Page 98 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Dracoth
Let Go
“ W e need only remove... Krogoth.” He hesitates, a flicker of doubt lowering his gaze for an instant. “Perhaps that sunbaked Aelioth, too. They wish to formalize peace. Others hunger for vengeance. But most?” He leans forward. “Most don’t know what to believe. Not about Krogoth. Not about you .”
Folly layered upon folly.
“That sounds like a wonderful plan!” Princesa beams, eyes alight with manic delight. “I mean, obviously you’ll need my help to remove Krogoth.” Her blazing eyes look us up and down. “Because, let’s be real—you two loser-turds would get flushed down his cosmic toilet in two seconds flat.”
Vorthax blinks, as if suddenly struck by a hammer blow. “Do... all humans speak with such—?”
“Goddesses do,” Princesa interrupts sweetly, her tone bright, edged, and dangerous. “And only a Goddess can kill a God.”
The way she calls Krogoth a God sends a white-hot spike of hatred through me.
She leans toward Vorthax conspiratorially.
“And my husband,” she adds, jerking a thumb at me, “is a little out of order right now.” She giggles and shoots me a daggered side-glance.
“Don’t worry, babes. I’ll handle everything.
Like I always do. You just rest your little sparklers.
” She giggles, each vibration a claw slicing my heart.
Shame coils inside me—cold, strangling. I feel it. Like chains around my throat. No escape. No answers. This sense of powerlessness. The lack of control boils my blood. How can I stop this folly—the immense danger she flirts with.
“I forbid it!” I roar, slamming my fist into the table.
The metal buckles under the blow. “You cannot defeat Krogoth. None of us can overcome his powers.” Princesa flinches.
Vorthax leans back, arms crossed. “I won’t let you die for this foolishness.
” I exhale slowly, my coiled muscles loosening.
“There is only one path forward—negotiation. A vote of Chieftains. If he’ll honor it. ”
“ You, ” Princesa hisses, her voice low, laced with venom. “Don’t get to tell me what to do. Not anymore.”
Then, with a smile like a swooping arrohawk eyeing prey, she turns to Vorthax. “Ignore the meathead gaslighting over here, I’m more than capable of killing Krogoth.” Her eyes narrow, glowing silver-crimson with ambition and heat. “I’ll squish him like a big fat, juicy bug.”
She traces her fingers across the divine runes on her chest—they ignite under her touch, flaring like molten coal.
“I’m blessed by both Aenarael and Arawnoth. It’ll be easy. But,” she adds with a grin, “just to be safe? We surprise him. And then—BAM!”
She raises her hand. A cage of shimmer-shields flashes into existence around a slumped servitor nearby. The force clamps inward like a vice. With a shriek of metal, the machine crushes inward—imploding with a pop into a neat, solid cube.
Princesa grins, voice low and sultry. “See? Easy as that .”
I do not see.
To my Rush-infused senses, her motion was sluggish. And I remember clearly—Arawnoth’s fire gave me strength enough to tear through her barriers.
“Yes...” Vorthax murmurs, eyes locked on the runes burning across her skin. “Yes,” he repeats more firmly, as if snapping free from a trance. “Tomorrow, a council gathers. The Nebian high command. The remaining Chieftains. Aboard The Imperator’s Fist , no less.”
The name lands like a crashing meteorite. The Imperator’s Fist —the arcweave leviathan that helped rout the Scythians—equal parts palace, forge, and executioner.
“Their Imperator will be present?” I ask, unable to suppress all the surprise in my voice.
Vorthax shrugs, plumes rustling faintly.
“Perhaps. Some claim he has sat like a useless, fattened borack on his Elerium throne for centuries. Yet his flagship and Praetorian Guard are here.” He leans forward, his voice gathering urgency.
“It could be a trap. Lure us all in one place, sever the heads from the bodies. Complete their supposed victory. ”
Then he jabs a finger toward Princesa, eyes burning. “But with you , the hunters become the hunted. If their Imperator truly sits aboard that beast, it’ll be his head we sever. And we’ll cast it at the feet of their trembling Consuls—before we finish Gorexius’s work and burn Nebia to ash.”
He seizes my wrist, strong and steady, his eyes boring into mine—beseeching, almost pleading. “Our final gift. Light his path back to the ancestors... in honor.”
I see the pain in his eyes—the regret and loss, glistening with intensity, but beneath it, lies something else—bloodlust. Vengeance. Raw, and seething, begging brutal release.
But to follow this path? One forged on shaky hope. Projecting power we do not possess. Our people are bled dry—anemic and sickly. Our population on the brink. A fleet useless and broken. A final strike would be suicide dressed as glory.
