Page 68 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Drexios notices my hesitation. He moves to support me, his arms outstretched, unspoken, without mockery.

“No,” I rasp, waving him away, despite my vision swimming and my steps faltering.

This day—long and brutal—feels like an endless trial, a crucible that could crush even the toughest arcweave. But not me. I cannot be stopped. Not now. Not ever.

I refocus, breathing deeply, the blistering haze filling my scalded lungs as we make our way toward the exit.

“Princesa?” I croak, her rising fear and panic pulsing through our bond like a distant scream. “Why, leave her?” Each word is an effort, a searing agony that scrapes against my throat.

“That’s a good voiding question!” Drexios erupts into laughter, the sound jarring against the sizzling destruction surrounding us.

Every step reveals more ruined droids, their frames crushed and pressed into the walls like twisted metal sculptures. It could only be the work of my Princesa. Her powers grow, and with them, her recklessness and conceit.

It will spell our doom if she does not see reason.

But she will only heed the words of the powerful.

And I am diminished. My Klendathian blood will heal quickly, but Arawnoth’s blessing?

The fires of his wrath may never return.

Princesa may now be the strongest being alive—a power gifted too easily, unearned, unopposed.

A chaotic wildfire. Beautiful. Unpredictable.

Dangerous .

I will find a way—I will bring you back from the brink. My Princesa.

“That venomous vipertail can look after herself,” Drexios sneers, kicking aside a twitching droid leg to clear our path.

“Oh, I know the wild ones when I see them, trust me.” He barks a laugh, then abruptly cuts it off, his face etched with sudden seriousness.

“As to the why. Why, oh, why ask the why, is it to pry? To make me cry? The Second comes after the First. One. Two. Three.” His shrill cackle fills the smoky halls.

“Lunatic,” I rasp, the scarcely audible grumble halting his laughter like a claw through vocal cords.

“A lunatic once said to the wise Second, ‘ You’re in my way.’ ” He grimaces, scratching his head with the end of his blade.

“It was something like that. Ah. Then this crazy bastard charged into an army of droids. Alone, his balls in one hand, claws in the other, a prayer on his lips. Was it to protect? To kill? A death wish? Who can say?”

He smirks up at me, his red eye glinting.

“And here’s the best part—this wasn’t no ordinary berserker, but the true-born son of Gorexius, the Chieftain of the Magaxus.

Not some vat-spawned clone.” He spits on the floor, face twisted with disgust. “The biggest. The strongest. A quiet, clever bastard. A leader like no other.” He turns to me, his expression stern, solid.

“That’s who you are, War Chieftain Dracoth.

That’s why I came back.” He claps his hand against my back, the armor clanging like a war drum.

Pride bursts within me, almost washing away my aches and weariness. For Drexios to speak these words, for him to come back for me... to see in me the qualities I strive to exemplify. The person I prayed I was. Prayers Arawnoth answered.

But something loathsome also comes—weakness. It threatens to consume me. Flushed skin, trembling lips, eyes moistening.

I quickly avert my gaze. “You honor me,” I say, the words grating like claws over grindstone.

“Oh, stop, I’m getting all tingly.” He barks a laugh, feigning a dramatic shudder.

“You’re still a sniveling shorthair, though.

Inexperienced, suckling at the teat of tall tales.

Drinking all that delicious, creamy bravery and heroism up.

” He gropes the air with his hands, making absurd sucking sounds.

“Keep that up, and the next thing you’ll be sucking is a tombstone.

The warband fights for their Chieftain. You’ve got it upside down—a head where your arse should be.

” He smacks his backside for emphasis. “But don’t worry.

Uncle Drexios is here to keep you on the straight and narrow.

” His wild, cackling laughter does little to inspire confidence.

Still, he served my father for centuries, and now, only now, do I believe his loyalty is completely sincere.

“Good,” I rasp, nodding solemnly.

Drexios whistles, twirling his blades in his fingers as he skips through the wreckage of droids.

Their crushed frames grow fewer with each step we take, until my gaze snaps to something different among the debris—a Seeker drone.

Barely recognizable, flattened as if it had gone through a shipbreaker.

Unease ripples through me. Corsark’s earlier warning is now a disturbing reality. The Voidbringer has escaped. The Scythians are awakening. They’re coming to stop us. To enact revenge.

“Hurry,” I croak, my limbs pumping with all my remaining strength.

Our boots pound against the metal floors, our labored breaths drawing in more acrid ozone, molten metal, and charred flesh. The stench of battle grows stronger with each hammering heartbeat.

