Page 226 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Battlesuits. Warriors. Encircling.
Is it an attack? Betrayal?
No. At their center strides Consul Catokar, accompanied by a female with yellow hair and a robe of matching rank. Their presence parts the sea of armored bodies.
“All rise for Imperator Bulba,” a booming, mechanized voice announces, echoing off stone and alloy alike, “Fourth of His Name. Protector of the Twin-Sunned Empire. Slayer of the Scythians!”
Slayer? Lies dressed in stolen glory.
My chest tightens as anticipation burns hot. I scan the chamber, heart thudding—not with fear, but fascination. The Imperator. A figure spoken of in whispers and parables. A myth. An ancient conqueror who united the disparate Nebian space colonies a thousand years ago. Subjecting galaxies under his rule until they broke against the vast horde of Scythians. And then again against us Klendathian’s. We—the strongest warriors the universe has ever birthed—shattered both empires in blood and fire, casting their ambitions into solar winds.
And now, the myth floats in.
Imperator Bulba ascends like a celestial being, riding a levitating disc. An ancient Nebian—smiling with bright, keen orange eyes. They swirl and glow eerily like the huge Elerium orb above. His hair and beard flows down his orange and blue robes like Aroth snowdrifts. His head is framed by a large circle, larger than the Consuls, representing the dual-stars of Nebia with its blue and orange coloring.
Behind him, the chamber shifts.
Embedded statues of ancient Nebian heroes rumble to life. My hands tighten, eyes snapping to the sudden movement. Seamless portions of the wall jut forward in a smooth, fluid motion, typical of Nebian design. Towering tiered balconies form, draped in rich purple, each embroidered with gold-threaded runes.
The Consuls ascend on a rising platform, carried aloft to their elevated perch. The Battlesuits and warriors line its base, forming a protective wall of polished metal and laser weaponry. A symphony follows—musicians bearing translucentinstruments take their places on a lower stage, plucking strange glowing strings.
Spectators file in—nobles, technicians, military. Some gawk. Some sneer. All of them watching.
Then—his voice.
“Are we interrupting?” The Imperator’s voice booms with a hint of mirth despite his small stature. “Or is this yet another fine Klendathian cultural exchange?”
His grav-disc glides beneath the vaulted ceiling—a swirling fresco above depicting a grand celestial battle. Towering, muscular Nebians clash with red-skinned, horned monstrosities. The similarities are amusing.
A warning, perhaps. Or delusion.
The Imperator descends toward a central podium. As he lowers, his celestial collar aligns perfectly with the mural behind him—positioning him as a radiant god among warriors, casting light upon the heavens.
“Overcompensating much,” Princesa mutters beside me, shooting me a sidelong smirk.
She’s right.
This is theater, a masquerade obscuring the truth. The truth that they are stunted. Weak. Frightened. They elevate themselves to look down upon us. As if they are greater. Surrounded by useless opulence, promoting decadence, wallowing in their shame. They cling to it with pride as I wear my belt of bone—Hemo-Tok.
“No, Imperator.” The yellow-haired female Consul’s bulbous nose lifts as if scenting weeks-old death. “The savages are simply returning to their nature.”
Beside me, Krogoth stiffens. His knuckles crack, slow and deliberate.
“Now. Now. Consul Juliara. These are our—” The Imperator’s words falter, his swirling Elerium eyes widening as he takes inmypower. “By the twin suns.... Look at the size of this one.” He grins, glancing sidelong at the Consuls flanking him. “He looks like he could wrestle a Battlesuit or two.”
Then his gaze snaps to mine, amusement vanishing. “So, that must makeyouHigh Chieftain Krogoth?”
Princesa sniggers softly. I growl. “No.WarChieftain Dracoth.”
“War Chieftain, Dracoth?” he echoes, frowning, turning to Consul Catokar. “Why was I not informed of this development?”
Catokar stiffens, his black circular collar wobbling slightly. “We’re still assembling a full account of the events surrounding your most triumphant victory, Imperator.”
“Indeed,” the Imperator replies, voice dry. “I had hoped our guests mightenlightenus. But then—who does one address?” He shifts, eyes settling on Krogoth. “Yes. I see now. You are High Chieftain Krogoth, are you not?”
Krogoth steps forward, his violet eyes burning. “I am. I have the honor of leading my noble people.”
“He does not speak for me!” Vorthax booms, fist slamming against his chestplate, sending his vibrant cloak of feathers swaying. “Traitor.” The word spits from him like vipertail venom.
