Page 97 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

A shimmering barrier forms, glowing faintly between her fingers and me. It grows slowly—a warning to stop.

“Uh-uh. No, you don’t, Mr. Frowny Face.” She flashes a smirk. “You’ve used up all your word credits, remember?”

She turns her gaze back to the rising Vorthax, who gestures sharply to his warriors. They pause—then lower their weapons, wary, confused.

“Besides, I’m not finished explaining to Peacock Big-Chief why he’s wrong.

” Her voice dances again, equal parts amusement and threat.

“This isn’t your brother, Gorexius.” She jerks a thumb toward me.

“This is my Mortakin-Kai. Dracoth. War Chieftain of the bone-through-the-noses. Red Taxi of the Lexie-express. Crimson Radiator of Central Heating. Ruby Ruiner of Chanels. Spine-Stealer the Sparkler Machine.”

She nearly chokes with mirth listing off my “ titles ,” voice bubbling with laughter barely restrained.

Irksome. Infuriating. Shame coils around us like a vipertail. My fingers clench so tightly, the bones groan beneath my gauntlets.

“I am the true-born son of Gorexius,” I announce, my booming voice slicing through her confused nonsense like claws.

“Weren’t you listening?” Princesa says with a giggle. “I just explained that, babes. ”

She lies.

“Son?” Vorthax echoes, his pale-golden eyes narrowing. He steps forward, slow, heavy, every movement weighted with skepticism. The slag crackles beneath his boots. “No, your youth betrays the falsehood.”

He pauses, bending to yank Stormcleaver free from the rock.

“With these strange... powers manifesting. I dared to hope one possessed the ability to return Gorexius. That Krogoth’s treachery could be undone.

” He rises, eyes locked to mine. “When the Ravager’s Ruin appeared above the battlefield, and we heard the tales—of a titan, obsidian-armored, claiming the title of War Chieftain.

Claims sworn from a hundred tongues, all swearing it.

Gorexius had returned.” He swallows—barely—then lifts his gaze. “I... prayed it was true.”

Vorthax exhales deeply, then sheaths Stormcleaver with a resounding clunk.

The metal seals across his back. “I had prepared my clan to turn on the Nebians,” he rumbles, each word slow and deliberate, “thinking you came to restore order. To reclaim what was lost. But instead... I saw you fighting beside them.”

His gaze cuts between me and Princesa, the weight of disappointment thick in the ash-clogged air.

“And now, standing before you both.... I see power. Yes. Great power—like Krogoth and his human female. But not the kind that restores life. Not the kind that redeems.”

He steps forward, pale-golden eyes flashing with rising fury. Rush leaks from them in shimmering tendrils, caught and scattered by the wind.

“My old friend is gone. And in his place—defiling his armor, corrupting his Berserkers, sullying his memory—I find a puppet . A clone .”

The last word hurls like a thrown axe.

He stands unshaken, fearless. The resolve in his posture is unmistakable: one who would die for his belief. Or kill for it.

My claws pierce my palms, blood pooling in my gauntlets. Some months ago, I would have flayed the skin from his bones and cast him screaming into Scarn’s molten pits for such blasphemy. Now? The wound is dull. A scar long healed. My father was a relic—fallen, corrupt. I forge my own path.

But my warriors are not so calm.

A tremor of anger ripples through their ranks—fingers flex, gauntlets twitch. None more than Drexios.

“Call the War Chief a clone again, you feather-brained cunt.” He bounds forward, unblinking, and sneers directly in Vorthax’s towering face. “And I’ll rip your guts out before you can haul that hunk of shit-metal out your asshole.”

The silence afterward is laser-edged.

“That’s just lovely, Drex-iot. Why is your first reaction always ‘guts, assholes, and violence’?” Princesa waves him off, bored, spinning her Elerium-and-diamond bonding rings in lazy circles around her finger.

Then she smiles—sweet, poised, and dangerous.

“By Divine Mother and Father, I’m so sick of the clone thing.

Clone this, clone that. Honestly, I’m over it.

” Her voice softens, eyes fixed on Vorthax.

“We got off on the wrong foot, because I know we can help each other,” she breathes, a husky laugh curling from her lips.

“I mean, beneath all the grunting and chest thumping—it’s obvious.

You and I? We both want the same thing.”

“You wield the power to bring back the dead?” Vorthax snaps—not with scorn, but faint hope.

“Oh, no.” Princesa laughs, sharp and sudden. “I’ve got the very next best thing—revenge.”

Her smile widens, but her gaze blazes—silver-crimson spirals of ambition and glee—and I feel it through the bond.

She thinks as I do. Exploiting the opportunity Vorthax represents.

A crack in the fledgling rebellion, ready to be pried wide open.

Chaos sowing chaos. Fractures in loyalty just waiting for the right pressure to become full-blown breaks.

“You’re interested, aren’t you? I can tell.

Your peacock frillies are bristling.” Princesa leans forward, squinting with an exaggerated hand shielding her eyes.

“Let’s talk somewhere less... public. Just the juicy details, I promise.

” She glances around, the slagged ruins surrounding us, fingers stroking Todd’s bloaty side.

“Not too long though. It’s nearly snacky time for His Divine Chugness. ”

Vorthax exhales. Slow. Heavy. The sound of cooling slag seems to hush the plaza around us. His pale-golden eyes lock on hers—measured, wary, intrigued.

