Page 96 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Peacock

M y Magaxus warriors part, a sea of ashen armor glittering with shard-like glints, shifting aside to reveal the newcomers.

A dozen Astranix warriors.

Their bronze armor gleams with silver filigree, hair adorned with bright, plumed feathers—colors too vivid for war. Avian frills from their mountain homeland, Aurnith. Beautiful. Inefficient. Absurd.

But their leader... he catches my eye.

One of the ancients. Broad and solid, his long iron-grey hair whipping in the ash-choked wind, brushing against the massive plasma axe slung across his back.

Chieftain Vorthax.

I know him by reputation alone. Said to have been a childhood friend of my father, Gorexius. So, is it blood ties and sentiment that draw him here?

“Featherhead’s a fine Chieftain,” Drexios mutters at my side, his breath warm in my ear. “Humorless as a festering gut wound though. Watch—I’ll show you.”

His lone eye gleams with mischief as he sizes up the warriors.

The Astranix warriors seem transfixed, frozen as they peer up at the power radiating from me in waves. Amusingly they wear respirators. The ash choked gales too much for their kind. Only us Magaxus—Scarn born—are strong enough to endure.

Vorthax studies me the longest, his wrinkled pale-golden eyes narrowed, thoughtful, piercing. Like he’s trying to drill through me, through the armor and into the bone.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. Neither of us blink. The air crackles, thick with the same electric charge as the crimson lightning tearing across the obsidian clouds.

“Ooh, lookie here,” Drexios croons, tilting his head like a predator eyeing its prey. “Colorful birdies come to visit. Pity the Scythians didn’t roast these strutting puffrios alive. Too grizzled? Too gamey?”

He vaults from the dais, landing hard in front of them. Slag cracks beneath his boots.

“You Magaxus are ash-addled,” barks one Astranix, a dark-haired warrior already stepping forward, squaring up. “Sucking fumes and belching hot air where respect’s due.”

“I’m all out of respect, feather-voider,” Drexios grins, claws extending with a menacing snap . “But lucky for you, the food dispenser’s running—and I’m starving for poultry.”

“Your tongue’s as sharp as ever, Drexios,” Vorthax rumbles, his voice like ancient stones grinding down a mountain. “But I didn’t come to bandy barbs with Gorexius’s pet.”

He steps forward, his large frame easily brushing my Second aside.

“So. The rumors were true. Gorexius returns from the netherworld. A hemovyrn crawling free from the Catacombs of Nardune...” He tilts his head, appraising me.

The name ‘Gorexius’ is a brand pressed to my spine. My father’s shadow stretches long—even here, in this wasteland. Inescapable, his destiny continues to corrupt my own.

“Though you appear younger. Marked by shame. Wearing the bones of Hemo-Tok. You honor the old ways. Do you remember me, old friend? Or perhaps—this?”

Like the axe he unslings, his voice carries an edge—hope, pain... maybe both. He runs his hand along the etched bronze runes, fingers brushing the notched edge. The metal is darkened arcweave, the leather grip cracked and worn. The cutting-edge glows faintly with dormant plasma channels.

“Stormcleaver,” he says. “The gift you gave me.”

“An impressive blade,” I growl, eyes flicking from axe to eyes. “If a little decorative.”

His golden gaze snaps to mine—then he barks a dry laugh. It echoes strangely in the broken silence of the plaza.

“The same words you spoke when I first asked for the runes.” He hefts the weapon in both hands, holding it before him in a weathered grip strong enough to tear mountains.

“Isn’t life strange? A few months ago I used this to split Nebian Battlesuits in half. Right here. This very sector—we rained molten death from orbit. Nearly broke the Nebian war engine in a single blow.”

He looks up at the ravaged skyline, the slagged spires, the drifting ash.

And now...” His voice softens. “Now Krogoth... High Chieftain Krogoth arrives—sowing discord, undoing everything we bled for.” His gaze snaps back to me, fire rekindling.

“Doesn’t it burn you, brother? Doesn’t it seethe ?

To turn traitor—ally with the enemy —moments from victory?

” He drives the axe butt into the slag. It splits open with a sound like thunder, cracks spidering out like veins across the plaza.

“The blood spilled. The dead left behind. Every inch we clawed forward—a brutal, crawling gauntlet. For what? Nothing!”

His voice is thunder now.

“Our ancestors weep at this betrayal!”

Golden Rush wisps from his eyes like smoke, dancing away on the scorched wind. My fists clench, gauntlets creaking under the strain. His passion, his fury... it calls to me. To the molten part of my soul I buried. He echoes everything I once believed. Before I learned the truth.

That the real betrayal wasn’t Krogoth. It was my father, forcing our enslavement to the Scythians. Not just for us Klendathians. But for all life.

