Page 197 of Scorching the Alien Empire
His voice trails off like a bad signal. The awkwardness returns with the force of a thousand blow-dryers. The space-knights shift uncomfortably, trading side-eyes like he just ripped one during a recital. I slyly tug at his arm, trying to usher him off this wreckage-turned stage, hoping a hook drags him off before he digs us an even larger hole to climb out off.
But he doesn’t move. He just looks down at me, brows lifted in something perilously close to regret. The expression is so utterly absurd on his brutal features, my hand drops by reflex and I might be gaping like a goldfish begging for fish flakes.
“I failed to inspire and lead those closest to me.”
Wait—me? That rude prick!
But this is bad. He’s spiraling. Speedrunning a premature midlife crisis in front of the entire clan. I’m losing him.
I lean in, softening my voice, trying to mask the panic rising in my chest. “Come on, babes. It’s been a long day for everyone, lets just—”
His massive clawssnapopen with a metallic shriek, razor-sharp and gleaming in the firelight and gloomy ruby sunlight. Gasps ripple through the gathered space-knights as he drags them across his scalp.
Tufts of crimson hair rain down on me like blood-soaked petals.
“I am not my father. Not the undefeated War Chieftain Gorexius.” His voice breaks as more hair falls. “I carry shame. Dracoth the Shorthair Chieftain.”
He keeps hacking at his hair like a celeb mid-meltdown on a livestream. The space-knights look away, visibly squirming—because in their culture, hair isn’t just hair. It’s an unending pissing-contest of who the best head basher is, who has the most honor. And Dracoth is cutting his away, one shorn strand at a time.
I always liked his short hair. Made him look different—less techno-barbarian, aging rockstar, more dangerous jock. So, I wouldn’t care, except the space-knights care. They’re watching their leader publicly humiliate himself.
“Will youfuckingstop that,” I hiss through clenched teeth, no longer bothering to hide the edge in my voice.
“Pinkie’sfinally voiding right,” Drexios sneers, leaping onto the dais like a venomous red frog. He grabs Dracoth’s wrist. “Ifyoucarry shame, then the rest of us ought to be as bald as puffrio eggs. Stop, you overgrown aurodon ass.”
Jazreal steps in, graceful as ever, arms open in his signature performative warmth.
“You’veearnedyour title, War Chieftain,” he says, voice steady. “You led us to this victory. Stormed their fortress, rescued the Revered Mothers and the lost clones. Escaped the heart of the Scythian empire with their fleet biting at our heels. Gods, that wasn’t just survival—it was amiracle. Now our people are finally free. You give us the chance to atone for our past sins. Elder Ignixis smiles down on you, brother.”
He claps Dracoth on the back with a resoundingthump, grinning, his green eyes bright with sincerity.
“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 Ifeelit. 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’sforgedit stronger.
Stockholm Syndrome? Collective trauma? A masterclass in battlefield theatrics?
Whatever it is, it worked. And I can’t help but wonder...
Did heplanthis?
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 entirefuckingarmy?
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.
