Page 71 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Drexios barks a laugh. “Pinkie and Fire-on-Head? They’re hoarding the females to themselves, organizing their accommodations.

” His grin widens, fangs flashing like a predator scenting blood.

“Your little vipertail is going to have her hands full—real full. Half the voiding warband is over there sniffing for blessings. Or so they say. More like a pack of horny Prospects on their first visit to a pleasure house, if you ask me.”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure no one else is listening. Then, lowering his voice, he leans in conspiratorially.

“Some of the berserkers are saying this is a prophecy. That the end times are here.” He snorts, rolling his shoulders. “The voiding fools have started calling Pinkie a goddess. One who’ll lead us to salvation or damnation, depending on which imbecile you ask.”

Then, with a sudden flourish, he whirls around, spinning in lazy circles as his voice rises theatrically.

“Got to hand it to her. She’s shoved so much ash up their asses, even old Ignixis is sneezing dust in the void.

” He lets out a hoot before his expression darkens.

The humor in his scarred eye twists into something sharper, something bitter.

“It’s a voiding liability,” he sneers.

A pang of unease twists in my gut. His words mirror my own unspoken thoughts. A liability. A wildfire with no control.

“I’ll handle Princesa,” I growl, forcing the doubt from my mind, crushing it beneath sheer will.

Drexios lets out a sharp, mocking laugh.

“Will you?” He tilts his head, the glint in his eye shifting from amusement to something more pointed.

“Take it from Uncle Drexios. A warrior’s greatest test isn’t a blade, isn’t plasma, isn’t even a voiding ten-foot Klendathian giant.

It’s—” He flutters his fingers like he’s casting a spell. “Females!”

He announces dramatically. “Oh yes. Squishy, wet, juicy females. They turn the hardest warrior into a confused pile of Snarlbroc jelly. Heads all up their own asses, full of concern, doubt, and whatever else voiding nonsense. I’ve seen it a hundred times.

Your father and I both.” He smirks, shaking his head, the long green strands of his hair swaying with the motion.

“That’s why we never voided with them—well, except for the occasional bump in the night, hah.

They distract from what’s important—strength, victory. ”

For a moment, his expression sobers, something flickering behind his eyes. Then he lets out a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“At least, that’s what I thought. Seems old Gorexius was out here polishing his cock raw the whole time.”

His smirk twists into something darker, something edged with mockery and disgust. “Ah, you think you know someone... until you uncover their sex slave dungeon.”

The words land like a dull blow to the chest, and I hate that they do. Another stain. Another brand of shame seared into my father’s honor.

Was he always corrupt, or did the Voidbringer twist him?

I will never know.

I shouldn’t care, but the question gnaws at the back of my mind like a tunneling wyrm. My fangs dig into my lip, the sharp pain grounding me before I let the anger fester further. With a slow inhale, I release the tension, shifting my focus back to the battle outside.

The Seeker drone swarm continues its relentless assault, hammering our shields with shimmering bursts of plasma, though their numbers are dwindling under the rhythmic, thunderous fire of our glorious cannons.

The navigational console confirms the Voidbanes are falling further behind, their lumbering forms unable to match our speed.

The bright white cluster of blinking dots—the Seeker drones trailing in our wake—remains vast, but it does not grow closer. They are losing ground.

Good.

“Shields are back up to sixty percent, War Chieftain,” Corsark announces, his voice steady, though there’s a hint of relief beneath the calm. He reveals what I already know. The barriers flare to life brighter than before, a brilliant burst of blue radiating outward like an exploding star.

Drexios whoops, throwing his hands into the air. “Up and away, nothing left to pay!” he cheers, reveling in the small victory.

I ignore him, my focus sharpening. “The clones?” I ask, unwilling to celebrate, keeping my attention locked on the battle outside and the flickering display of our retreat.

Drexios lets out a sharp bark of laughter, his expression twisting with theatrical dread.

