Page 8 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

The noise echoes into the dim tunnel beyond, where the drip-drip of unseen water mingles with a faint, incessant alarm tone that feels more like an irritating headache than a warning.

I can’t see into the distance, can’t see much at all.

It’s dark with just a dim flickering white light, highlighting that we’re in some awful rusty metal tunnel, the walls slick with moisture.

“I’ll handle this,” Jazreal announces, gliding forward like he’s skating on ice.

I’m not sure what “ this ” is, but both he and Dracoth have slid on their terrifying masks, all black slanted eye-slits, and hard edges. Probably lets them see through walls or something, while I’m stuck here as blind as my mother’s taste in men.

Sparks fly as Jazreal’s long spear springs to life, driving one point into a grated barrier. Both ends of his spear glow and hum with ominous molten blue, illuminating the grimy metal walls in flickering azure.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I struggle to control my erratic breath, driven by the familiar psychotic murder drugs burning through my veins.

But as I watch Jazreal carve a smooth circular hole into the metal, I can’t help but feel excitement building at the prospect of seeing his spear tear through those pathetic alien losers.

A final clang jolts me out of my thoughts. Jazreal steps back, the severed grate falling to the floor with a satisfying crash. With a flourish, he spins his spear, locking it onto his back, and ducks into the newly created opening.

Dracoth lowers me to the slick floor and urges me forward with a gentle nudge. Already I miss his pleasant heat, as the clammy cold quickly replaces his warmth.

I hasten to follow Jazreal into the spooky tunnel, which appears even darker than the entrance. Not only darker but much smaller, forcing even me to stoop to squeeze inside.

“You’re going to miss all the fun, Dracoth,” I say, shooting him a mischievous look over my shoulder. “You’re far too big for this place.”

His mask gives nothing away—it’s as expressionless as his natural Mr. Frowny Face. His head tilts as he examines the seared entrance, before surprising me by dropping to all fours and squeezing into the passage like the universe’s biggest dog.

“Nothing bars my path,” he declares, all super-serious meathead, despite the ridiculousness of his massive frame scraping through the narrow space. His armor grinds against the walls with every movement, each step dragging a chorus of screeching metal behind him.

“You’re rocking that silly-putty-jammed-in-a-toilet-roll vibe,” I tease with a soft chuckle, earning a pleasing grunt from Dracoth.

The pulsing alarm grows louder as I struggle to keep pace with Jazreal despite him almost being bent double in the cramped tunnel. Every icy drip of water that slithers down my collar nearly sends me jumping out of my skin, my fingers itching to summon barriers just to block their path.

Then, a new sound. Rat-tat-tat. My ears twitch at the rhythmic tapping, faint at first but growing louder, echoing ominously from somewhere above. It’s the kind of noise Todd would make—if Todd wore tiny metal booties.

“Wait!” I demand, coming to an abrupt stop. Dracoth doesn’t notice in time, and his masked face bumps squarely into my backside, nearly sending me face-first into the damp floor.

“Now’s hardly the time, Dracoth,” I mutter, shooting him a glare over my shoulder.

Before he can respond, the rattling noise above me intensifies, sharp and metallic.

I glance up just as a square panel in the ceiling slides open with a hiss, revealing a skittering horror of metal limbs and a singular blinking red eye.

“Fucking murder-bots!” I scream, recoiling as the spider-like drone descends toward me. Without thinking, I summon my barriers, slamming the shimmering walls together to trap the metallic monstrosity mid-air. Its legs twitch and scrape against the invisible force, trying to escape.

Why am I the only one reacting to this spidery invasion?

“What are you waiting for, Dracoth? Burn it to ash!” I shout, my voice pitched with panic as my eyes dart around, expecting a flood of these skittering nightmares.

Dracoth doesn’t move, watching impassively as my barriers tighten. With a triumphant gasp, I squeeze the drone until it trembles violently before breaking apart in a glorious rain of jagged steel shards.

“I killed it!” I announce, beaming at the shattered remains. Pride swells in my chest, but the bond between Dracoth and me hums only with faint amusement.

“An automated service drone,” he remarks dryly, gesturing toward the heap of broken metal. “They pose no threat.”

“Then why’s this place so filthy?” I snap, unwilling to let him steal my moment. “More likely that thing was about to drop a nuke on us or something.”

Further down the tunnel, Jazreal’s voice echoes, slightly distorted by his mask. “Over here.” He stands over a grate, his energy claws glowing molten blue, distorting the air with their heat. With a sharp thrust, he drives them into the metal, melting the rust-streaked grate into bubbling slag.

“This leads to the interior,” Jazreal says, the faint blue light of his claws casting flickering shadows against the grimy walls.

“Good. I tire of this,” Dracoth growls, his hulking form grinding against the narrow metal tunnel as he squirms forward with increased wriggling urgency.

