Page 85 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

The arcweave net closes around them, shifting like a living thing, metal masses moving into place with unnerving coordination. A Starcruiser banks sharply, twisting with incredible speed and agility, but the space around it has already been sealed off—boxed in—a metal sarcophagus.

I lose sight of it just as Its laser shields flare bright red as it vanishes, consumed by a churning plague of metal.

Brutal. Effective.

The tactics of a machine without fear.

A sacrifice of millions to kill thousands. And below—the horrifying process repeats. A hundred times over, across the battlefield. Ships ensnared, swarmed, buried.

Desperate Starcruisers, Starfighters, and Battlesuits try to cut their way free, but the horde is endless. The metal tide thickens, pressing inward, crushing, suffocating, killing.

“The Shorties are getting mauled out there,” Drexios lets out a short, sharp laugh, his eye gleaming. “Can’t lie—seeing the little shits get a taste of their own medicine has me all tingly.”

He celebrates while the battlefield is turning into a graveyard.

The situation is dire. It always was. But now, hope is fading. An ember, dwindling in the dark. Systematically extinguished with each Nebian ship crushed.

What can I do?

My gaze drops to my hands, fingers clenching into fists so tightly that the tendons groan in protest. They ripple with unbreakable strength—strength that is useless here.

I lack Arawnoth’s flames. The divine fire that could turn the tide of battle. Even now, I can only summon the smallest flicker. It dances weakly before me, its glow so dim it barely casts a shadow. As feeble and mocking as the static-laced laughter that haunts our comms.

“Aww, your little sparklers are so cute, babes,” Princesa coos, her voice coated in false sweetness, masking the vipertail’s barb beneath.

She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes narrowing to silver-crimson blades. A tiny shield cage materializes around my flame, encasing it for an instant before snuffing it out from lack of oxygen.

“Oops. Too bad. If that’s the best you can manage, maybe we should get the hell out of here?” She says with a light laugh, though there’s something just a little too forced about it, her gaze lingering on the viewport, the apprehension she tries to hide, blazing in our bond.

No.

To flee now would only delay the inevitable.

The Voidbringer will come for us, once it has crushed the Nebians beneath its relentless tide of metal. It will blot out the beautiful purple sun of Klendathor, darkening our skies with an unstoppable plague.

Retreat to save the Revered Mothers will be the last recourse. But what future is that? A destiny to be hunted by the Scythians. We—the male Klendathians—cannot fail them again. We will die before betraying them again.

The Gods will punish us. The ancestors will weep rivers of blood.

But how do we win?

Princesa’s divine shields?

She lounges in my lap, idly stroking the sleeping Todd curled against her shoulder, her other hand inspecting her diamond and Elerium rings as if none of this concerns her. Maddening and graceful in equal measure.

What are the depths of her powers? How much fire can her barriers absorb?

Pointless questions.

The cruel truth is—she cannot be relied upon. Willful and chaotic, she helps in unpredictable ways only when it benefits her. To base my strategy around her would be foolishness—inviting disaster.

My attention shifts back to the damaged Voidbane drifting ahead.

Now that we’ve closed the distance, the full extent of its wounds is revealed.

Its thrusters barely cling to the main bulk, hanging on by sparking, severed supports.

Slabs of thick obsidian arcweave have been carved open by Nebian Starcruiser-class laser cannons, the cuts precise and clean—like flesh sliced apart by a healer’s knife.

A perfect target.

This is the best strategy for now. Exploit their flank while they’re distracted, killing as many as possible. And by Arawnoth’s will, an opportunity may arise.

“Finish that Voidbane!” My voice thunders through the throne room, a command of war and blood.

“Aye, aye, War Chief. One eye for bye-bye,” Drexios howls, his shrill laughter almost swallowed by the eruption of plasma fire. The ship’s battery of twin-linked cannons detonates in the void, unleashing a storm of molten death.

“Aww, don’t worry your little Chug Bug booties,” Princesa coos, cradling the bloated, grotesque form of Todd like an adoring mother. “Daddy Dracoth’s just doing his meathead-jock thing.”

Anticipation crackles through my veins like an electric storm. The barrage from Ravager’s Ruin and the Battlebarge crashes into the Voidbane’s shields, hammering it with relentless force.

This should be an easy kill. But something is wrong. The shields—they don’t break. They were flickering, dying. Now, they flare to life, stronger than before, flaring white-hot as they absorb every molten blast.

What is this?

The Voidbane drifts further away. No—not drifting. Pulling us in. The space beyond is littered with twisted, melted metal. A graveyard of ruinous hulks, and drones languishing like lost spirits.

Not wrecks, but deactivated ships. My blood turns to ice water. A trap.

The noose is tightening around my unwary neck.

Fool!