“The clones? Oh, you mean those spooky voiders?” He shudders exaggeratedly.

“They just stand there. Thousands of them. Blank faces, staring into nothing. I asked Razgor to cut one open—you know, just to be sure they aren’t reskinned droids.

” He grins, his claws flexing. “But the sniveling shit refused. Said it was obvious they weren’t droids.

” He leans in slightly, his grin widening.

“You know what I think? He’s afraid of getting his hands dirty. ”

I suppress a frown. Droids?

After we splattered their frenzied brother’s guts across the vats?

“They are to be left unharmed,” I state, my voice even but firm.

Drexios sighs, throwing up his hands. “Have no fear, fearless leader.” His smirk returns, playful and sharp. “Jazreal and Razgor are sorting through them now. Knowing those two, the clones will come out doing backflips with scientific terminals glued to their faces.”

To punctuate his point, he executes a near-flawless cartwheel across the deck, landing with a dramatic flourish.

My hands grip the armrests of my throne, the bone-laden edges digging into my palms. The exhaustion gnaws at me, a dull ache that spreads through my muscles and settles deep in my bones.

My vision blurs for a moment, the holographic display of the battlefield flickering as if mocking my weariness. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus.

Beyond the viewport, Seeker drones continue their relentless assault, but their numbers dwindle, disintegrating under the blistering fire of our cannons.

Retaliatory blasts spark violently against our shields, casting brilliant white-blue flashes across the bridge.

But even those once-blinding strikes are becoming less frequent.

I stifle a yawn, fighting the weight pressing against my body. I must remain alert. The battle isn’t over. The swarm lingers in our wake, a mechanical tide refusing to let go.

“Shields building at sixty-five percent, War Chieftain,” Corsark reports, his voice steady but tinged with relief. “The drones are losing ground.”

I nod, my jaw clenched against the fatigue.

Drexios saunters over, his usual swagger undiminished by the chaos around us. He leans against the armrest of my throne, a lopsided grin stretching across his face.

“You know, boss, you’re looking a little rough. I’ve seen Scoomed-out Glaseroids in better shape.”

I glare at him, but the effort feels hollow. My voice, when it comes, is raw, my throat still scorched from hours of smoke and superheated air. “I’ll live.”

Drexios snorts. “You’re a big ol’ hemovyrn bleeding out.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “We’re heading to Argon Six?” He flicks a glance at Corsark, waiting for him to nod in confirmation before continuing.

“That’s plenty of time for a sweet, sweet dip in a healing pod. Trust me, you’ll need every bit of strength once we get to that voiding netherworld. And I’ll be too busy watching my own ass to save yours again.” He chuckles, the smug amusement ringing through the bridge.

I ignore him, turning my attention back to the viewport.

The swirling chaos of plasma fire and the endless streaking stars bleed together in my vision, a tapestry of war and escape.

My head throbs, a relentless drumbeat pounding in time with the ship’s cannons.

Rest is a luxury I cannot afford. Not yet.

Not when the gap between us and death is measured in fleeting moments.

Drexios’s tone shifts, the humor fading into something quieter, almost concerned.

“Remember what I said when we were knee-deep in droid guts? The Second comes after the First? The clue’s in the name.

” He exhales, watching me carefully. “I know what you did down there, what you endured. You’re running on fumes, and it’s starting to show. ”

I clench my fists, the gauntlets groaning under the pressure. Yet I remain silent. Speaking is an effort I refuse to waste.

“Did you fall asleep on me, you big bastard?” he asks, moving around the base of my plinth, his singular red eye narrowing. “With you, it’s hard to tell.” His voice dips into something sharper. “The clan serves the War Chief. The War Chief is not the clan.”

He’s incessant. Droning on and on. A gas-cloud that would put Ignixis to shame. He buzzes at the edge of my consciousness like a znat I can’t swat.

I rise from my throne, my mouth opening to argue—but the words catch in my throat. My vision swims again, the edge of the viewport warping into a haze of light and shadow. The battle outside wavers, slipping in and out of focus. My grip tightens on the armrests, but it does little to steady me.

