 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Each distant bang, each deafening war cry, is an ice pick stabbing through my ribs, haunting my steps like a perfume store saleswoman who won’t take no for an answer.

A thunderous crash echoes through the ruined corridors. I don’t look back. My muscles coil, instinct demanding I turn, that I see—no. I keep walking.

It’s enough to wish Drexios would break the silence. I would even welcome his disgusting and highly inappropriate comments—his usual boring self.

His gaze shifts restlessly, flickering between the women and the darkness behind us. His fingers flex and curl, opening, closing, stuck on repeat.

“I AM THE FIRE. I AM THE END.”

Dracoth’s roar thunders through the ruins, a sound so raw, so feral, it rattles my bones. It’s a war cry, a declaration, a curse. The howl of a dying god or a god refusing to die.

My hand reaches instinctively for a Todd that isn’t even here. My feet hesitate. Every fiber of my being demanding I turn back.

Keep walking, Lexie. Keep walking.

I’ve made my choice. My chin rises, my heart hardens like week-old, crusty brioche. When I arrive, when they see me, I must be strong, confident—divine.

But then Drexios speaks.

“Void this!” he hisses, and my neck tingles, the weight of his glare burrowing into my back. “Aren’t you two bonded? And you’re just going to abandon him?”

Abandon.

The word hits like ice water, a slow, creeping freeze that slides beneath my skin.

Yes. I suppose I am.

I was abandoned my whole life. No matter how kind I was, how much I begged—forsaken. Until I found Arawnoth and Aenarael’s love. Their power. Their favor. Maybe it’s high time someone else experienced a fraction of that pain.

Let’s see if Dracoth has the strength I did. I suppress the uneasy knot curling in my stomach, forcing a smirk onto my lips.

“Unlike you, Drex-iot, my Dracoth can handle himself.” The words drip with saccharine confidence. “But if you miss him so much, you should be a good little doggie and go fetch.”

A brilliant idea. I amaze myself sometimes.

“You’re a real sweetheart.” Drexios snaps, rage whistling through clenched fangs. “I’m out of here.”

Before he can take a step, a black-haired space-knight grabs his pauldron in a firm, warning grip. “You heard the War Chief’s orders. You tarnish his sacrifice by leaving.”

“Get the void off me, Varak.” Drexios shrugs sharply, freeing himself. “Or I’ll tarnish your mother’s asshole.”

“You are his Second. It falls to you to lead in his stead!” A brown-haired warrior insists, his tone more commanding than Drexios could ever manage.

Ugh. Shut up, Mr. Brown Hair. You’re ruining this.

“What are you Tharok, a voiding borack calf? Kill Scythians. Even a snarlbroc jelly brain like you can understand that.” Drexios snorts, banishing his twin energy blades, smashing them together in a searing crackle of heat and light. “Right, I’m off to get our big shorthair bastard back.”

And with that, he’s gone.

He disappears into the darkened wreckage, his footfalls fading amongst the shattered, smoldering droids.

“May you die a glorious death.” The six space-knights echo in unison, their voices solemn.

Drexios’ voice rings back, distant but unwavering. “BERSERKERS NEVER DIE!” His manic laughter follows him into the abyss.

The warriors respond in kind. “BERSERKERS NEVER DIE!”

I watch him go, arms folded, face blank. “Oh no, please don’t go...” I deadpan, sarcasm thick and syrupy.

This couldn’t have worked out better. Maybe he’ll actually help Dracoth. And if not...? Well, that’s one less rival in my way. A rival as annoying as a forgotten label scraping against my neck. Though, knowing that clown, he’ll probably blow himself up by mistake or something equally stupid.

Divine mother was right.

These guys pretend to be strong. But when it truly matters? They wrinkle like cheap suits.

Oh sure, they’re physically powerful. All bone-through-the-nose, bashing each other over the head with their big sticks or whatever. The envy of cavemen everywhere.

But mentally?

They’re weak. Only I have the resolve to follow Arawnoth’s sacred words to the letter. That’s what Ignixis saw in me. Why the Gods favor me.

Why I’ll reach the top.

The further we walk, the quieter it becomes.

A silence so deep, so unnatural, it presses against my ears.

No gunfire, no shouting, no explosions. Only shallow breaths, the clink of armor and shuffling footsteps interrupt the thrum of my heart.

What does it mean? Is the fighting over?

Who won? Did my Dracoth survive? ...Will he ever come back?

Despite the silence gnawing at my thoughts, the signs of battle grow worse. The partially melted floor glows dimly, pulsing with residual heat. The corpses of murder-bots pile higher, their bodies sliced, torn, perforated, some still leaking smoky-blue plasma from gaping holes.

