Page 89 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Drex-iot?” she sneers. “Like I wouldn’t see through your sad little reverse psychology attempt? It’s as obvious and obnoxious as every stupid thought you stink up the air with.”

Drexios shrugs, casual, either oblivious or unfazed by the plasma-hot rage he stokes. “Call it like I see it, Pinkie. ”

Princesa blinks, incredulous. “Like you see it? What are you freaking blind? Didn’t you just see—” She cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. “Fine. Whatever. There’s no point arguing with morons, is there my little Chug Bug? ”

She strokes her pet Todd, the pointless bloated creature blinking up at her with its gleaming single black eye, dumb and content.

“Oh no, there isn’t,” she coos, turning toward the viewport, lifting her arms once more.

Beyond the glass, the distant wreckage of Battlebarges—twisted metal and drifting ruins—suddenly flickers with shimmering shields.

Silvery edges catch the harsh crimson glare of Argon’s star, reflecting the cold blue fire of plasma blasts.

Other hulks drift like a graveyard of metal.

No longer ramming, no longer firing, lights dimmed, engines silent.

Most likely the warriors within have heeded my instructions to cut ship systems.

Princesa exhales, voice tight with strain. “Hey, babes.” She glances over her shoulder, gesturing ahead. “Bring me closer to those ones. I can’t reach them from here.”

Without hesitation, I guide the ship forward, carefully weaving through the wreckage, past the silent goliaths floating like lost souls in the void. On the navigational display, my Shorthairs dart back and forth between Battlebarges, ferrying the survivors unimpeded.

A modicum of relief settles in my chest.

Drexios’ gambit—goading Princesa into action—has saved many lives this day.

Princesa stifles a yawn despite the sweat beading on her flushed face. Still, she presses on, summoning barrier after barrier to shield our battered ships.

The vast throne room is steeped in silence, broken only by the soft thuds of debris against our shields.

No. Not just debris—bodies. Warriors drift into view, their frozen forms like shattered asteroids.

Arcweave armor gleams beneath a thin frost, their final anguish masked by warvisors.

We push through the wreckage, undeterred.

There’s no time to mourn.

The battle still rages near Argon-Six—the accursed world of death, ever thirsting for more.

Through the navigational display, I see it unfold.

The Scythian fleet, gutted but relentless, halts its retreat.

Krogoth’s vortexes no longer harry them, and though their numbers are decimated, the Seeker drones and Voidbanes still swarm like a living tide.

They form a glinting wall of metal, reflecting Argon’s crimson starlight.

Nebian forces react quickly to the shifting battlefield.

Their nimble vessels weave through the chaos, performing maneuvers that would split the hulls of lesser ships.

Ruby laser fire meets searing blue plasma, cutting precision against molten fury.

Mercenary ships sense the tide turning; they linger at the edges, skittish cowards too afraid to face Scythian wrath directly.

But the tide of metal surges forward, grasping, clutching. Ensnaring isolated ships in an inescapable cage of molten death. Wreckage and corpses spiral in orbit, forming a grim celestial ring of carnage around Argon-Six.

The Scythians suffer the most. Their losses should be catastrophic, but their unending, unfeeling horde continues to press forward. The Voidbringer will sacrifice billions to grind the Nebians into space dust. Pay any price. Bear any loss. It will not stop until it’s extinguished all life.

It’s turning into a rout, the forces hurtling toward our crippled fleet, threatening to wash us away. I grimace noticing the Shorthair vessels still ferrying survivors to the Ravager’s Ruin . Time is running out. Our people are on the brink of extinction.

I steady my voice. “Corsark, how much longer?”

“A rough estimate, War Chieftain. Given current projections—thirty minutes,” Corsark replies, fingers flying across his shimmering blue terminal.

Thirty minutes. Faster than I dared hope. Still not fast enough.

Corsark hesitates, then lifts his masked face. “The chatter on the network says the warbands were already deployed on Argon-Six, War Chieftain.” His tone swells with infectious relief. “The Battlebarges only had skeleton crews.”

Praise Arawnoth.

Drexios lets out a sharp laugh. “Those sneaky voiding cunts. We’re up here floating in space like limp-dicked Shorties while they’re having all the fun planetside.” He sneers, claws snapping out with an audible click. “I say void this shit. Let’s do some killing, War Chief.”

Fighting planetside. An honor out of reach.

“No,” I growl, watching the defensive line collapse, ships pushing back toward us inch by inch.

