Page 84 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

The Nebians fight desperately now. No longer an overwhelming force cutting through the Scythians with ease. This graveyard was from when the Voidbringer was trapped, when the enemy’s forces were disabled.

And now? Now the war has changed.

My warvisor feeds me real-time battlefield data as we reach a higher vector.

Below us, the battle unfolds in full, unrelenting chaos.

Searing blue plasma and crimson laser beams clash across the void, streaking into an unending storm of violet light.

It ripples across the hulls of billions of vessels like an apocalyptic sky roiling with lightning.

The Nebians advance—outnumbered but unrelenting. They surge forward into the molten blue maw of the Scythian fleet, wielding their speed as a weapon, darting and weaving through the slower Voidbanes like a swarm of razors cutting through flesh.

Their laser fire rains into the horde, slicing through Seeker drones and slamming into the armored hulks behind them. Azure shields flare, glowing brilliant white before they flicker and die, unable to withstand the relentless assault.

But the Seeker drones react.

The billion-strong Seeker drones respond, an enormous ocean of coordinated movement on an impossible scale. Perfect synchronization executed by a single consciousness—the Voidbringer.

They split off into groups tens of thousands thick, forming swirling screens protecting Voidbanes. I watch in astonishment as Starcruisers and Starfighters continue their onslaught only for the alarming intelligence of the enemy to reform the drones into a single line to absorb incoming fire.

Elsewhere, splinter formations break off, pursuing the Nebians.

The drones move like a plague, a sea of blistering plasma and grinding metal, hunting down its prey. Nebian Battlesuits vault into action, red booster trails flaring behind them as they escort their larger kin, repeater lasers raking fire into the relentless tide.

It’s surreal—the absolute scale of destruction. My warvisor-enhanced senses threaten to overwhelm me. No sound reaches us, no echoes of war, no screams of the dying. Only silence.

A silence so vast, it feels like it might consume us.

The battlefield is already littered with broken vessels, smoldering wrecks venting plasma into the void. Some detonate entirely—Elerium engines going critical, blasting molten shrapnel in all directions, shockwaves rippling through the fleets.

Passing high over the Scythian forces my warvisor blares with a new alert. A group of Seeker drones breaks formation, peeling away from the horde. Toward us. A smirk creases my lips at the insult—a few thousand. So be it. If the Scythians won’t guard their flank, I’ll carve it open myself.

I shift the ship from advancing toward the friendly lines to evasive maneuvers, keeping our distance from the heart of the battle. The Seeker drones are close now, their glowing red lenses glinting ominously as they surge toward the Ravager’s Ruin and my Battlebarge .

“Um... did your big shovel hands slip off the controls, babe?” Princesa asks, shifting forward in my lap. There’s an edge to her voice now, something approaching concern.

Then, as if trying to brush it off, she lets out a sharp, mock laugh. “Oh! Are you trying to teach me another lesson? Hah, very funny. A riot. Right, let’s hurry this along now.” Her fingers clutch at my arm—not playful this time, but urgent.

I ignore her.

“Fire!” My bellow thunders through the throne room, my arm swinging wide—nearly taking Princesa with it.

The Ravager’s Ruin responds instantly.

A barrage of plasma cannons erupts, their rhythmic thuds reverberating through the hull like the pulse of Arawnoth’s molten heart.

The viewport tilts as I maneuver, shifting the stars while shimmering blue plasma slices through the darkness.

The blasts punch through the incoming drones, swallowing their shields, then their metal frames, then nothing.

Destroyed. Obliterated in an instant.

“Really, Dracoth?” Princesa huffs, brushing her hair back as she vigorously strokes Todd’s back, her fingers rubbing at his silver rune as if trying to scrub it off.

“You almost woke up our little Chug Bug! Is now really the time to show off? You know, with the million-billion murder-bots floating around?”

Her voice is drowned out by the electric buzz of the shield generator, straining under the retaliatory fire. The distant thud of plasma strikes against the hull ripples through the chamber, but the ship holds firm.

“Shields at 95 percent, War Chieftain,” Corsark reports coolly.

More than enough.

My hands move automatically, fingers flying over the controls, weaving the ship through the chaos.

The constant rhythmic thuds of plasma fire fade into the background.

My focus remains on the pursuing horde that chased us from Scythian territory.

My fingers hover over the controls, ready to break free.

Then—they stop.