The grate drops with a resounding clang, revealing a dimly lit corridor below. Jazreal dives through the opening like he’s performing gymnastics at the Olympics, landing in a crouch as though the fall were nothing.

I, however, know better, hesitating at the edge, not liking the idea of dropping twelve feet to the dingy metal corridor below.

Before I can protest, Dracoth’s massive hand clamps around my forearm like a steel trap. With no warning, he hauls me toward the edge.

“Wait, wait!” I exclaim, my voice laced with indignation as my legs dangle uselessly over the edge. Dracoth, the giant bore, doesn’t listen. He holds me steady in his iron grip as if I weigh nothing more than a feather, entirely ignoring my protests.

“Really, Dracoth?” I add, disbelief and outrage warring in my tone. His only response is the slow, deliberate lowering of my body into the room below.

As my boots touch the floor, a familiar scent hits me, curling through the air like a dark memory.

It’s the acrid tang of fresh blood, unmistakable and intoxicating.

My chest tightens, and I can almost feel the rush of that moment aboard our ship—the carnage when Dracoth tore those rapey aliens apart.

Aliens of various kinds litter the grisly corridor.

The sight snatches the breath from my lungs.

Their lifeless eyes staring blankly into nothingness, frozen mid-scream.

But disappointment threatens to prick my elation: these bodies aren’t shredded like the last time my red dragon got his claws on them.

No, these creeps were shot. Bullet holes pepper their bodies, leaving tidy, bloody wounds that pale compared to the glorious chaos I crave.

My fingers trace the runic brand on my chest and neck, the gift from Arawnoth. It glows faintly under my touch, a steady warmth that begs to be stoked with violence.

I can hardly wait any longer!

“Is this your first hunt?” Jazreal’s smooth voice cuts through the silence. He shifts his mask upwards, his green eyes studying me as I take in the carnage. There’s a note of concern in his question, and his gaze follows mine as I linger on the dead aliens.

Does hunting for the perfect pair of boots count?

“Sometimes the sight of death can unnerve even the bravest Prospect,” he continues, his tone almost kind. “You should return—” He gestures back toward the opening above, offering to help me up like I’m some fragile damsel.

How cute.

“Oh no, Jazzy,” I murmur, snapping out of my thoughts with a sly smile. “I enjoy the sight of death.” My eyes narrow. “Actually, I love it.”

I look up at him, my eyes blaze in a swirling storm of silver, red, and green as I revel in my newfound freedom—how powerful I’ve become.

His reaction is delicious. A flicker of shock widens his green eyes before he quickly schools his expression into that cocky grin he wears like armor.

But before he can speak, Dracoth lands behind me like a crashing meteorite of death.

The floor trembles under his weight, and without a word, he sweeps me up like a trendy, adorable doll in his massive arm, cradling me against his chest.

I don’t protest his rude grabbiness. Instead, I nestle into his warmth with a soft purr, because this is where I belong: in his arms, poised to unleash Arawnoth’s wrath on the poor losers who dare stand in our way.

Dracoth takes the lead, stomping down the dimly lit corridor, his every step a declaration of doom. Pipes hiss like cornered snakes, and grime coats the walls, broken only by garish emblems spray-painted at intervals. All depicting an ugly female alien suckling a babe at her breast.

The pulsing red light of the alarm flashes in sync with the siren’s relentless wail, giving the corridor some surreal nightclub vibe. And we’re the main event.

My gaze drifts to the bodies again, this time noticing the odd variety in their appearance.

Most are dressed in the same dirty, brightly colored plastic-bag fashion—practical hobo-chic.

A few, however, stand out. Their hair is shaved, even on the muzzled, furry ones, and their attire bears a different emblem: a roaring red beast encircled by flames.

“You tell that voiding useless lump of lard, Duriel, to surrender, or I’ll—” Captain Balsar’s familiar voice reverberates through the corridor, sharp and commanding. It’s strange, hearing him sound so aggressive and forceful; in Dracoth’s presence, he usually squeals like a little piggy.

“Great War Chieftain?” Balsar’s tone shifts abruptly, dropping into a reverent whisper that barely cuts through the racket.

As we round the corner, hundreds of alien eyes snap toward us, wide with shock and awe. My heart soars as I take in the scene, a thrill coursing through me. A smirk tugs at my lips, relishing their slack-jawed stares and the way their shaved heads and spikes bow.

The corridor becomes a living tide of submission as they part to let us pass, heads lowered, shoulders hunched.

It’s intoxicating!

“War Chieftain!” The aliens roar in a chaotic chant, their voices reverberating in disordered waves. Their multitude of bizarre weapons clatter in unison as they thrust them skyward in salute.

They look up at my towering Dracoth as we pass with fevered eyes like Arawnoth himself has come among them.

Through our bond, I feel my man’s pride blazing—a firestorm of fierce satisfaction.

Yet even as he lowers his mask, his glance sweeps among them without a single hint of expression, every step deliberate and commanding.

If only they knew how right they are to bow before us.