Page 77 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Wakey, Wakey

I don my father’s armor, the thick plates sealing around my limbs with the weight of his legacy, the fate that now must be won in fire and blood.

The call had come in moments ago, dragging me from the depths of sleep.

The enemy is near. Scythians. Not merely pursuing, but encircling us.

A swarm gathering in the dark, waiting to descend.

My fingers clench into fists, the power surging through me like a second pulse. Skin, muscle, bone—every fiber of my being trembles with renewed strength, tempered by pain, reforged in fire.

The healing pods, Jazreal’s training, Princesa’s bond—all of it has led to this.

I am no longer the warrior I was. I am something more.

I can feel it, the energy rolling off me in invisible waves, bending the air with its heat.

A force beyond flesh, stretching beyond the peaks of Scarn into the cosmos itself.

That the Scythians delayed their attack is the only surprise, allowing my rest and recovery.

It shall be their undoing—a fatal mistake.

But why? The Voidbringer does not hesitate—an entity without fear or remorse.

It would act with mechanical precision from the cold, dead circuitry at its core.

Could it be the damage we inflicted slowed their advance?

Or perhaps—Arawnoth willing—their forces are stretched thin, distracted by our proximity to Argon Six.

No one has ever emerged this deep from their territory and lived.

We shall be the first.

I reach for my father’s cloak. The dark green hide, taken from some ancient beast long lost to time, flows down my back as I fasten the clasps.

My own sneachir Chieftain’s cloak rests in shreds on the nearby table—torn, scorched, little more than a ruin.

A worthy sacrifice for the thousands of droids I destroyed.

I do not mourn it. My father’s cloak will serve now.

It will bathe in the corpses of my enemies.

Their deaths will cleanse the stain upon his honor.

Armed. Armored. Ready. A titan of war.

I leave the chamber at a run, my stride long, relentless, my focus narrowing to the path ahead.

The corridors blur past—the viewport, the war trophies, the berserkers standing at attention.

My warriors salute as I pass, but there is no time to return the gesture.

They are moving as well, hurrying to their stations, preparing for what is to come.

Tension coils in the air, thick and suffocating.

A held breath before an orbital drop. My footfalls hammer against the black marble, each step echoing like the march of Nebian Battlesuits.

My ears strain for the telltale whine of plasma cannons or the deep, shuddering impact of shields under fire.

But there is nothing. Only the distant hum of hyperspeed, the faint hiss of dormant shield generators.

Good. There is still time.

The command bridge doors slide open at my approach, revealing the berserkers standing in rigid formation beneath the towering war banners of battles fought long before my time.

As one, they strike their fists against their armored chests, lowering their heads in the solemn Klendathian salute.

The sight stirs something deep within me, a pride that surges like a war drum beating in my chest.

This is our time—my time. What I do here will echo through the ages, a legend carved in fire and blood. Deeds worthy of song.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the unspoken weight of their faith, their expectations.

A weight only my broad shoulders could bear.

Born not from fear or sycophancy. No. Their belief was hard won.

Forged in battle, tempered by impossible victories, sharpened by my unrelenting will. I deliver savage death—my divine gift.

“Morning, Sparkie,”

Princesa’s voice slithers through the charged silence, her smirk playful, but her silver-flecked gaze burning with something far less amused.

Sparkie.

New. Tiresome. Even now, in the face of what lurks ahead, she cannot resist the urge to goad me. Is it to mask her own failings, whatever madness transpired here?

I see it—sense it—the truth she tries to bury. The flush of her skin, the sheen of sweat dotting her brow, the delicate fingers curled into tense fists at her sides. And there, discarded at her feet, a crumpled polymer wrapper.

My gaze flicks toward the throne, where Drexios lounges, one eye fixed on the pulsing blue navigational displays.

A cocktail of trouble.

“I was just reminding this naughty doggie not to sit in my seat,” Princesa huffs, narrowing her eyes at Drexios, whose attention remains locked on the data flooding the screens. My gaze follows, my stomach twisting at what I see.

Azure lights blink in unison, converging on our position from all directions. Seeker drones. Voidbanes. A metal vice closing around us.

Ominous.

“And then all these blinky beeps started,” Princesa continues, her voice silk-wrapped arcweave as she presses against me, her lashes fluttering in faux innocence. “Could you sort it out for me? That would be the biggest help, babes.”

