Page 203 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“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? Areyougoing 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. Andnot 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.
