Page 90 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

My hands guide the ship toward the planet, engine rumbling as we hurtle through wreckage thudding against our shields.

I focus my warvisor on the communications from the planet’s surface.

Instantly, my mind is flooded with the barked commands of War Heralds—confident yet strained.

Their forces meet stiff resistance from hordes of Scythian droids and towering Dreadforges.

“War Chieftain, I’m picking up hyperspeed signatures,” Corsark says, his words slicing through my elation like an icy blade. “A fleet approaches.”

Another fleet? A final desperate ploy from the Voidbringer?

The Rush pours through my veins like molten lava, ready to unleash death upon whatever emerges.

Then, I see it. Multi-hued lights streak across the void like a meteor shower, materializing into gleaming ships. Not the angular tombstones of Voidbanes nor the darting orbs of Seeker drones. No. Something much sleeker, something rumored to exist but doubted by the wise.

The Imperator’s Fist.

It lances through the void with elegance and lethal precision, an elongated dagger of burnished violet arcweave trimmed with molten gold, glowing faintly even in the void, as if coated in pure Elerium.

Three times the length of a standard Starcruiser, its bow tapers to a razor-edged prow, looking capable of slicing through fleets like the vast array of laser cannons dotting its surfaces.

Flanking the Imperator’s Fist are twelve Praetorian-class Starcruisers —each a pristine masterpiece of war.

Smaller echoes of the flagship, their hulls gleam a deep amethyst, their prows etched with the Imperator’s sigil.

They rotate around their master like armored gauntlets guarding a clenched fist, ensuring no enemy approaches unburned.

“Hah!” Drexios barks, equal parts amusement and surprise.

“Can you voiding believe this? The old geezer himself makes an appearance. Do you know how long your father and I tried to goad this ancient shite from Nebia? And now here he is, swooping in to steal the show when the fight’s already won.

” He shakes his head ruefully. “Voiding Shorties. You know what I think? I reckon we ought to have a little pop at ‘em.” His tone drips with dark amusement. “For old times’ sake.”

“No,” I mutter absently, transfixed by the unfolding carnage.

The Imperator’s Fist crashes into the Scythian flank, its pointed plow sparking with crimson fire as it carves through a Voidbane like a claw through snow—bisecting it with frightening ease.

Hundreds of laser cannons ignite, turning the void into a searing inferno.

Ruby beams punch through the hordes of Seeker drones and Voidbanes, eviscerating them, wiping them from existence.

Pressed from both sides, the Scythian forces break, scattering like grains of sand in a storm. The allied fleet surges after them, cutting down the retreating enemy with ruthless precision. The system becomes a graveyard of metal.

And then—silence.

Not the absence of sound, but the absence of something else. The garbled, insidious static that once infected the comms is gone. The subconscious slither of ice that coiled around my thoughts—gone. The weight of mountains lifts from my shoulders.

This battle—the war for our futures—once impossible, is now a blazing victory.

Elation surges in my chest, echoed by thousands of Klendathians through the warvisor’s mental link. All that remains is the cleansing of Argon-Six. With my Berserkers and Ravager’s Ruin in support, it will fall quickly.

But my gaze shifts to the sleeping form of Princesa.

Her head is tilted, golden hair splayed against the throne, her breathing slow and steady. Atop her shoulder rests the bloated useless cyloillar, almost ruining the sight.

Clever. Beautiful. Dangerous .

Before the battle she sought to usurp my position. Using her sermons to twist my warriors against my command. She thinks me weak —that only she possesses the strength to follow Arawnoth’s teachings.

But she is mistaken.

I am strength. I am his molten hand.

“Drexios,” I growl, lowering the ship into the poisonous obsidian clouds of Argon-Six. “Prepare the Ravager’s Berserkers. You will lead them. Remind our brethren why we are the strongest warband. From the Ruin I will destroy the Dreadforges.”

“Aye, aye, War Chief,” Drexios sneers, pivoting on his heel like a thrown dagger, his half-cloak snapping behind him. “Time to spill. Time to kill.”

“Drexios.” This time, I send my voice directly through the warvisor—thought-to-thought, sharp and hard as arcweave.

“ The ash-smeared Berserkers. Send them where the fighting’s fiercest.”

He stiffens, pausing as if he’s walked into Princesa’s barrier. Then, his answering thought slithers back to me, laced with dark mirth. “ Let them be reborn in strength, War Chief.”

“Come on, you cunts.” Drexios turns to the warriors lining the walls—those who dared disobey my orders in her name. He jerks his chin toward the viewport. “We’ve got some trash to scrap.”

And I have a war to finish.