Page 72 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Ashes

I wipe the sleep from my crust-laden eyes, groggy consciousness returning to me with all the charm and clarity of a weekend spent partying.

The dim purple light intensifies as I scoot along the edges of the tennis-court-sized bed, straining to pluck up my clothes littering the marble floor.

They’re scattered like a breadcrumb trail leading straight back to the madness of yesterday.

Madness. Craziness. Insanity. Take your pick—there isn’t a word strong enough to describe what happened.

The memories surge back, vivid and disjointed, like scenes from a low-budget action movie rather than anything that could have possibly happened to me. It’s as if I wasn’t even in control, merely watching from behind the eyes of some overenthusiastic, war-hardened Sexy-Lexie-bot.

It’s a miracle I’m still breathing, that my ship’s alive, and that I’m not just another piece of debris drifting lifelessly through space, abandoned like the shattered husks of the murder-orbs that swarmed us.

A shudder ripples through me, head to toe, despite the warmth of the thick black robes now covering my skin.

That shuttle ride back was the worst experience of my life—worse even than the time Dracoth decided to jump off a cliff with me clinging to his back like some kind of adorable, terrified koala.

The entire shuttle rumbled and lurched like a rollercoaster trapped in the grips of a hurricane.

And let’s not forget the oh-so lovely, relaxing sounds of the bone-through-the-noses barking orders over the deafening shrieks of sizzling cracks and hisses echoing like demented rattlesnakes.

Every breath had been a mix of blistering heat from energy blasts, acrid smoke, and the disgusting stench of burning rubber and rotten eggs crammed straight up my nostrils.

Yuck.

Even with my divine barriers shielding the shuttles from the endless murder-bot horde, I thought that was the end. No more Lexie. No more divine adventures. Just a fiery explosion and an unceremonious scattering of divine Lexie-dust sparkling across the galaxy like glitter.

Ugh.

I thought being a living goddess would be easy, like an exam where you already know the answers or a game of Pokémon set to the lowest difficulty. I mean, it’s pretty damn hard to stay composed and graceful—like Divine Mother—when your heart is hammering like a drummer on a caffeine binge.

My ears twitch, little fleshy radars scanning for a familiar and reassuring sound.

A racket like a jet engine firing up, or maybe a tornado funneled through a wind tunnel—Dracoth’s snoring.

But as my head swivels around, it only confirms what I already know.

He’s not here. Just a big pile of furs where my babes should be.

My lips purse in annoyance. He’s probably off somewhere, bashing heads together and stealing spines or whatever.

A sigh escapes me as I slump back, rubbing at my temples. I haven’t dreamed of Arawnoth’s flames in so long now, and the disappointment gnaws at me. It’s tragic. Heartbreaking, even. And I know exactly who’s to blame.

Mr. Frowny Face.

Divine Father probably took one look at his pathetic little glow sticks, laughed his molten head off, and decided to abandon us both. Yep. We’re just two little snot-nosed brats dumped on the steps of the nearest cosmic monastery.

How is that fair? Just because Dracoth has.

.. issues getting his flames up doesn’t mean I’m useless and should be punished too.

If anything, I’ve been the one carrying Arawnoth’s teachings forward.

I’ve been blessing the space-knights, spreading the sacred words, dusting them with Ignixis’s holy ashes like a celestial seasoning shaker.

At the thought, my fingers graze the near-empty pouch at my hip, and a stab of anxiety flares in my chest. If I’d known Ignixis’s ashes would fly off the shelves like the last turkeys before Thanksgiving, I would’ve fattened him up a bit before he died.

I’m going to need more—um, remains. But where?

I tap a finger against my chin, already deep in thought as I stride toward the exit, the door closing behind me with a smooth hiss.

I don’t recall deciding where to go, but my feet carry me in the direction of Razgor’s lab, regardless.

The last place I remember being before total exhaustion nearly drove me face-first into a metal table.

The dimly lit purple corridor stretches before me, a vast black marble-clad hallway built for wannabe rock-star-like giants.

It reminds me of a museum. Vaulted walls lined with garish war trophies—singed banners, shattered bones, and battered weapons mounted like relics.

Some of them look like ancient guns, though knowing these bone-through-the-noses, they probably fire smaller guns that shoot laser claws or something equally ridiculous.