Drexios moves faster than I expect, his arm snapping up like a striking vipertail, his hand gripping my shoulder, steadying me before I can stumble.

“That’s it,” Drexios declares, his tone firm now, any trace of humor fading. “You’re cooked. Berserkers, escort him to the healing pods. The War Chief needs a nap.” He jerks his head toward the warriors lining the walls.

I want to protest, to push Drexios away, to reclaim my throne and remind them all that I am unbreakable. But the exhaustion is too much, a weight that presses down on me, crushing my resolve. My body betrays me, my legs trembling as I rise from the throne.

Drexios’s hand remains firm on my shoulder, steadying me as I take my first step away from the throne.

“You’re too ugly to be up there anyway,” he quips, his voice slipping back into something light and teasing. “I’ll keep the seat nice and warm for you. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll wake you up. Probably.”

I shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Anything. You wake me.”

With an exaggerated flourish, Drexios slaps a hand against his chest, straightening like a warrior at attention.

“MAGAXUS SECOND RELIEVING THE WAR CHIEFTAIN!” His expression is momentarily rigid and serious before it twists into a wicked grin.

“Don’t worry. I’m a safe pair of hands.” He claps, waggling fingers dramatically in front of his face.

Two berserkers approach with outstretched arms, ready to support me, but I wave them off.

This farce is already bordering on the shameful.

What would it do to morale if they saw their War Chieftain being half-carried like a whipped Prospect after his first day of training?

No, Drexios plays the fool, but he is right—I must regain my strength.

I must embody our ideals—unyielding strength and furious resolve.

The walk to the healing pods feels longer than it should, each step a test of will. Every viewport I pass fills me with unease, my gaze flicking to the battle raging beyond, where plasma fire streaks across the void.

When warriors pass, I force my breathing to steady, my back to remain straight. Their fists strike their chest plates in salute, but I notice something beneath the dim purple corridor lights—their foreheads, smeared with streaks of ash.

Princesa. This has her touch.

I push the thought aside. Now is not the time.

The chamber doors slide open with a hiss, revealing a room filled with battered berserkers. The moment I step inside, their voices fall silent. All eyes snap to me, followed by the resounding clang of fists slamming against armor in unison.

“War Chieftain!” they call out.

I incline my head, noticing their singed and blistered faces. Some cradle burned arms or bruised torsos. Despite their wounds, they speak with high spirits. Excited, almost reverent chatter about the return of our long-lost females.

“War Chieftain, please proceed.” A short-haired berserker gestures toward the last unoccupied pod, its translucent gray frame releasing soft wafts of green mist into the air.

The moment the fumes reach my lungs, they tingle, a smooth caress along my raw, burned airways. A strange lightness creeps into my chest, and despite myself, I almost laugh.

Ignixis. I remember shoving the old gas-cloud into a healing pod when the human Carmen shot him. His look of sheer outrage and terror had been glorious—a memory I will cherish forever. A stark contrast to the eager faces surrounding me now.

Some of the warriors hover too close to the escaping mist, inhaling deeply, their expressions betraying just how much they crave its effects. Addicts.

I step inside, the cool mist rising to greet me like a long-lost lover, wrapping around my skin, sinking into every aching muscle, dulling the throbbing pain in my head.

The pod seals, the translucent shell fogging as more vapor hisses into the chamber.

Through the haze, I catch one last glimpse of the warriors gathered outside, the streaks of ash on their foreheads seeming to glow like heated coal in the dim purple light.

The harder I try to focus, the heavier my eyelids grow. A deep, gnawing exhaustion takes hold—not just the weight of battle, but something far greater. A burden I never knew I carried, now demanding vengeance.

The mist rises, soft as a whisper, and finally, my war ends—if only for a moment.

But when I wake, the battle will return. Our fates will be forged in the fires of war.