“The Nebians will not attack us,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “They fear Krogoth’s power—the Gods’ blessing that consumed the Scythian hordes. The very strength you seek to remove.” I glance between Vorthax and Princesa, letting my words take root.
Vorthax recoils, disgust twisting his weathered face.
“Then void the Nebians!” he roars, slamming his fist to his chest plate.
“More reason to strike while their hearts quiver with fear. The real Gorexius would’ve seen that as plainly as Klendathor’s sun.
But not you. No... whatever you are.” His words drip poison.
“Where a proud Klendathian heart should thunder with righteous fury—I see a Glaseroid’s. Pumping putrid cowardice.”
My fangs bare in a snarl. Rage ignites, a flame behind my eyes. My claws ache in their sheath, yearning for release—for his throat.
Vorthax rises, one hand drifting to Stormcleaver’s worn hilt.
“Do it, clone.” He growls, eyes locked with mine. “Show me Gorexius’s strength. Show me! ”
His voice breaks slightly. Hands tremble—just a flicker. But I see it. The ancient weariness beneath his aggression. This longing. He wants to die by my hand. The hand of his old friend—my father. A regret, a longing to join him with the ancestors.
He’s small now. Frail. A shadow clinging to a world that’s already moved on.
I look away. “No,” I growl.
“Coward,” he spits, turning sharply. His armor clinks and scrapes as he strides away. “I’ve wasted enough time here... chasing ghosts.”
“Uh-uh. Not so fast ,” Princesa purrs, sitting serenely on the twisted stool, stroking Todd’s rubbery back with delicate fingers. “I don’t know how you bone-through-the-noses get anything done—always threatening to bash each other over the head every two seconds.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh, gaze drifting skyward.
“But this little Nib, Big-Chief’s meeting?
Sounds perfect . I mean, we come in peace, and all that.
Then, when everyone’s nice and relaxed..
.” she claps her hands together with theatrical flourish, “I squish Krogoth like a strawberry pancake. Maybe this Impersonator guy too.”
She scrunches her nose, glancing my way. “We’ll... discuss that part later.”
“No, Princesa,” I growl, rising, reaching a hand toward her. “This is—”
“Ugh, will you shut up already?” she snaps, waving me off like a pesky znat. Her gaze slides back to Vorthax, dismissing me without a second thought.
And then—light.
A shimmering cage slams into place around me. Tight. Hot. Suffocating. Crimson sunlight shimmers along the edges like molten threads. My claws screech uselessly against it, leaving no mark. No cracks. No weakness.
Panic slithers into my gut, cold and furious.
“He can be a real bore sometimes,” Princesa groans, nuzzling the cyloillar’s segmented body like brain-parasite victim. “Poor Chug Bug can barely nap with all the yelling. Isn’t that right, my little plumper?”
Todd’s mandibles creak open and closed lazily, sleep already beckoning.
“Anyway, as I was saying before being so rudely interrupted,” she flashes me a murderous glare. “Let’s say, I remove Krogoth for you. One divine pancake flip. Will you support me?” Her fingers spread wide, covering her ample chest. “I guess... us . As glorious leader?”
“To think...” Vorthax murmurs, dry laughter scratching out of his chest, “that it’s the tiny female who holds the strength to act.” He shakes his head once at me, then returns his attention to her. “Remove Krogoth. Restore the old ways. And I will lead the Astranix under your banner. I swear it.”
“ Brilliant! ” Princesa claps with delight. “Tomorrow—follow my lead, and you’ll get your revenge.” She waves him off like a high-merchant queen dismissing a servant, her silver-crimson eyes narrowing in my direction. “Now give us some space . Dracoth and I need to have a little talk .”
“May you die a glorious death,” Vorthax intones, performing the Klendathian salute.
Wasted on the distracted Princesa. His gaze lingers on me—a split second of contempt and pity before he turns.
My fists tighten, but I say nothing. The floor trembles faintly as he leaves, the scorched ash staining the vibrant feathers in his long hair.
Fury howls in my veins. My Rush ignites, crimson plumes spilling from my eyes into this prison of shame.
I strike. A blow that would shatter the Peaks of Scarn rattling against the barrier—useless. My bones tremble. My claws shriek. My blood burns.
“ Will you fucking stop that?! ” Princesa snarls, eyes flaring. “I just secured us leadership—and not only did you try to ruin it constantly, now you’re banging like a drummer on crack? Seriously? What is your problem?”
But I hardly hear her.
Every nanosecond of this humiliation cracks my composure. Shame, frustration—raw helplessness—twists inside me like a blade. I hammer again. And again. Each strike harder. Faster. Hotter.
Steam chokes the air. My molten blood roars.