There’s a distinct lack of relentless thudding rattling through the ship’s core now. Before I slept, the constant barrage of energy blasts had been endless—a demented fire alarm I couldn’t turn off. Now, the absence of it lets me breathe a little easier.

I guess Dracoth deserves some credit. The way he took charge, got us out of there and away from the murder-bot swarm. All busted and bruised like an overripe banana, still booming orders, still slaughtering everything around him.

It was kind of hot.

At least he’s still got some heat smoldering in those big, clown-sized feet of his. My fingers absently trail over the scorched flesh on my chest and neck before I catch myself.

“Bad fingers,” I scold, snatching my hand back.

I mean, to be fair, Dracoth only did what his meathead training taught him.

And while I’ll admit that I may have been a teeny, tiny bit overwhelmed by all the loud banging and clanging yesterday.

But given time and practice, I can lead these jocks just as well as he can.

Just like how I learned the sacred words of Arawnoth—well, some of them.

Yep. Things are looking up. Soon, I won’t need anyone. I’ll be the complete package. Lexiage.

A soft “Oh” escapes my lips as something outside the viewport catches my eye.

Dazzling streaks of multicolored light spill through the reinforced glass, shimmering like a sparkling diamond held against the sun. I step closer, drawn like a Lexie-moth to a flame.

Beyond, our ship cuts through the void like a bullet made of rainbows, framed by our pulsing blue shield. It’s the stars. We’re going so fast they’ve become strips of confetti. It means only one thing.

Confetti-speed. We’re traveling at confetti-speed.

To where? I have no idea.

And for what purpose? Another excellent question.

But I trust Divine Mother and Father to guide me along the yellow-brick road to godhood. Unlike my basic parents, who failed spectacularly.

Two abandoning pricks!

The thought sours my mood instantly. Seriously, screw them. They’re nothing but mental clutter—fashion disasters of my past, ready to be tossed out like last season’s worst trends. Perms, low-rise jeans, corsets, gnomish furs—hobo chic, the whole stupid lot of it.

My hand groans under clenching fingers, nails digging into my palms, I hardly notice a bone-through-the-nose marching past, his blonde mohawk swaying against his back.

“Divine Daughter.” He punches his own chest like a silly gorilla, bowing his ash-smeared head in reverence.

Oh, yeah. That’s right. I’m marvelous.

Like flipping a switch, my posture straightens, my fingers unfurl, and my expression shifts into one of effortless grace. A warm, knowing smile spreads across my lips as I turn toward him.

“May Arawnoth burn away your weakness,” I intone, voice rich with authority as I trace runes in the air.

I have no idea why and when I started doing that—A replica of my runic chest and neck brand—but my followers seem to love it. So, naturally, I kept it.

The space-knight, a towering wall of muscle and armor, copies my movement, his massive gloved hand following the delicate arc I drew.

It’s hilarious and delicious—this terrifying soldier performing a dainty little flourish because of me.

I nearly laugh with delight but smother the urge with all the regal composure I can muster.

He hesitates, shifting on his feet like a nervous toddler about to confess to eating all the cookies. “I had a dream,” he admits at last, his voice thick with unspoken weight. “A vision, Divine Daughter.”

Oh, great. A talker.

Those are the worst. It’s not enough that I bless them—they want me to be their personal therapist, too. And these guys come pre-packaged with centuries’ worth of trauma dumping. There’s only so much Lexie to go around.

“Go on,” I say, masking my impatience behind a carefully measured tone of encouragement.

He exhales, shoulders stiffening. “I was on Argon Six... but instead of Nebians, we fought Scythians. The world was teeming with them. I—I fought as hard as I could, but they kept coming. The ancestors would weep to see such a sight.” He shakes his head, the raw emotion in his voice fraying at the edges.

“I died, Divine Daughter. I saw the plasma strike me. I felt it melting my flesh. It was real, like a fated curse.” His blue eyes meet mine, pleading, desperate for reassurance.

I suppress a sigh, keeping my face smooth as butter. A little bitty nightmare and suddenly it’s my problem.

“Powerful dreams speak to the fears in your heart,” I say, resting my palm against his chest plate, the metal cold beneath my warm skin.

That sounds good, right? Yeah. That’s good stuff.

I pause, considering my next words, allowing the silence to settle between us, thick with unspoken authority.