Page 82 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“We’re moments from Argon Six,” he states, his tone clipped and controlled. “The Nebian-Scythian battlefront. If you do not release him”— he tilts his head toward Drexios, still pinned and smirking— “if you do not help us, then all of us—even you—will die.”

“Fine!”

With a flick of my wrist, the barriers vanish.

Drexios drops like a sack of bricks, armor clanking as his gauntlets and knees slam against the floor. He sucks in huge, gasping breaths, like some drowned rat surfacing for air.

“Whatever,” I huff. “Just remember that I’m the one in charge now.”

My gaze snaps to Drexios as he steadies himself, still grinning like an absolute lunatic. “That goes double for you.” I jab a sharp finger at his face. “Disrespect me again, and we’ll see how long you survive trapped inside my shields, drifting through space.”

Drexios inclines his head, his single red eye glinting beneath the shadows. “I—”

“Drexios.” Dracoth cuts him off like a blade, his voice sharp, commanding. He gestures toward a nearby terminal. “Operate the cannons.”

“Oh, I live to serve.” Drexios grins, performing a theatrical bow so deep he practically folds in half like a pair of scissors. “War Chief.” He shuffles backward, still bent over, cackling to himself like an escaped lunatic from an asylum.

A shiver runs through me. Whether it’s from Drex-iot’s unsettling laughter or the loss of Dracoth’s lovely heat, I’m not sure.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I call after him, watching as he stomps off like a not-so-jolly-red giant toward my throne.

I cross my arms. “That’s my seat.”

Less than a minute of my glorious reign, and he’s already challenging my hard-won authority. Typical.

Dracoth glances over his shoulder, the glow of the holographic terminals casting sharp angles across his face.

“Could you control this ship?” he growls. “Fly it through the asteroid field that so disgraced you?”

Disgraced?

There’s a displeasing sneer on his lips.

He is so grumpy now. Like super-extra mad.

Something deep inside me twists. A pang of sadness, of loss, churns in my gut, but I shove it down, just like I forced down that disgusting Sock-Chair meat that he made me eat at our wedding celebration. This isn’t my Dracoth, not anymore. I’m just mourning the man he was, not the one he is.

“That reminds me,” I say, pinching my nose as I glance toward the vomit-inducing pile of actual vomit behind the throne. “Someone made a real mess here. Can one of you clean this up, please?”

I force out a laugh, expecting the bone-through-the-noses lining the walls to jump into action. But before I can see if they do, Dracoth is sneaking off again.

“Beep, beep. Red Taxi.” I clear my throat, arms raised aloft.

He halts mid-step, his shoulders sagging slightly as if I just asked him to fetch me the entire Prada collection. He whirls around, dark-green, lizard-skin cloak swaying behind him, his expression dark.

“Do your divine legs fail you?”

No. I want you to hold me. Control me. Own me.

The thought crashes into my mind out of nowhere, nearly making me choke. Where the hell did that come from? Traitor thoughts!

I force a cough, regaining my composure. “Act... actually, I want you to show me how to fly this ship,” I stammer, recovering beautifully. “So that one day, I can take my rightful place on the throne. Alone.”

Dracoth says nothing.

In typical Mr. Frowny Face fashion, he simply moves, as fast and deliberate as ever. Before I can react, his massive hand scoops under me, lifting me effortlessly into the crook of his arm.

The ship blurs around us, a rush of motion and heat. My robes press against the gem-infused black armor, the warmth of his body radiating through the metal, seeping into me like a lovely red-hot radiator.

“Mmm... so cozy,” I purr, remembering just how perfect this is. How safe I feel in his grasp. Maybe this is enough ? Just being with snugly Dracoth, toasty, secure, just relaxing.

No. That’s hobo talk!

I must resist. I must remain strong, just as Divine Mother and Father taught me.

I steady the sleeping Todd while Dracoth bounds into the towering throne like a leopard leaping onto a branch.

Before us, the blue holographic terminals flicker, their runes glowing in complex patterns, their pulsing dots marking ships in motion. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The best I can manage are those children’s books Elder Ignixis showed me.

Dracoth’s leans forward, his bulk nearly squishing me like the last drop of toothpaste from the tube. His fingers are a blur of motion over holographic controls. Klendathian symbols flash too quickly for me to process—twenty? Engage? Damage?

