Page 75 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

It is a wonderful idea. Elder Ignixis would have loved it.

“Any space-knights that fall in battle are to be cremated immediately,” I announce, my voice ringing with authority. “And their ashes brought to me. Understood?”

Razgor hesitates, the hamster wheels turning in his head. “Well... that’s not exactly my area of—”

“Understood?!” I cut him off, glaring mercury daggers up at him.

His throat bobs as he quickly backtracks.

“Yes... yes, Divine Daughter.” His voice wavers, submission curling through it like the steam off a freshly brewed mocha on a crisp winter morning.

“I’ll see to it that your request is passed among the warriors.

” His fingers dance over his glowing blue terminal, and I hope for his sake that he’s logging my orders and not doodling boobs or some other nerd nonsense.

You can never be too sure with these types.

“Thank you, Razgor,” I purr, letting my voice drip with syrupy sweetness. “That’s such a big help.” I flash him my best smile—a little sexy carrot as a reward instead of the stick.

Razgor flicks a sheepish grin, a nervous chuckle bubbling up. Part fear, part shy schoolboy. Cute. But I’m already over it. Ready to solve the next issue.

Turning away, I clap my hands together and fix my attention on Sandra, eager to shift gears.

“So, how’s the fashionista project coming along?” I lean forward, peering over her shoulder at the shimmering blue holographic display.

Sandra wrinkles her nose, lips pursing like two plump worms caught in deep contemplation.

“Not great, to be honest.” She swipes through the rotating outfits, cycling through preset designs.

“There’s nothing in the archives that really works .

” Her gaze flicks toward the Revered Mothers resting in their medical beds.

“What do you mean?” I ask, incredulous. “The robes you made for me are perfect.” To prove my point, I swish dramatically from side to side, letting the black and gold-embedded fabric catch the purple and blue light as it flutters around me.

Perfect is a tiny exaggeration—I wanted a lower neckline, more intricate gold detailing, something grand. But Sandra is fragile, like a ginger flower caught in a storm. She needs gentle handling.

She smiles as I strike a series of ridiculous poses, pouting my lips and flicking my wrists like a diva on the runway. You know, just being my fabulous self.

“Yeah, yeah,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Yours was easy. Well... except for the gold detailing. That was a real pain in the ass.”

“I am the Divine Daughter, the War Chieftainess. I can’t just waltz around in gnome clothes like the rest of you,” I say breezily, shrugging. The motion disturbs poor Todd, who clacks in sleepy irritation from where he’s nestled into my cloak.

Sandra levels me with a foxlike glare. “Oh yeah? Maybe I should add a hot air balloon to the presets—for that massive head you’re growing.”

“Huh,” I gasp, hands flying to measure my skull. “You rude bitch!”

We burst into laughter before she waves me off and gets back to business.

“Your outfit was easy to make because it’s based on a simple robe template.

” She flicks her wrist, bringing up the shimmering blue projection of my attire.

“I just copied it and then edited the schematic.” Her blue eyes glint with excitement.

“It’s so much fun making adjustments and watching the machine fabricate everything instantly. ”

“Ah, that’s wonderful!” I grab her hands, delighted Sandra has found something she likes, also something very near and dear to my heart—fashion! “This is amazing! You and I—best friends~! The Divine Daughter and her Ginger-in-Waiting. Fabulous. Stunning. Sensational .”

Sandra groans, yanking her hands back. “You had to throw the ginger thing in there.”

Poor Sandra. She’s just jealous.

“We’ll find you a suitable hunky meathead soon,” I wave away her concern, hoping it’ll cheer her up. “So, can’t you just make bigger versions of our clothes for the Revered Mothers?”

“Yeah... yeah,” Sandra stammers, slowly recovering from her envy. “I could do that. But I wanted to find something different. You know, something unique to them. I thought if they had their old clothes, maybe it would help them remember who they were before... before they were taken.”

“That’s a brilliant idea! That might actually work.” I admit, impressed. My gaze snaps to Razgor. “You! Do you remember what style of clothing the female Klendathians used to wear?”

He barely looks up from his terminal, distracted. “Huh? Oh, you won’t find anything like that here, for obvious reasons. But from what I do remember...” He trails off, his eyes rolling upward as if the answer might be floating somewhere on the ceiling.

I lean forward expectantly. “Go on.”

“Eh. I lost it.” He shrugs, looking vaguely apologetic. “I was just a baby back then, sorry.”

