Page 124 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Your burden?” She barks a cruel, hollow laugh. “Oh, my poor, simple Drazard. You can’t carry it, can you? Your burden I mean?” She exhales sharply, the sound twisting my guts into knots of shame. “A dragon who can’t breathe fire.” Her voice drips with venom—disappointment, mockery, and something far worse: pity. “Honestly, it’s so disappointing. Typical, I’m the one with Murder-Bot Stress Disorder, and yet here I am—forced to deal with the murder-bots myself.”
She storms ahead, leaving me reeling. My heart hammers against my ribs. Shame and dishonor claw at me—but beneath that, something else stirs. Something deeper, sharper, carving through me like a claw.
A gaping wound tears open in my chest, a yawning rift I can’t ignore. I need to close it. I need to—
“Princesa...” I reach for her. My fingers meet nothing. They glance off her shimmering barriers. “Stop.”
“Make me!” Princesa snaps, her head whipping around, a sneer twisting her lips. “Can’t can you?” Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the sneer vanishes, replaced by a faint, knowing grin. “Do try to keep up.”
With that, she turns toward the looming door, her black robes billowing in her wake. She breathes deep, eyes squeezed shut. The Klendathian females, herded forward by the shimmering dome of her divine shields, follow. The Revered Mothers—huddled together as they are—stand almost a head taller than Princesa, yet she strides like the regal War Chieftainess she is, the unwavering conviction of a Goddess striving for her true form.
Where my pride once burned, icy shards of doubt now pierce me. She surges ahead, reaching for heights I might never attain again, threatening to leave me behind—a mere stepping stone on her path to ascension. I can’t—won’t—allow that.
She ismine!
“Form a defensive line!” I bellow, my gaze sweeping over Drexios and the warriors. “Razgor, stay close.”
Razgor nods, though his hands tremble as he fumbles with his arc blaster, his breathing rapid and shallow.
“Try not to shit yourself.” Drexios barks a laugh, moving into position. “They’re justvoidingdroids, can’t fight for piss.” His red eye narrows, his lips curling into a smirk, relishing the coming battle.
Princesa steps forward.
The door hisses open.
Beyond, a skittering army of ancient droids scurries between towering metal stalks, trampling the gory remnants of broken clones into green-red paste. The cacophony of their legs clickingand clanging against the metal floor is deafening, a metallic downpour heralding the coming storm.
Their flat heads snap toward us, an ocean of red lenses glaring. Plasma cannon limbs pivot, locking onto us with jerky, yet precise, motions, their eerie synchronicity chilling.
“Fire!” I roar, a signal for the chaos to begin.
Searing azure light blooms ominously from hundreds of droids, turning the red-lit room a pulsing, lurid purple. I aim my arc blaster at the nearest group, my plasma shield flashing to life, its heat a welcome kiss against my skin.
A barrage of molten bolts hurtles toward us in perfect unison, distorting the air with the heat of a thousand suns as they streak through the room. Worry grips my heart as the majority of the bolts converge on Princesa, a blinding wave of blue death about to engulf her.
Then—a gift from the Gods.
The blasts halt mid-air, seemingly striking an invisible wall. But I see it—the faint shimmer of Princesa’s barrier, refracting the light. The plasma bolts continue to zap and hiss, slamming into her defenses, only to slide harmlessly down their length, pooling on the bubbling floor.
“Ugh. Sofuckingcreepy!” she shrieks, waving her arms toward two clusters of droids. Immediately, a force slams into their skittering frames, sweeping them against the wall with the screech of metal grinding against metal.
Princesa doesn’t stop. With haughty grace she advances, each step measured and graceful as if she’s casually strolling through a busy crowd in Star City.
Barriers appear, shoving aside any droids that dare to block her path. She and the females are sheltered from all danger by her impenetrable shields.
The same can’t be said for us berserkers.
Blasts hurtle toward us from every direction, their impacts thudding into my plasma shield, jolting through my arm. Yet, we stand firm, united. We form an unbreakable wall of war brothers. We match Princesa’s steps, keeping her barriers at our backs, returning arc blaster fire over our shield wall.
Our blasts strike true. Each warrior boasts centuries of experience—long-haired, undefeated veterans. Battle, their oxygen, victory, their sustenance. Relief floods through me, noticing the ancient droids lack shields. Our plasma bolts punch gaping wounds in their metal frames, turning their wired innards into steaming molten slop.
Drexios cackles maniacally, throwing plasma grenades into the dense packs of droids. Each detonation shakes the room as a blinding light erupts, an explosion of plasma tearing through the masses of skittering droids.
Even Razgor screams obscenities. Frenzied eyes waft Rush, carried away in battle’s alluring embrace. His arc blaster sweeps in a haphazard horizontal line, hitting some, missing many. An eager amateur. He shows promise.
“War Chieftain, Sarkoth and my groups are now converging at the shuttles. The voiding Scythian scum surges. Such a joy it is, to finally rend them to ribbons!” Jazreal’s simmering thoughts project through my warvisor.
I can’t see his face, yet I know he’s snarling with righteous vengeance. Centuries of repressed fury, now bursting forth. I almost feel it scorching the very air, like the endless plasma blasts exploding all around me.
