Page 70 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Onward

T he bridge doors of the Ravager’s Ruin slide open with a hiss, but to my Rush-heightened senses, even that fraction of a delay is agony.

Seeker drones swarm our ships, a relentless tide, their erratic, darting movements like znats feasting on a bloated corpse.

Through the massive viewport, I watch them weave and spiral, firing wave after wave of blistering plasma against our shields.

The barrier holds, shimmering blue, but it never fades—not under this ceaseless bombardment.

The chamber trembles with distant impacts, the shockwaves rattling through the deck.

War banners—ancient, glorious, and blackened by centuries of battle—flutter from towering walls.

Below, Corsark and my berserkers work furiously, hands flying over glowing terminals, faces focused as they struggle to hold our battered fleet together.

“Has the shorthair fleet docked?” I demand, striding toward my throne, the towering seat of obsidian rock and bone that looms at the center of the bridge.

Beyond it, the viewport frames the swirling chaos of plasma fire in the void, a surreal dance of destruction—light refracting through the abyss like sunbeams through deep water.

“Yes, just now,” Corsark replies without looking up, his focus locked onto his console. “What’s left of them, War Chieftain.”

My fists clench, gauntlets groaning under the pressure.

My boots strike the black marble floor, each step ringing out over the vast hall.

The shorthairs—my shorthairs. They followed me.

Almost revere me, and I led them into this slaughter.

Not the glory I promised, but pawns in a desperate bid for our survival.

“How many?”

I ascend my throne—the same seat my father ruled from for centuries. The seat of an undefeated War Chieftain. And yet, in my twentieth year, I have already tasted defeat’s bitter draft.

Krogoth. Kazumi. The Voidbringer. And now this desperate retreat.

My hair will never grow long. The shame of my failures will stain my name forever.

But I do not care. I will hold my nose and drink deeply of defeat if it means survival.

If it means I can strike back again. And again.

Until the Scythians are nothing but shattered wreckage, their twisted metal corpses a testament to my vengeance.

And what worth is an easy victory?

Nothing.

“Sixty ships lost. More damaged,” Corsark answers, his voice flat, controlled.

Sixty... too many.

While we only lost four Ravager Berserkers on the station. Each loss a brutal body blow—centuries of experience, warriors honed to the razor’s edge, now gone. We shall honor them in the Catacombs of Nardune by adding their warvisors to those of their ancestors.

If we survive.

Dozens more are injured, but they are already on their way to the healing pods.

If there was time, I would seek the healing mists myself, let the soothing gas purge the exhaustion gnawing at my muscles, the ache burrowing deep into my bones.

My flesh is burned and raw beneath my armor. But I push it aside.

Pain does not matter.

I activate the console embedded in my throne. A blue holographic projection pulses to life before me, the battlefield displayed in chilling detail.

Tiny blips race toward us from all sides, so numerous they blur into a single bright mass, a luminous wound in the void that threatens to consume us.

And through the viewport, darkness closes in—the absence of starlight—Voidbanes. A fleet of inert, angular behemoths, looming like mountains of stone torn from the abyss itself. They drift closer, silent, and unstoppable.

Without hesitation, I punch in the commands to follow Corsark’s nav points to Argon Six.

“Inform Keth. Have the Battlebarge follow,” I order, gesturing toward the viewport. “Keep killing these Seeker drones.”

The Ravager’s Ruin lurches, banking hard to port. Through the viewport, the swarms shift as we turn, the Voidbanes sliding out of sight. But I still feel them—an ominous shadow at my back, prickling the hairs on my neck.

“At once, War Chieftain,” Corsark replies.

A moment later, deafening thrums shudder through the chamber as the ship’s plasma cannons unleash their wrath.

Twin-linked turrets ignite, their beams slicing through the void like the birth of azure stars.

A sneer bares my fangs as the volley strikes home, vaporizing drones in a blinding cascade. Their shields rupture instantly, their metal bodies disintegrating as if they were but fragments from a fading nightmare.

The horde retaliates.

Tens of thousands of red-glinting lenses flicker like malevolent insects. Molten plasma rains down, hammering against our shields with brutal, ceaseless force. Each impact is a blinding surge of white-hot energy, the ship groaning under the relentless assault.

