Page 94 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

His blue-tainted scaled hands tug at the rainbow-colored plastic bag that dares have the audacity to be a coat with an emblem emblazoned. A roaring red beast with its head shaved, surrounded by a wreath of fire.

If you tilt your head and squint, it kind of looks like Dracoth. You know... if someone peed in his morning mocha.

“Where I go, you would not follow,” Dracoth growls, not angry—just stating a fact. “Spend your riches in comfortable, bloated decadence. A kindness, for your bravery.”

He flicks a dismissive hand and turns like he’s tossing out second-hand fashion. And instead of cheering? The creeps look devastated. Some collapse to their knees like toddlers dropped off at the wrong daycare. Others stare around in horror like someone dyed their favorite Chanel suit pink.

I don’t understand. Despite his poor phrasing. Bloated decadence sounds amazing. But nope. Not to the rapey space hobos. They’re devastated. Like their happiness depends on violence and trauma. Whatever. At least we’ll be rid of the creeps soon.

“Begging your pardon, great War Chieftain,” Balsar snorts, words slicing through the muttering.

“We’ve already followed you into a Mutalisk’s arse-end, and bet your last credit— we crawled back out the voider’s gaping maw, didn’t we?

” He glances at his fellow degenerates, that stupid, tusked grin spreading across his muddy face. “Ain’t that right lads?”

The horde of space hobos straighten, emboldened by whatever fermented trash they call courage. They nod, mutter, puff up like peacocks on their first date.

“Truth is, War Chieftain... at first, we served out of fear. Then for the credits.” His fingers flutter, the credit-chit dances between his digits like a rectangle-shaped gymnast. “Not that there was much going around back then, eh?” He chuckles like a fool, staring up at Dracoth with zero awareness that his deep brows are carved from subterranean rock at the core of Bore Mountain.

The chuckle fades faster than my patience, clearing his throat before continuing.

“Then we saw how you command. Those... things you can do.” His voice drops—like tens of thousands of people can’t hear him, despite the echoing silence.

“Some say you’re a god. A god of fire and fury made flesh that cannot be defeated.

We want to be part of that . Of the impossible.

” He leans forward, reverent, hopeful. “We’ll follow you anywhere. Just lead the way.”

The words settle in the air, smoldering like the lava-threaded cracks in the ground. I study Dracoth’s unreadable expression, silently praying he evicts them like ten-month-overdue tenants. But my prayers turn sour—a stinky curse.

A smirk. Tiny. Barely there. Uncommon but unmistakable.

Only eagle-eyed sleepy Todd and I would notice it.

Wonderful.

“You honor me, Balsar,” Dracoth rumbles, pride blooming through our bond like an inferno.

“If this is your will...” He sweeps his gaze over the space-hobos, their beady eyes alight with fervor.

“Then take your place among us, my loyal Shorthairs.” He gestures to the cracked plaza beneath their feet with his oversized red shovel-hand.

Of course, Dracoth keeps his creepy little toy soldiers. Yippie.

“Hah!” Balsar barks, nearly drowned out by the whooping cheers of the space-hobo collective. “You won’t regret this! We’ll use these credits and the Elerium to recruit and buy—”

“You spoke in error.” Dracoth slices through noise like those razor-sharp claws he keeps tucked away beneath his fingers. “I am no god, no War Chieftain. I have borne many defeats, many shames.”

What. The. Fuck. Is he doing!?

My ears are ringing, blood rushing so loud I can barely hear. He’s throwing away our plans, everything we’ve built. This reeks of a boy band farewell speech . A speech he’s kept hidden from me. His wife. His Mortakin-Kis.

Before us, the bone-through-the-nose brigade mirrors my confusion. They shift, mumble, eyes flitting from each other to him like kids watching the Dad I never had cry at the dinner table.

Wait. Wait. Maybe... maybe he’s setting me up? Stepping down so I take the lead? Now that would be the sweetest surprise gift ever.

He runs a hand through his short crimson hair, eyes distant. “Krogoth was the first. I failed to hunt him. He spared my life. In return, he tore my hair in shame.”

He’s praising Krogoth. Again. Lexie-enemy number one. The guy we have to kill.

I grip Dracoth’s arm. Nails digging in like needles, sharp enough to draw blood if not for those obsidian vambraces.

“Okay, I think you’ve used up your year’s word quota, today, babes,” I hiss through a smile faker than a politician’s promise.

“It’s got you all muddled. Maybe lie down for a day or ten, yeah?

Let me take over for a bit?” I whisper for his long ears alone, straining on tiptoes failing to reach his towering head.