I blink. Then scowl. “Wow. So helpful, Razgor. Thank you so much for that invaluable contribution.”

The fleeting thought of crushing him between my barriers crosses my mind, but the effort hardly seems worth it.

I sigh and turn to Sandra. “Let me see that.” I reach for her wrist console.

“Hey!” She jerks back, glaring at me. “You do have your own console, remember?”

Oh. Right.

She watches patiently as I fumble with my wrist device, an endless sea of holographic options flashing before me. The sheer volume of choices makes my head spin.

“Um...” I squint at the unfamiliar interface. “Which one—?”

Sandra tuts, feigning annoyance as she effortlessly flicks through my screen. “Here. Just swipe through these .”

A shimmering projection hovers above my wrist console, displaying yet another suit of bone-through-the-nose armor. I scoff. Of course, that would be the first option. It’s all these guys ever wear—big, bulky, and utterly impractical for anything other than bashing each other over the head.

I brush my fingers through the image, distorting it like ripples in water, then continue swiping through the available designs.

My expression darkens with each disappointing option.

Nothing but clothing tailored for oversized meatheads.

Just like Razgor said—why would a warship built for space-knights without women have anything remotely suited for them?

Then, something catches my eye.

“Wait, wait.” I stop, scrutinizing the strange outfit: leather trousers, a fitted vest, and a long coat split down the middle. The whole thing is hideous , but the shoulders... they’re oddly familiar. Garish, pointed pauldrons that extend outward like angry pyramids.

“I’ve seen this before... during the Mortakin—” I catch myself, snapping my mouth shut, picturing Dracoth glowering at me, arms folded, full-on Mr. Frowny Face mode. “Whoops. Uh... I mean, Divine Mother’s robes had similar shoulders,” I correct smoothly.

Sandra squints at the display, unimpressed. “That looks mental. How did they even fit through doors?” She giggles.

I smirk. “I guess the women were trying to be as wide as the men were tall .”

We both laugh, but the more I look at it, the more I think I’m onto something.

“I think this version is for men, but the women had a flowing, robed version,” I say, shrugging. “Just a guess, though.”

Sandra nods, her excitement growing. “It’s a start.” She turns to her own console, her fingers flying across the interface at speeds that could rival Todd’s skittering legs. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do now.”

Movement catches my eye.

Across the room, Ruzeta, the red-haired female Klendathian, shuffles between the other women, repeatedly asking if they’ve seen Gorexius.

No one responds. Either they don’t hear her or they don’t have the answers she wants.

But she doesn’t stop searching. She just keeps going, lost in an endless loop, oblivious—or uncaring—of the silence that meets her pleas.

A pang of sadness grips me. I wish I could do more for them.

I tear my gaze away and turn to Razgor. “Did you try the lust gas ?” I ask.

Razgor freezes, his fingers pausing mid-tap. His brows knit together. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Sandra doesn’t even look up from her console. “Relax, Razgor. Lexie doesn’t have a filter.”

Rude!

“She means the healing pods.” Sandra adds, her voice dripping with the weight of the obvious.

Razgor exhales sharply. “Why not just say that?” He shoots me a disapproving look before continuing.

“That was the first thing I tried—after I used them myself.” He flexes his left arm, testing it.

Just yesterday, it had been half-melted and dangling uselessly at his side like wet spaghetti.

“But like I said before,” his attention shifts to the women, “physically, there’s nothing wrong with them. ”

I groan loudly. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

Razgor hums thoughtfully. “Oh, that reminds me. Last time I passed the medbay, I saw the War Chieftain himself using a pod.” His tone is casual, as if he just mentioned the weather, completely unaware of the nuclear bomb he just dropped. “Makes me feel better that even—”

“What the hell do you mean Dracoth is using a pod?” My voice cuts through his nonsense like a serrated knife.

Razgor and Sandra both flinch at the venom in my tone.

“Who,” I snarl, stepping toward him, my eyes flashing silver. “The. F uck. Is piloting this ship through the horde of murderous, murder-loving murder-bots, then ?”

Razgor visibly gulps.

Sandra lifts a cautious hand. “Lexie, what’s gotten into—”

I silence her with a sharp gesture, my glare locked onto the bumbling scientist who’s still fumbling for an answer.

“Well... I assume that would be his Second,” Razgor stammers.

My stomach drops.

“ Drexios .”

The room tilts.

This isn’t happening. Lalalala. I’m going to wake up from this absolute nightmare any second.

Except I don’t.

I’m still here.