Some drones crash like arcweave meteorites against the barrier itself. Razor-sharp limbs extend from their spherical bodies, slashing wildly, spinning erratically as they hack and tear with mechanical precision.

“Shields at fifty percent, War Chieftain,” Corsark reports, his voice calm despite the chaos. His fingers fly over the holographic controls, adjusting our defenses with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

A smirk tugs at my lips. Fifty percent is more than enough. The Voidbanes may be monstrous in size and strength, but they cannot match our speed. With the shorthair fleet docked, I’ve eliminated the liability of their outdated engines, securing our retreat. And yet...

My eyes drift to the vast unknown ahead.

A half-day’s travel through Scythian territory stands between us and Argon Six. What awaits us there? Salvation? Damnation? An alliance, or another battle for survival? The uncertainty gnaws at me, but there is no turning back.

I loathe guessing, but there is no strategy for the unknown—only faith. This is the moment to gamble, to trust the Gods, the ancestors. Let them guide our course. Let them move through me, the chosen of Arawnoth.

The ship finishes its banking maneuver, the immense viewport stabilizing just as the engines ignite.

The deck trembles, and then, the stars erupt into motion.

A burst of kaleidoscopic light streaks across the viewport, the shields shimmering under the dazzling reflections.

We cut through the void at hyperspeed, plunging deeper into the unknown.

I exhale slowly, some tension easing from my chest. The navigational console displays our Battlebarge alongside us, the distance between our fleet and the Voidbanes growing with every second. Yet the Seeker drones remain, clinging to our wake like parasites, millions more matching our speed behind.

Amusing.

Now, I must wager on Krogoth’s alliance with the Nebians. A thought that once repulsed me is now our only lifeline. I was a fool not to see it sooner.

Blinded by the fires of my father’s glory. Crushed under the weight of his legacy.

The old and wise knew the truth long before me. The Scythians were never our allies. They were not merely an ambitious empire seeking conquest, but the true scourge of all life, the scourge of everything. Only fear—fear of my father and his fury—held the clans together.

Except the Draxxus.

Krogoth’s clan.

Ironic.

The weakest clan proved to be the bravest. Their resolve, his foresight has led to this moment—this chance.

My fists clench, the bone-laden armrests of my throne groaning under the pressure. The conflicting emotions twist my insides into knots.

Krogoth. The one who shamed me. The one who killed my father. Honor demands his death.

And yet...

I glance at my open fingers, the same fingers I once swore would ring the life from his throat. But now? There is no rage, no burning fury.

Only begrudging respect.

“Corsark,” I say, noticing the other ship’s shields pulsing with diminishing strength under the swarming drones’ relentless assault. “Focus fire to cover the Battlebarge.”

“At once, War Chieftain.” Corsark’s fingers blur over the console, redirecting the weapons.

The Ravager’s Ruin trembles under the rhythmic thud of battle, a steady war drum beating in the heart of the ship. Our cannons pivot, locking onto the Seeker drones.

Then, with a deafening blast, a salvo of twin-linked plasma beams lances through the void.

The drones scatter, darting with frantic, erratic motions—too slow.

Many are caught in the barrage, their shields winking out in an instant.

Their frames disintegrate, vanishing into searing blue light.

Others are partially hit, cleaved open, the molten edges of their wounds glowing, resembling a dying schematic.

“Are we winning?” Drexios asks. His voice jolts me from my thoughts, his presence unexpected. I don’t need to turn to know he’s there—I can hear the smirk in his tone.

“Must be,” he adds, stepping onto the plinth of my throne, staring into the void with unbothered amusement. “We still have our balls attached.”

He barks a laugh, the sound sharp against the hum of the ship.

“Ain’t that right, boys?” he calls out, grinning over his shoulder at the warriors stationed along the walls, red eye gleaming with mischief.

“The War Chief has a knack for handling our delicate matters.” With a crude flourish, he thrusts his hips and cups his crotch, earning a round of laughter from the distracted warriors.

Fool.

And yet, despite myself, a ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of my lips.

I shift my focus back to the battle beyond the viewport, the shimmering azure glow of our shields mixing with the multicolored streaks of plasma fire and streaking stars, casting dazzling hues across the bridge.

“The others?” I ask, my voice level, masking the exhaustion pressing at the edges of my mind.