Page 66 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

But more are coming. Breaking away from the dogfight above. They’re streaming from the distance like a red-brick road of murder. What’s now a slow trickle will soon turn into a downpour of murder-orbs. A vast galaxy of red lenses gleam like malignant stars coming to sweep us away.

I freeze.

My blood turns to ice. My hand reaches instinctively—For Todd. But he isn’t there.

Fuck.

“To the shuttles, quickly!” Jazreal’s voice cuts through the chaos, rising above the screaming zaps and thunderous detonations.

Murder-orb wreckage crashes into the hangar, bursting into flames, shaking the floor beneath us.

My thoughts scramble like eggs with extra butter.

There’s too many. Above, nearby, streaming in from all directions. I can’t keep track of them all. Even if we make it back to the ship, there’s no escape. My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to burst from my chest—traitor heart!

How do I get out of this? How do I win?

“Get down!”

A hand grabs me, yanking me down as a streak of blue energy screams overhead, the air rippling with searing heat.

“Return fire, for void’s sake!” Jazreal’s voice roars over the fray, his weapon flashing.

Then, his voice cuts through the chaos, sharp, insistent. “Divine Daughter?” At least, I think it’s him. Everything’s kind of fuzzy and surreal right now.

“Divine Daughter!” The rude bastard yells directly into my face, his breath hot and urgent.

“What!?” I whip around, glaring, meeting his demanding stare.

“More incoming!” Sarkoth—I think—shouts. As if to confirm it, shadows sweep over us. Space-knights track their movements, weapons raised, ready to fight. A deafening cacophony of energy blasts and high-pitched hisses fills the air. Turning my mind into Jello.

It won’t stop.

It won’t stop.

“Where are the War Chieftain and the Second?” Jazreal presses, voice sharp, urgent—rude.

“Look out!”

A space-knight’s roar cuts through the chaos as shields snap into place, a synchronized wall of shimmering energy blocking the incoming barrage.

A dozen searing blasts crash against the barrier, the force sending two warriors hurtling backward, their armor scraping against the ground. Before they can even rise, others step forward, filling the gap without hesitation.

The line does not break.

But I barely see them.

The world tilts, the battlefield a blur of motion and color, a deafening storm of sound and fury. The air is thick with the scent of ozone, molten metal, and burnt flesh, stinging my eyes as I struggle to make sense of the moment.

“Gone...” I mumble, the word slips from my lips unbidden, weak, distant.

Dracoth? Does he mean Dracoth? My poor babes. He’s gone. And it’s my fault. A hollow, sinking dread churns in my gut, dragging my stomach to my boots. My skin crawls with an unnatural cold, creeping up my spine like frozen vines.

“His little puppy’s gone too.” I whisper, the words like lead on my tongue.

“On your feet Berserkers!” The barked command barely registers.

Blue energy flares through the darkness, the battlefield pulsing like a monochrome nightmare, a stuttering light show I can’t escape. Everything is so loud, so fast. I can barely see over the towering wall of space-knights, their massive forms blotting out the battle.

“Gone?” Jazreal echoes, his gaze shifting to the haunted mansion’s entrance, uncertainty written across half his face. He lingers, staring at the door as if willing Dracoth to stumble through it. But he doesn’t.

“How can that be—” And Jazreal’s head lowers, his jaw clenching in thought. “What are your orders, Divine Daughter?”

Orders? A Margarita and Wagyu Sliders with caramelized onions and truffle aioli.

That’s what I want. Instead, I get a warzone.

My gaze drifts upward, toward the vast black void, searching for answers, finding more confusion. The Ravager’s Ruin —my lovely, lovely ship—is under siege. Its shields flicker, rippling under the onslaught, swarmed by murder-orbs and the monstrous silhouette of the Voidbane.

How fucking dare they!

Space flares with blinding blue light, the Ravager’s Ruin unleashing a barrage of cannon fire, a sunburst of energy streaking across the void. The entire battle feels surreal, distant—like watching a movie at the cinema with the sound muted, the violence an abstract painting of light and death.

“Home,” I murmur absently, only half-aware I’m speaking.

Jazreal’s head snaps toward me. “Klendathor?” Jazreal grimaces, like I’ve just declared tea superior to mocha. His eyes follow mine, taking in the battle unfolding above. The shifting shadows deepen on his face. “We’ll never outrun them long enough.”

I frown. “Earth?” It’s boring, but at least it’s safe.

Yes. A brilliant idea!

Above, even our rust-bucket, old-ass ship joins the fray.

Its cannons glow, spitting searing energy into the void, the blue streaks cutting through the abyss.

The Voidbane—that floating slab of doom and despair—tilts under the onslaught.

Its shields flare to life, pulsing blue as they absorb the barrage, the sheer force making it list to one side.

Murder-orbs swarm like frenzied bees wanting their honey back, raining blasts upon the Ravager’s Ruin and our rusted fleet.

Our creaky, space-hobo ships return fire, streaking space with ballistics and missiles.

Most miss or explode against murder-bot sparkling shields, the force sending them spinning but unharmed.

“Earth is even further away! We’ll never make it!” Jazreal snarls, crushing my hopes and dreams like a hot air balloon meeting a flamethrower.

“Get those shuttle doors open! Now!” Sarkoth’s voice cuts through the storm, commanding, desperate.

A fresh volley of blasts slams into our ranks.

A space-knight’s shield shudders, absorbing too many hits at once.

Then, it fails. The plasma bolts rip through him.

His scream pierces the chaotic air, his armor melting, warping, turning to liquid fire against his burning flesh.

The stench of charred meat hits me, sharp and acidic.

“Fargor’s been gooped, get his warvisor!” someone shouts.

And then—Jazreal is on me. “Look at me!” His hands fist my collar, dragging me to him.

His face is far too close, his breath hot, his green eyes burning with something primal, demanding.

It’s not just him. All of them. They look at me like I’m the head jock, needing to make the final play, to put the ball in the bullseye ring or whatever it is jocks do.

Like I have the answers.

I don’t.

“You said the Gods sent you to guide us?” His grip tightens. “Voiding guide us, then!”

My hands tremble, breathing unsteady, erratic, eyes dart frantically, searching for something—anything.

This is all too much for me. Dracoth should be here.

This is his job. I’m the brains behind the Mr. Frowny Face.

The engine to his bulldozer. The suspenders to his three-piece suit. But he’s gone. And It’s just me now.

Alone. Abandoned. Like always.

Jazreal’s right. It falls to me. I inhale sharply, forcing air into my lungs, forcing my spine straight, forcing the trembling in my fingers to still.

I can do this. I have to do this. I lick my lips, take one final breath—

And say, with all the divine authority of a goddess in the making:

“I... I think we should get the fuck out of here.”