He nods toward a half-collapsed building just beyond the plaza’s edge—a blackened husk of alloy and stone, its skeletal frame leaning like a war ancient too proud to fall.

“There. We speak.”

“Beep, beep, Red Taxi.” Princesa announces, eyes glittering with unspoken amusement, her arms held high in that all-too-familiar ‘carry me’ posture.

Presumptuous. Disrespectful. Once, her insolence amused me. Now it grates like claws on granite, reeking of subjugation. It was a mistake to indulge her antics. These weren’t games. They were grabs for power. Control wrapped in comedy.

I remain still.

“Really, Dracoth? Really?” she mutters through her smiling teeth. “You’re just going to let me trip across on this jagged death disc? What if I crack my head open? Huh? Are you going to look after Todd? No, of course not. You never think of him. Or me. Honestly, you’re so selfish.”

The words hiss from her like steam under pressure, bizarrely masked by a smile that doesn’t reach her blazing eyes.

And yet... despite the vitriol, the ridiculous complaints, a repugnant pang of regret still knots my guts.

The bond—it must be the bond. It makes a mockery of me.

Of who I am. What I should be. Twisting me into something weak, pathetic.

I draw a breath. Swallow it whole. Harden my heart. “You are divine,” I remind her, turning from her and striding down the slag-crusted dais after Vorthax.

“Such a jealous prick,” she snaps, stumbling her way down the melted incline in his wake. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me, Dracoth.”

With a casual flick of her wrist the translucent barriers dissolve like smoke in sunlight. The Astranix warriors hesitate, uncertain. One lifts his hand to test the air. No resistance. The cage is gone.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep our feathered friend’s company,” Drexios sneers behind us, his single eye glinting at the stunned Astranix. “Until they flock off.”

I fall into step beside Vorthax. The shattered plaza crunches beneath our boots. Around us, my Berserkers part, saluting with the thunderous beat of fist on chestplate, bowing their heads in respect.

“Drexios,” Vorthax mutters, glancing back, “a more loyal and ruthless Second there may not be.” His pale-golden eyes rise to me, sharp with meaning. “But I never understood how Gorexius tolerated such... insolence.”

I glance back just in time to see Drexios juggling plasma blades through the air, laughing like a lunatic. Ash flares around the arcs of molten heat. The Astranix warriors watch him—equal parts horrified and hypnotized.

A smirk tugs at my lips.

“Chaos creates opportunities,” I growl, facing the looming industrial building.

“Indeed,” Vorthax replies with a dry grunt. “And he certainly delivers that. But chaos is a liability. War demands order. Discipline. Not theatrics. Without that, we’re little more than junkers armed with plasma.”

Solid. Stalwart. Commendable traits. For a wall. But too rigid for a true leader.

“War’s embrace doesn’t tolerate idealism,” I reply automatically as we pass beneath the scorched shadow of the structure. “Only the strong.”

Vorthax’s eyes flash—surprise, recognition, something raw behind the gold. “Those words... Gorexius’s words. We used to argue over that phrase.” His voice is quieter now, almost reverent. “So often, it became a running joke. He believed it. I challenged it. Time unfortunately provided the answer.”

Amusing. And not the answer he thinks.

“He died undefeated. You followed his will.” My gaze meets his, steady, heavy with unspoken weight. “His choices still echo. Not the cautious ripples of a loyal, competent ancient.”

“You are that echo?” Vorthax snaps, a scowl twisting his features. “Do not presume me a fool, Shorthair. You may look and speak like Gorexius—but your actions fall short.”

“Will you two slow down?” Princesa’s voice cuts through the heat, breathless and full of complaint. “Storming off with skyscrapers legs over this murder-rubble. Poor wee Todd can’t even catch a breath.”

I slow, letting her catch up as we step into the ruined building—a cavern of stillborn war.

Scorched ash dances through crimson sunbeams bleeding in from the half-missing roof.

Melted girders twist above us like the ribs of a long-dead colossus.

Conveyor belts stretch like split veins across the floor, layered in a thick coat of ash.

Half-assembled Nebian Battlesuits hang in stasis—metal skeletons frozen mid-birth, like the forgotten toys of Gods.

Blackened servitors slump against walls, their cores long smashed or molten, their eyes empty, lightless sockets.

The air smells of scorched metal, oil, and charred ambition.

“This whole cursed world was a Nebian forward assembly line,” Vorthax mutters, running a calloused hand along a shattered torso casing.

“After months of brutal slaughter, we finally crushed their production centers.” His lip curls.

“Days from victory. The Nebians are nothing without their machines—ugly, stunted creatures.”

He gestures to a cracked, child-sized worktable. We settle around it. He and I are forced to sit cross-legged, hunched on the floor, dwarfed by the ghosts of war towering all around us.

“Ahh, this is more like it.” Princesa plops onto the stool like it’s a throne, stretching with exaggerated grace. “My back was breaking, carrying this Divine Chunky Cherub.” She flexes her shoulder, jostling Todd.

Vorthax ignores her. “You spoke of revenge, human,” he says, tone clipped, his doubt clear.

“I propose we crush them.” Pale-golden eyes drifting to mine.

“Finish what we started. Look around—the bones of their twin-sunned empire lie shattered. Their forces decimated in the battle. Now is the time to conquer them before they recover.”

Foolish. Yet bold. Perhaps I misjudged him.