The towering entrance soon comes into view, its surfaces engraved with pulsing green tendrils, threading through glyphs that sprawl across every inch of this corridor like a living curse.

Already, the sound of battle pricks my ears—the zap of searing plasma, the swoosh of Seeker drones, desperate, frantic orders, barked over the din.

A wild, disordered cacophony. Pathetic.

The massive hangar doors screech open, a sound like the death wail of some ancient beast. The other end is partially melted, still hissing with molten rivulets of plasma, its surface warped from the assault.

Beyond, the battlefield stretches before me—a warzone where fire and arcweave clash on multiple fronts.

Above, the sky is a storm of chaos. Seeker drones dart through the air in loose, merciless formations, streaking blue plasma down onto my berserkers, who huddle beneath their shields like an unbreakable phalanx.

In the void beyond, my Battlebarge and the Ravager’s Ruin trade brutal salvos with a Voidbane, its shields flickering as it struggles under the relentless assault.

Smaller vessels—my shorthair ships and enemy drones—weave through the carnage like znats, dodging fire, swarming in vast numbers.

Chaos. How I loathe it.

I will restore order. I will lead us to victory.

“We’re back, you voiding cunts!” Drexios bellows, his voice crackling with crystalline joy as his plasma shield hums to life. His arc blaster is already hunting the blurs of Seeker drones above.

I barely hear him. My mind is already moving, calculating stratagems.

The Voidbane is failing. Its shields are weak, fluctuating, barely holding together.

Five minutes, maybe less, before they collapse.

But Seeker drones keep pouring in from the void, a night sky of crimson stars, their numbers endless.

Despite the devastation we inflicted on their worlds, the Scythians have near-infinite resources.

We cannot linger. Every second is critical.

My gaze shifts to our shuttles. Some are reduced to molten husks, hulls liquefied, crackling with ghostly blue fire.

Unacceptable.

“Corsark,” I command through my warvisor, my voice sharp. “Order Balsar and the shorthairs to cover our withdrawal. Prepare the Ravager’s Ruin to dock the shorthair fleet and set an immediate course to Argon Six.”

“At once, War Chieftain,” Corsark replies without hesitation. Competent. Reliable.

The situation is dire. After spitting in the Voidbringer’s eye, I knew death was our likely fate. The odds are insurmountable. Surrounded by overwhelming forces, waging war in the heart of their empire. But I accepted that. A warrior’s death is preferable to the chains of slavery.

Yet the Gods have intervened. Now we have a sliver of hope. A chance, a future reborn.

“Whatever you’re planning you better—” Drexios begins, before hundreds of Seeker drones swoop overhead, their orb-like bodies unleashing a downpour of plasma fire.

Without thinking, I leap into a rolling tumble, metal grinding across metal. The sound of the barrage is deafening, the battery of sizzling bolts searing the air as they slam into the floor with a wet crackle-hiss.

“Voiding netherworld!” Drexios snarls, his arc blaster already spitting blue fire in retaliation. A retreating drone’s shields flare brilliant blue as our combined barrage rips through it, pulping its core into a splatter of molten metal and synthetic gore.

Behind me, warriors roar in unison.

“War Chieftain!”

Gauntlets slam against chest plates, the sound reverberating through the battlefield. My warband stands ready, shields raised, weapons charged, their masked flickering between me and the throng above.

A surge of pride swells in my chest. I crush it. Now is not the time for ego. Now is the time for action. Precise. Efficient. Brutal.

The berserkers advance in formation, a living wall of shields protecting the Revered Mothers. But they are too slow. They move like an armored mollusk, when an arrohawk’s speed is needed.

The fools protect that which is already protected. What needs guarding is our escape.

“Break rank!” I roar over the clamor of battle. “Operate the cannons! Prepare the shuttles for launch!”

“You heard the War Chief!” Drexios shrieks, spinning on his heel and pointing a clawed finger toward the warriors. “Move your lazy hides, you voiding snarlbrocs, or I’ll personally gut every last one of you!” His laughter rings out, wild and manic, as he dashes toward the ships.

The Seeker drones wheel overhead, weapons primed, their movement a blur of red and silver. They dive again, preparing for another strafing run.

Warriors brace behind their shields as the heat of a thousand suns rains down.

But they target our females.

Cruel. Brutal—a heartless machine’s calculation. Designed to break our spirits.

But they underestimate us. Underestimate her.