Page 95 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
“War Chieftain!” The space-knights and Shorthairs’ roar in unison, fists hammering against breastplates, war horns howling into the ash-laced sky, banners whipping like battle-flames.
Then I feel it. Dracoth’s pride explodes through our bond like a supernova, dragging me with it. His breakdown, his raw vulnerability—somehow it hasn’t weakened their loyalty.
It’s forged it stronger.
Stockholm Syndrome? Collective trauma? A masterclass in battlefield theatrics?
Whatever it is, it worked. And I can’t help but wonder...
Did he plan this?
He nods solemnly, focus returning as he scans the roaring crowd.
“I have spoken with many of you. I have seen you fight. Seen you bleed. I know what lives in your hearts.” His voice rings out like prophecy, cutting clean through the smoke and ash.
“Centuries of endless bloodshed under the cruel control of machines. The weight of past crimes weighing heavily upon weary shoulders. A burden that should never have been borne.”
He gestures toward the nearby chasm of lava, flames casting his silhouette like some war-torn statue of legend.
“To you, I offer solace. A peace long overdue. A rest earned a thousand times over. Lay down your arms. Return to blessed Klendathor with heads held high, pride blazing in your hearts. Your sins are cleansed—in blood and fire. Rebuild our shattered people. Teach the next generation the courage shown here today. The harsh lessons bought with sacrifice, so that brother never again turns against brother.”
I blink, stunned, like I’ve just been slapped in the face with a wet fish.
Heartfelt. Powerful. Deeply moving... Where was he hiding this side of himself? His armpit?
Impressive words, except for the teeny-tiny problem he’s trying to disband our entire fucking army?
Whiplash doesn’t begin to cover it. One second, he’s an eggheaded genius, next he’s the biggest drooling idiot alive. I swear, this man is an emotional rollercoaster with no seatbelts and way too many loops.
“And you?” Jazreal asks, head high, long black-grey hair sweeping dramatically in the wind like his usual Classy-Jazzy war-movie style.
Dracoth’s eyes flash molten coals, drifting to his clenching fists, the armor groaning like me internally.
“I will scour the Voidbringer’s mechanical filth from existence,” he says, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
His gaze lifts to the obsidian skies. “Every galaxy. Every planet. Every station. I will hunt it, and eradicate every last circuit it clings too. I will teach it the meaning of fear... and regret.”
He pauses, looking back to the crowd, eyes gleaming with unnerving resolve. “There may be more clones, more Revered Mothers lost among the stars. I will light their path back home. That is where I go. That is what awaits those who follow.”
My heart thunders in my chest. There go my dreams of lounging on a sun-drenched balcony, ruling over a high-fashion, delicious-food-filled galaxy as Goddess Empress. That vision evaporates faster than Michael in bed.
“I’m with you, War Chieftain,” Jazreal growls, spinning his spear before slamming it into the shattered stone. “Not until they suffer. Not until vengeance is delivered.”
“Hah!” Drexios barks, hopping on the dais like a demon in a discount cape. “And here I thought you’d prance back to Klendathian with your flower crown, Death Herald.” He flutters his fingers mockingly. “But can’t lie—I like killing. So congrats, you cunts are stuck with me.”
How does this keep getting worse?
Dracoth nods at the pair, his face the usual unreadable Mr. Frowny Face. But through our bond, I can feel it—pride and joy surging like a storm tide.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’m being dragged into the deepest circle of hell. Murder-bot hell. With bone-through-the-noses, holes in the ground for toilets, garnish rags for clothes, jelly sticks for meals, and genocidal machines trying to turn us into abstract art.
Dracoth raises his voice again, gesturing to the cracked earth beneath us.
“Those who wish to return and rebuild—come now. Lay down your arms with heads high. With my blessing.”
A heavy silence settles over the sea of soldiers. Tens of thousands of black-armored space-knights glance between each other. For a moment, hope soars like how I wish my bank account did—the glorious horde I need to rule, ready to conquer brunch planets and cosmetic empires—remain standing.
Then one steps forward.
Long crimson hair streaked with grey. Face like pebbledash, carved with ancient scars. I know him—the space-knight who begged to see the Revered Mothers. The one I promised would only fight one last battle.
Another follows. Then another. A trickle becomes a steady stream, breaking from the crowd and flowing toward us.
Drexios scoffs, jabbing a finger at them. “Voiding cowards. I can smell the piss from here. You just wanna bed the Revered Mothers while we do the dying.”
“ Silence! ” Dracoth snaps, his fury slicing through the air like a virgin credit card.
Drexios tuts but remains silent for once.
“There are no cowards here,” Dracoth says, voice iron. “Only heroes .” He turns back toward the approaching warriors, arms open. “Come.”
There are hundreds of them now—each one a chipped nail clawing at my perfectly manicured ambitions. And wouldn’t you know it? A pattern emerges. A river of grizzled, gray-streaked longhairs. Rockstars on steroids, their glory days long behind them.
Wonderful. I’m losing the most experienced space-knights. The veterans with enough battle stories to fill an entire season of Klendathian Court Dramas: Blood Edition.
Red-Hair—the OG buzzkill—slams a fist to his chest and inclines his head to Dracoth. “I will have the peace that was promised.” His gaze cuts to me—ancient and judgmental, like I’m the one who pooped in his armored boots.
That was Todd. Always Todd.
The grizzled space-knight twists a mechanism on his wrist. A ring of ashen metal clicks loose and falls to the rocky ground with a thud .
“I’ve lived centuries knowing nothing but blood and death,” He growls, glaring at Drexios as he repeats the process with the other wrist.
Drexios waves mockingly, wiggling his fingers like he’s sending off a cruise ship.
“To once again bask in the beauty of Klendathor’s sun...” He closes his eyes. Breathes deep. “My thanks, War Chieftain.”
And off he goes, striding through the crowd after the mic drop. The others part to let him pass, reverent. Hundreds follow, repeating the ritual. More wrist-thingamajigs fall. Each metallic clink has my lips pinch tighter.
After what feels like a lifetime of listening to metaphorical nails screech across the universe’s biggest chalkboard, I’ve officially hit my limit. If this keeps up, I’ll be left with nothing but teenagers, and lunatics.
And Dracoth? Mr. Frowny Face just watches them go, not a single blink of resistance. Letting them ride off into the ash-sunset like some tragic, slow-paced cowboy movie.
No. No, no, no.
“Babes,” I coo, sweet as poison, my teeth clenched tighter than Basic Mothers’ wallet. I clutch his arm with both hands, voice low and glittery with barely-contained panic. “I think we should go somewhere private and discuss this little matter.”
I lean in closer, eyes practically screaming, care about my feelings for once , even as my voice flutters like a schoolgirl with a secret.
“You know. Before they all fucking abandon us!”
And then—
A horn blares. Long and mournful.
Then another. And another. A war horn chorus rising into a deafening cacophony.
The crowd shifts, heads turning. A ripple of motion spreads like oil over water. The space-knights part, murmurs rising. Something’s coming.
No— bone-through-the-noses .
A new group strides forward through the ashen smoke and broken stone.
Space-knights, yes, but different. Bronze armor, polished to a divine gleam.
Silver filigree curling along their plates like constellations.
Their skin is dusky, golden undertones glinting in the ashlight.
Long, thick hair spills down their backs, adorned with plumes so vivid and colorful they make a peacock look like a sad chicken.
Dracoth’s head lifts slightly.
Drexios scoffs, folding his arms, muttering to the side, “Chieftain Vorthax of the Astranix Clan. Old featherhead himself.”