And yet... he offers opportunity.

A path once swallowed by Krogoth’s spiraling vortex, now reignites—blazing and glorious—before me. His grip over the clans is tenuous at best. Old wounds split like polymer under hyperspeed. Loyalties stretch thin, threatening to tear completely.

My heart pounds against my ribs. Blood surges like magma through my veins, stoked by the raging destiny manifesting—the one that was promised. To rise. To rule. To stand as War Chieftain.

Alone. Unopposed.

With Vorthax’s backing—and perhaps the others—I could snap Krogoth’s spine. Add his brittle vertebrae to my belt. Take his place. As I should.

But... could I defeat him?

Not as he is now. Not while divinity coils through his every limb. But as a mortal? Stripped of the Gods’ blessings, bound by sinew and skill alone?

In that arena—no one rivals me.

I am the strongest. Arawnoth’s chosen. His molten fury flows through my noble veins. And with Princesa’s bond stoking my abilities, I soar higher than even my father’s storied legend.

My fangs bare. Lips curled into a snarl. Just the thought of it—a clash of champions, strength against strength—sends Rush-red spilling from my eyes. A trial by fire. Finally, a worthy contest to crown destiny.

But what’s best for our people?

There is no doubt. I would lead them to greater heights. My resolve, my strategies—unmatched.

I could seize the title. Peacefully, if possible. Claim the future that’s owed to us all.

But...

Power for power’s sake—that is the treacherous path. The path that almost led us into ruin. Into the Scythians’ cold, metallic chains. A cycle of tyranny disguised as tradition.

Krogoth’s rebellion, for all its premature recklessness, did bring freedom. Victory.

Doesn’t that deserve loyalty? Doesn’t that deserve... respect?

“No—”

“Such a big, hard weapon you have, Chieftain Vorthax,” Princesa’s voice slices through the tension like a plasma claw, silencing my thoughts mid-battle plan. She flashes me a knowing glare, wicked and self-aware.

“I’m Lexie, by the way,” she purrs, stepping forward with her usual exaggerated grace.

“But you may refer to me as the Divine Daughter .” She shrugs her shoulder, prompting the useless Todd to creak open an unimpressed lazy eye, before blinking it shut again.

“And this little chug bug?” She pats his squishy form. “The Divine Cherub. ”

“Divine... Cherub?” Vorthax’s heavy brows climb.

His gaze flicks between them, visibly recalculating.

“Ah. You must be the eccentric sorceress I’ve heard about—the one who shielded our fleets.

” He inclines his head. Slow. Deliberate.

The colorful feathers in his hair flutter like a dying sunset. “You have my thanks.”

“ Eccentric ?” Princesa mutters, too softly for most to hear—but I feel the words boil through our bond, her fury flaring like mercury hitting flame. “Rude prick.”

She steps forward, sultry and simmering, two fingers tracing the runes branded across her chest. They blaze to life in her wake, Arawnoth’s mark flaring like molten scripture.

“You’re wrong, actually,” she says, louder now. “Wrong about a lot of things. I’m not some hobo street magician pulling rabbits from a hat or whatever. I am divine .”

She raises her hand—and my breath stills.

A silvery barrier materializes between Vorthax and his axe.

Its edges shimmer, reflecting crimson light and flickering flame for a single heartbeat before slamming into the weapon with supernatural force.

The massive blade wrenches from Vorthax’s grip, sending him lurching forward.

His boot scrapes across the cracked slag.

Gasps ripple across the plaza.

“See?” Princesa hums, raising more barriers. Translucent walls snap into place around the Astranix warriors. They rush to aid their Chieftain—and slam face-first into her invisible prison.

“Hah!” She barks a sharp laugh, cruel and bright. Then she covers her lips in mock surprise, peering down at Stormcleaver , now buried half-deep in the stone. “Oops. You dropped it.” She clucks her tongue. “Butterfingers.”

She wiggles her tiny fingers.

“But you know... from up here, I can really see how small and pathetic it is.” She sighs dramatically, “Sad how everything always ends up so disappointing.” Her fuming silver-ruby eyes trail over me with that same smoldering condescension. “It’s tragic, really.”

And inside me, something turns cold. The same loathsome doubt I thought I’d purged claws its way back up my spine. Icy tendrils of helplessness gnaw at my gut.

Princesa. My Mortakin-Kis . Glorious. Dangerous. Out of control. And increasingly... unstable.

Should I stop her? Can I? She could crush us all, my entire clan— gone— lost to the chaotic whims of a female who dances between genius and madness as quickly as I navigate life and death.

How can I rule, if I can’t even lead the one closest to me?

“Princesa,” I growl, stepping toward her.

She raises a hand— not to touch, but to halt .