As the Seeker drones reach the main battle, they don’t continue after us. They don’t engage. Instead, they slip effortlessly into formation, like a single drop merging with an ocean of glinting metal.

Strange.

The enemy’s focus is no longer on me—no longer on the Ravager’s Ruin Their priority has shifted. Now, they focus on the Nebian fleet.

Their ranks are like blades of crimson light. Watching them tear through the Seeker Swarm, I almost feel a flicker of hope.

Almost.

Until I see it. The tactical error and disorganization amongst the defenders.

The two hundred Battlebarges of my kin remain at the rear, fighting as a coordinated group—but not in support of the Nebians.

Not just them. The mercenary vessels hover at the flanks, distant and uninvolved—mere observers. Cowards? Or something else?

They fight as three separate forces. A rift. A crack in the alliance. Distrust? The result of once-sworn enemies now forced to stand together at the last moment? No. Krogoth and the Nebians are no fools. There is more at play here.

As if in answer, the comms erupt into a burst of garbled static, a sudden, piercing violation that claws into my mind. And worse—the laughter. Faint, lingering at the edges of perception. Hidden. Mocking. A whisper that forces you to question whether it’s real or a symptom of creeping madness.

“Corsark, try comms again,” I command, though I already know the answer.

“Still nothing, War Chieftain,” he confirms, his fingers darting over the terminal in futile effort.

Just as I suspected. The Voidbringer has somehow blocked standard communications between fleets.

Among the Klendathians, we still have our blessed warvisors—a direct mind-to-mind connection, a gift from the Gods, superior and unequaled.

But the Nebians? They fight as one, their coordination flawless.

They have something. Advanced computing?

Some other method? Whatever it is, it only functions among themselves.

Clever.

The steady, unrelenting downpour of plasma fire against the ship slows, lessening to a light drizzle.

Through the viewport, the lifeless wreckage of shattered Seeker drones drifts aimlessly, their red lenses now dark, their husks little more than frozen debris.

The few thousand-strong swarm that dared attack Ravager’s Ruin and my Battlebarge has been obliterated.

“Shields recharging, War Chieftain,” Corsark announces, a note of relief in his voice.

“Shields recharging,” Princesa echoes, exhaling as she settles against me once more, her delicate frame curling around mine like the finest fur blanket. “I like when he says that.”

As do I.

“My fingers need recharging,” Drexios complains, flexing his fingers, opening and closing his fists as if shaking off an ache.

Then his lips curl into a sharp grin. “Oh, but how I love it! I see enemies, I cut them to pieces. The carnage. The fear. You can feel it. Almost taste it. It’s in the air. It’s in our blood. All around us.”

“His blood’s full of crazy juice,” Princesa mutters under her breath.

If it’s slaughter he craves, then slaughter he shall have.

A smirk tugs at my lips as my gaze shifts downward, locking onto a damaged Voidbane drifting from the chaos of the frontlines.

A hulking chunk of blackened arcweave, its obsidian hull torn open like a beast gutted by a celestial blade.

Its flickering blue shields sputter like a failing heart, struggling to regain strength, clinging desperately to life.

A life I will claim.

My fingers glide over the controls, tilting the viewport downward as I guide us into position toward the prey.

Like a swooping arrohawk, I study the nearby Scythian formations for any sign of retaliation, any shift of attention toward us.

My hand hovers over the terminal, ready to pull back at the instant they move to swarm us.

Then, something cold grips me.

A ripple of unease skates down my spine as my eyes lock onto the Scythian fleet beyond the viewport, stretching beyond the edges of sight.

They are shifting. Adapting.

Their formation breaks like waves crashing against rocks, only to surge forward again in a metal fist of millions, closing around their prey with eerie precision.

This is the Voidbringer’s work.

I know how it thinks—the memories it forced into me, the torment it left behind. An intelligence as cold as the void itself. Precise. Unrelenting. Always calculating, recalculating.

The Seeker drones no longer act as shields, no longer intercept enemy fire. Now, all self-preservation is abandoned in favor of reckless, unrelenting charges.

Nebian Starcruisers exploit the gaps, weaving through the battlefield like crimson lightning, striking with deadly precision, their beams carving through Seeker drones before slamming into the Voidbanes beyond.

But they don’t notice the trap forming around them.

They think the drones are breaking, promising easy kills.

They are being drawn in.