Page 296 of Scorching the Alien Empire
A smile almost escapes my lips.
“Beep? Beep?” she asks hesitantly, as if afraid of the answer. “Please? Todd’s wee booties are exhausted.”
I lift her effortlessly into the cradle of one arm. She squeals in delight, melting against me, her softness curling into the contours of my body like molten sunbeams.
“Yay. My Red Taxi,” she purrs, breath warm against my neck, a finger tracing my chest. “I missed this.”
So did I.
We move through the corridor, Battlesuits thudding behind. The sound grates on me—like looming shadows waiting todescend and devour. But which shadow falls first? Krogoth’s... or the Nebians’?
We pass them—some armed, others in head-disc robes surrounded by buzzing drones. Their eyes widen as we approach. I watch in amusement as some veer aside, others pivot and retreat, squat legs a blur as they scramble away like startled varmints.
Drexios mocks the murals and statues as we pass—each depicting heroic Nebians slaying horned, clawed beasts. He questions how a people so short could ever defeat anything beyond puffrios.
A fair question. One that draws laughter from the others.
“What do you think Krogoth’s response will be, War Chieftain?” Jazreal asks, green eyes flicking to mine.
“Death or exile,” I growl. I’m ready for either.
A quiet murmur of disapproval runs through the Berserkers.
“I’ll have a pop at Krogoth,” Drexios mutters, flashing his claws in the corridor’s orange-blue glow. “That’ll wipe the smirk off those voiding tree-huggers’ faces.”
“Like at the arena?” Princesa peeks one lazy eye open. “Is that why your head looks like the last busted apple on the shelf?”
“What the void’s anap-ple?” Drexios frowns, then waves it off. “This isn’t about Magaxus pride orRavager Berserkerhonor. This is payback. And if it saves the War Chief from sucking on Scarn’s lava, then everyone’s laughing.” He grins.
“No one’s taking my Dracoth,” Princesa says, her voice hard as arcweave. “I don’t give a crap what anyone says.” Her eyes blaze silver as she traces runes of fire across her chest.
That fierce resolve flares through our bond. It lights my chest like a forge.
“It won’t come to that,” Jazreal says, shaking his head. His silvery-black hair sways like silk in zero-G. “Krogoth is a warrior of honor.” He shoots Drexios a fanged smile. “And what wouldyoudo? You saw how he fought. You’d be a babe for the slaughter.”
“That’s the problem with your snarlbroc jelly-brains,” Drexios sneers, “Honor. Honor. Honor,” he repeats, bowing with theatrical scorn. “Void my nipples.” He sighs, voice lowering to something darker. “You know what I’d do, Death Herald? I’d choose thenew ways—toss a voiding virus bomb at his prancing feet.BOOM. Over. Just like that.” He flutters his clawed fingers across his face.
“You’re a fool, Second,” Sarkoth scoffs. “No one makes planetfall carrying one of those.”
“Oh, I have ways,” Drexios murmurs, tapping his temple. “There’salwaysways.” He bursts into delirious laughter.
“Splendid idea,” Princesa says dryly. “We’d be rid of both of you.”
And half the planet.
A squad of Nebian warriors and Battlesuits guard the towering doors of the Bellatorium. At our approach, they stiffen, stubby fingers twitching toward their weapons.
“Halt,” one barks. His crested helmet gleams under the chamber lights. “Only delegates may enter.”
“You kids play nice now,” Drexios smirks, flashing his fangs.
I turn to the others—warriors I’ve fought beside, bled with, led into impossible fire. The greatest the stars have ever known.
“Farewell, my loyal Berserkers,” I say, nodding once.
The Bellatorium doors groan open, ancient engraved wood grinding under its own history. Inside, I already see it: the long table forged of twisted Scythian parts, surrounded by unique thrones carved for each Chieftain.
“Bye-bye,” Princesa coos, fluttering her fingers at the others. She doesn’t look back—eyes locked forward, glowing with defiance and determination.