I barely hear her. The Rush grips me, a seething current in my blood. My heart slams against my ribs, already preparing for the inevitable carnage. Slowly, my gaze settles on Drexios, my shadow stretching long across the bridge.

“War Chief,” he greets, flashing a knowing smirk before vaulting off the towering obsidian throne. His half-cloak flutters behind him as he somersaults through the air, landing with a thud of armored boots against the black marble, arms spread wide.

Impressive. Pointless.

“Shit’s all voided up,” he drawls, shrugging. “Metal cocks behind. Metal cocks in front. And little ol’ us, bent over backwards like a ten-credit whore caught in the middle.” His gaze slides to Princesa, a lazy grin curling his lips. “As our resident expert, what’s the protocol here, Pinkie ?”

“ Ugh . You are so fucking disgusting, Drex-iot.” Princesa rolls her eyes, idly stroking her grotesquely fattened cyloillar as it slumbers against her shoulder. “Why don’t you stop projecting your fantasies onto me, and actually help Dracoth for once ? ” she sneers, venom in her glare.

I move past them both, ascending the obsidian steps and lowering myself into the throne. The stone groans beneath my weight, metal grinding against rock as I settle into my rightful seat.

The navigational display confirms what I already know.

A fleet of Voidbanes and millions of drones trail in our wake, so numerous their markers blur into a single, pulsating mass of white.

But ahead, blocking our path—three Voidbanes, accompanied by three hundred thousand Seeker drones.

A lesser force, but still overwhelming. They will be upon us in less than ten minutes.

“Collision course?” I ask, noting that the Ravager’s Ruin’s navigation is locked onto the lead, oncoming Voidbane.

“Yeah,” Drexios replies, his voice thick with dark amusement. “I say void ’em. Let’s go out fighting, take as many of the bastards with us.” His claws extend with an audible snikt . “Ravager Berserker style.”

“I knew it!” Princesa exclaims, throwing her hands into the air. “Why would you leave this suicidal maniac in charge of—well, anything ?” She turns her accusing glare on me, frustration blazing in her eyes.

But I don’t meet it. My focus remains on the navigational controls, on the tactical error before us, on the asteroid field lingering just beyond our starboard flank.

Despite the dire situation, despite the oncoming doom, a ghost of a smirk tugs at my lips.

They don’t see it. Not yet. A possible stratagem, my mind already calculating countless numbers, timings, moves and counters.

Perhaps Princesa is right. Perhaps Drexios is a fool.

Or perhaps I am uniquely blessed by Arawnoth. Destined to lead. Destined for victory.

“Oh, I think I saw a little smile on my Mr. Frowny Face,” Princesa teases, tilting her head with mock delight. “That’s such a relief.” She strokes the bloated cyloillar nuzzled against her, sighing dramatically. “Todd was worrying his little booties off.”

I feel no relief, nor should she. Victory hangs by a thread, delicate and fraying.

“Prepare the damaged Shorthair vessels for launch,” I command, my fingers flying over the controls. “Remotely operated.”

“At once, War Chieftain,” Corsark acknowledges, his voice steady, though the rapid clicking of his arcweave-plated fingers betrays his urgency.

A deep shudder reverberates through the walls as the ship banks sharply to starboard under my careful guidance. My gaze shifts to the immense viewport, where streaks of dazzling multicolored light ripple over the black marble surfaces like reflections on a restless tide.

Then, I see it.

At first, mere specks against the void. But as we surge forward, the specks become an ocean—a vast asteroid field, dense and unforgiving.

Jagged shards of rock float aimlessly, their colossal forms ranging from drifting grains of space dust to towering remnants of shattered moons, as if Arawnoth himself had hurled mountains into the abyss.

My pulse quickens. My course is set.

Steering the Ravager’s Ruin into that chaos at hyperspeed is a gamble so audacious it borders on madness.

A single miscalculation, and we’ll be reduced to debris in seconds.

Yet slowing down is not an option. Behind us, the Voidbanes and the Seeker swarm close in, their metal jaws poised to crush us if we falter.

Drexios lets out a sharp bark of laughter, his gaze flicking toward the viewport. “My plan was better,” he sneers, turning to me with that ever-present smirk. “At least the Scythians would’ve had to work for their kill.”