Ugh. So many. So fast. This is going to take ages to figure out.

At least the viewport is clear now. Just the dazzling, swirling rainbow hues of confetti-speed, casting shimmering reflections over the polished black marble.

No murder-bots, no space dust, and best of all, no giant asteroids hurtling toward my face.

I’m 99 percent sure Dracoth intentionally raced into those earlier just to terrify me. Yep, typical meathead-jock behavior . Show off his big warship, try to impress his date like it’s his dad’s Ferrari.

“So...” I begin, sucking on my teeth, trying to think of something clever to ask. I squint at the screen. “These blinky beeps?” I gesture to the larger pulsing dots trailing our ship. “Are those the murder-bots or the asteroids?”

That was a good question. Right?

I peer up at him expectantly.

“Voidbanes,” he mutters. More grunt than word.

“Ah, Void-pains,” I sigh, dramatically placing a hand over my heart. “How could I forget ?” I giggle, wiggling my hips a touch, but I’m met only with more silence.

He’s Ignoring me.

I frown. Rude. Did I go too far? What if... what if he doesn’t like me anymore? An icy dread plunges my heart into my stomach.

Fuck, I must still like him... but at the same time I still resent him.

My mind is a muddled mess of contradictions, a tangled hairband of longing and fury, and it infuriates me. So much so, I could tear out my hair and join Dracoth’s Shorthairs. Well. If they weren’t creepy space-hobos.

Heat crawls up my cheeks, embarrassment curling inside me like a serpent. I haven’t been this confused about a boy since I was a teenager.

But what’s a Divine Daughter to do?

“What about these ones?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady as I gesture toward the blinking white mass trailing us like Casper the Not-So-Friendly Ghost.

“Seeker drones,” Dracoth grunts, his fingers brushing across the holographic display, sending ripples through the interface as he expands the sensor range.

“Murder-orbs?” I frown, watching the glowing dots pulse ominously. “Why do they look so big here?”

“Because there are millions, ” he replies, as casually as if he were ordering a mocha.

My stomach plummets. “ Millions? ”

The image of a vast, shifting ocean of glinting red lenses stretches through my mind, an unstoppable tide of metal descending upon us. A cold shiver slithers down my spine. If that many reach us, I doubt if even my divine shields would be enough.

I swallow hard. “Uh... maybe we could hurry the ship up a little? ” I glance over my shoulder at the bone-through-the-noses hunched over their terminals, half-expecting one of them to be secretly sabotaging our speed. “Like... go from confetti-speed to disco ball-speed instead?”

“There is no... disco...ball-speed” Dracoth grimaces stumbling over the words. “We are at maximum.”

Confetti-speed is the fastest? His words are streamers of shattered dreams. I stare at the swirling colors outside the viewport, watching the blurred streaks of hyperspace flash past.

Before I can process my disappointment, something pricks at the edge of my awareness.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound.

Scratching.

Like static whispering from a distant radio—so quiet I nearly dismiss it as nothing more than the product of an overworked, stress-head.

Then it returns.

Louder.

Creepier.

A slow shiver creeps down my spine.

Oh, no, no, no.

That horrible eerie static crackling like a distant laugh. The last time I heard it was back near the murder-bot planets. I thought Dracoth had gotten rid of it. But now, it’s back growing louder with each pounding heartbeat.

“Corsark, cut comms,” Dracoth orders, a rare hint of concern threading through his voice.

But I already know the answer before Corsark even speaks.

“They are disabled , War Chieftain.”

The ghostly cackle intensifies as if it’s feeding off our fear, feeding off our silence.

Then, Dracoth’s terminal pulses red. A whining alarm shrieks through the chamber, nearly launching me out of the throne. I barely manage to grab the bone-infused armrests as the display flares with light.

New markers begin to appear. First ten. Then twenty. Then a hundred. Then thousands.

A wave of flickering dots materializes before us, a vast horde surging into existence. So many that the screen is no longer a navigation display—it’s a blinding mass of pure white light.

My throat tightens.

“Uh... babes?” My voice is little more than a hushed whisper. “What do these blinky beeps mean?”

The space-knights behind me are already scrambling, voices rising in alarm.

Dracoth doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his smoldering hand rests over mine. When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes burn like embers from the forge of a dying world.

“Argon-Six,” he says. “The last battle.”

Of course it is.

How wonderful.