Princesa exhales sharply. “That’s the last one.” She yawns, trying—and failing—to mask her exhaustion. “All nice and snug, wrapped up in my...” She pauses, lips curling into a smug smile. “...my divinity.”

She’s drained. I see it in the slump of her shoulders, feel it through our bond. A gnawing exhaustion, dragging her toward unconsciousness.

She stumbles toward my throne, smiling faintly. Pride swells in my chest. That she—my Mortakin-Kis—had the strength to shield the entire Klendathian fleet. That she bore the Gods’ toll and did not break.

Her legs tremble. Too much strain.

I move without thinking, sliding from the large obsidian chair in a rush of movement. In a single, practiced motion, I sweep her off her feet, holding her against my armored chest.

“Thanks... thanks babe, wee Todd is all tuckered out now.” She murmurs softly, eyes drifting closed like a beautiful mercury sunset.

A chuckle almost escapes me. Todd is always ‘ tuckered’ out.

I carry her to the throne, golden strands of her hair slipping through my fingers like liquid sunbeams as I stroke her head.

“Told you I could beat that Krogoth guy, didn’t I?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Yes. You make me proud.” I growl, lowering her onto the throne she craves, my fingers gently tightening her robes around her sleeping form. My words may be lost to her exhaustion, but they are true nonetheless.

“Is she finally asleep?” Drexios asks, his voice laced with anticipation.

I nod in agreement.

“Thank void. Do you feel that?” He lifts his head and hands, inhaling deeply.

“The air’s lighter. Every breath like a sweet scoomer drag.

” He barks a short laugh. “Oh, you’ve got your hands full with that one, War Chief.

One minute she’s all pristine puffrio, the next, a furious venefex snapping at everything in sight.

My head’s spinning, and I’m used to dealing with crazy bastards. ”

I should reprimand him. But I can’t deny the truth of his words. The same truth gnaws at my mind with concern.

To look upon her now—a tiny female, snoring softly, her ample chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm—she is innocent as a newborn, as beautiful as a sunrise. Yet beneath that serene exterior lies the dangerous uncertainty of a cosmic storm.

“I will bring her back,” I mutter, a solemn, whispered promise.

“War Chieftain, a Shorthair vessel disobeys orders,” Corsark interrupts, his tone laced with annoyance.

A coward? Now? After everything they’ve endured?

My gaze snaps to the navigation display. A tiny blue dot breaks away from the others ferrying between this ship and the stranded Battlebarges. Not to flee. No. The ship hurtles toward the raging battle turned rout—a needle plunging into the titanic metal jaws of the enemy.

A frantic attempt to prove themselves?

“The pilot responded. Message reads: A large Klendathian has taken control of the ship.” Corsark says, confusion matching my own.

“Must be from warband Hemovyrn’s Blood,” Drexios sneers. “Those voiders have a death wish.”

“No,” I mutter, my warvisor-enhanced senses bridging the vast distance of space. The Scythian forces recoil, scattering like a flock of puffrios before a swooping arrohawk.

“ Krogoth .”

He’s aboard the rogue Shorthair vessel, ripping holes in the fabric of reality among the withering ranks of the metal horde. Voidbanes and Seeker drones scramble to escape the churning voids of cosmic death.

But they can’t escape the inescapable.

The gravitational force of the universe itself strips the arcweave from their frames, piece by piece, pulling them inextricably toward oblivion. Mountainous obsidian warships crumble, squeezed into swirling abysses no larger than my fist.

“Would you look at that,” Drexios laughs, visor locked on the viewport. “He likes killing Scythians more than you do.”

My fist tightens, bones creaking under the strength none but I possess.

This is Krogoth’s victory. It cannot be denied.

Masses of Seeker drones hurl themselves into the celestial voids in a desperate attempt to reach his fragile ship, but the Nebians fall into formation, encasing him in a prism of biting lasers.

The Scythians refuse to die, refuse to yield.

They scatter like embers in a blizzard, only to reform, testing new angles, new strategies.

Each failure costs them dearly. Every attempt sends millions more drones into a realm that defies reason and logic.

The wrath of the Gods.

“War Chieftain, the Shorthairs report all survivors are aboard the Ravager’s Ruin, ” Corsark breathes, relief washing over him as what once seemed an impossible dream becomes reality before our eyes.

“Good,” I growl, my gaze shifting to a shattered world in the distance—Argon-Six.