With all my subtle might, I lean my weight on his arm, but it’s like pushing against Mount Frown-More—solid. Immovable. Scowling. The rude prick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even acknowledge me.

His focus is locked on the murmuring crowd, expression distant and unreadable, ignoring me.

It makes me feel... tiny.

Invisible.

Like he forgot I was even here. Like I’m just background static while he spirals into whatever glorious martyrdom fantasy he’s currently hard for.

I want to scream. Want to slap some sense into that angular jaw.

But I don’t. Instead, I lower my hand, breathing in through clenched teeth.

This fashion show has already turned hobo-chic disaster—no need to add more drama. If I spank him in public, it’ll only undermine my authority further. No. Let him flail. Let him fail . I’ll clean it up later.

“Good thing you failed to hunt the High Chieftain,” Jazreal calls, injecting some much-needed levity. “Or the Scythians would be rearranging our guts up there.” He jabs his spear at the overcast ruby sun like he’s trying to make the universe’s largest shish kabob.

“You’d still be dancing those Glaseroid inwards all the way back to Klendathor,” Drexios laughs, though in his typical prickish style there’s a razor buried within.

“Oh, look at me take flight! Long legs so graceful and light—fluttering through the void like starlight.” He skips through the plaza, arms and legs fluttering dramatically like a demented schoolgirl.

Great. Now the freak show’s doing stand-up.

Good-natured laughter erupts from the space-knights, echoing strangely through the hollowed-out husks of industrial buildings.

Jazreal smirks with the undamaged side of his face. “Your rhythms are as tiresome as your fighting skills—Prospect weak, and—”

“I was weak in Crucible,” Dracoth cuts in, voice low and hollow, his eyes distant as they fix on the infernos burning across the horizon. “I failed to defeat the Voidbringer. Failed to stop the droid legions. Forced to flee to Argon-Six...”

Oh no. Not this again.

His voice trails off like a bad signal. The awkwardness returns with the force of a thousand blow-dryers.

The space-knights shift uncomfortably, trading side-eyes like he just ripped one during a recital.

I slyly tug at his arm, trying to usher him off this wreckage-turned stage, hoping a hook drags him off before he digs us an even larger hole to climb out off.

But he doesn’t move. He just looks down at me, brows lifted in something perilously close to regret. The expression is so utterly absurd on his brutal features, my hand drops by reflex and I might be gaping like a goldfish begging for fish flakes.

“I failed to inspire and lead those closest to me.”

Wait—me? That rude prick!

But this is bad. He’s spiraling. Speedrunning a premature midlife crisis in front of the entire clan. I’m losing him.

I lean in, softening my voice, trying to mask the panic rising in my chest. “Come on, babes. It’s been a long day for everyone, lets just—”

His massive claws snap open with a metallic shriek, razor-sharp and gleaming in the firelight and gloomy ruby sunlight. Gasps ripple through the gathered space-knights as he drags them across his scalp.

Tufts of crimson hair rain down on me like blood-soaked petals.

“I am not my father. Not the undefeated War Chieftain Gorexius.” His voice breaks as more hair falls. “I carry shame. Dracoth the Shorthair Chieftain.”

He keeps hacking at his hair like a celeb mid-meltdown on a livestream.

The space-knights look away, visibly squirming—because in their culture, hair isn’t just hair.

It’s an unending pissing-contest of who the best head basher is, who has the most honor.

And Dracoth is cutting his away, one shorn strand at a time.

I always liked his short hair. Made him look different—less techno-barbarian, aging rockstar, more dangerous jock. So, I wouldn’t care, except the space-knights care. They’re watching their leader publicly humiliate himself.

“Will you fucking stop that,” I hiss through clenched teeth, no longer bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

“ Pinkie’s finally voiding right,” Drexios sneers, leaping onto the dais like a venomous red frog. He grabs Dracoth’s wrist. “If you carry shame, then the rest of us ought to be as bald as puffrio eggs. Stop, you overgrown aurodon ass.”

Jazreal steps in, graceful as ever, arms open in his signature performative warmth.

“You’ve earned your title, War Chieftain,” he says, voice steady.

“You led us to this victory. Stormed their fortress, rescued the Revered Mothers and the lost clones. Escaped the heart of the Scythian empire with their fleet biting at our heels. Gods, that wasn’t just survival—it was a miracle .

Now our people are finally free. You give us the chance to atone for our past sins.

Elder Ignixis smiles down on you, brother. ”

He claps Dracoth on the back with a resounding thump , grinning, his green eyes bright with sincerity.