There are more than before. Far more.

Like some giant Dracoth just dumped his toy box all over the place. We didn’t destroy this many on our way in. A twist of unease coils in my stomach.

There’s so many I’m forced to clear the way with my divine barriers. Like a sexy Moses parting a metal sea, the shattered remains are flung against the walls, piling into a perfect, skateboarder’s wet dream of a U-shaped ramp.

Then, something different. Something familiar catches my eye.

Like a murder-bot and a tennis ball had a forbidden love child—a murder-orb.

Creepy. Gross.

Its dull red lens flickers, a dying ember at the heart of its warped, spherical frame. A gaping, smoldering wound has caved in one side, rivulets of molten metal still sizzling, hardening into jagged scars.

“What the hell is this doing here?” I ask no one in particular, finger pointing accusingly as if denying the murder-orb’s right to exist.

“Seeker drone. It must have come from outside, Blessed Daughter,” the masked visage of the black-haired warrior follows my gaze, a hint of surprise in his gruff voice. Varax, If I recall correctly. Though I can hardly be expected to remember every bone-through-the-nose’s name.

“A recent kill, by the looks of it. We best be on our guard.” He glances at his fellow space-knights, and they nod back, as if I’m not the one bloody protecting everyone here.

Wonderful!

Even creepier murder-bots.

I recognize these things. When we first entered Scythian territory, there were billions of them, swarming the void, forming that terrifying space face. They whirled around like demented fairy lights with their red blinky blinks.

A shiver rakes down my spine. The cold slithers beneath my skin, worming its way into my bones.

Enough of that. With a flick of my wrist, I summon my barriers, slamming them inward with crushing force.

The murder-orb crumples like tin foil, its shell compacting under the unrelenting pressure.

A sharp, metallic screech—then silence. It drops to the floor, spinning wildly like a giant quarter before clanking to a dead stop.

A modicum of relief.

Then, my vision swims. My eyelids suddenly weigh as much as a hundred grumpy Dracoths. My legs veer slightly off course, like my feet have decided that walking straight is outdated and crashing into walls is the new craze.

Ugh.

Is it the nose-stinging chemical stench of melted metal and singed circuitry? The fumes are probably taking years off my life, not to mention what they’re doing to my complexion.

This day has been a never-ending nightmare—a stomach-churning rollercoaster through a haunted house of horrors. The tragic death of Elder Ignixis, the mad dash through space, now knee-deep, trudging through murder-bot entrails.

I need a nap. A cocktail. And a bath. A scalding-hot, bubbling soak... Ah.

Come on, Lexie . One foot in front of the other. Chin raised. We’ve so got this.

Disturbing noises shatter my weary thoughts like an alarm bell from murder-bot hell. The distant roar of billowing orders, hiss-crack of energy weapons, metal crashing against metal.

No.

No, no, no.

The all-too-familiar sounds are worse than before. This isn’t just a skirmish—this is war. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

A space-knight mosh pit.

The soldiers behind me inspect their wrist weapons, shields and armor. They exchange silent, solemn nods—an unspoken command, a wordless farewell. Then, as one, they move to tower at my side.

The massive entrance door looms ahead.

Unlike before—when we arrived what feels like days ago—the glyphs are fully visible beneath the harsh crimson glow. They pulse, sickly green, a tangled web etching across the floor, the ceiling, the walls.

So many red flags are fluttering. Only a complete maniac would go through. But here we are. Guilty as charged. Now, we face the consequences.

The cacophony beyond is deafening. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. I take a deep breath. Shoulders back. Time to shine.

The door swooshes open. I stride through. An involuntary gasp.

Chaos. Beautiful chaos!

The space hangar is a battlefield, a twisting storm of fire and ruin. Ships lie in wreckage, scorched metal ripped apart by unrelenting combat. Murder-bots burn in shattered heaps. Smoke clogs the air, thick and choking, the acrid stench of burning plasma searing my nostrils.

Above, the stomach-churning void is alive, a spectacle of flashing light and fire. Murder-orbs whirl through the darkness, their numbers a swarm, a storm, a red-lit plague.

And there—almost invisible, hulking, monstrous—a black warship looms in orbit, raining fire upon the Ravager’s Ruin . The space-hobo ships—patched together wrecks of desperation—dart through the shimmering blue volleys, weaving, dodging, surviving.

How exciting!

I step further into the hangar, willing myself not to think about the nauseating vertigo creeping in, caused by the fact I might be sucked into the vastness of open space.

Confident. Calm. Regal. That is what I project. That is what I am.