Page 98 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Instinctively, my hand reaches for Todd, but I grasp nothing but air, and my stomach sinks. Poor wee chug bug. I left him with Sandra, who absolutely refused to join this—whatever this is. Even after I practically begged her—something that really should be beneath me. But I couldn’t look her in the eye and promise the station was safe.
It must be safe, right? I mean, the murder-bots are deactivated.
That’s what I told Sandra. But then the image of that hulking black obsidian monolith crept into my mind... Freaking haunted castle is what it is. Probably full of creepy ghosts and space cobwebs. It gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking about it. My hands clutch my robes tighter.
At least the bone-through-the-nose space-knights aren’t afraid. This rattling, roaring shuttle is packed with them. They all stand with one hand grasping the bar overhead, boasting about who’ll rack up the highest kill count and whose balls are the biggest—you know, standard boring jock talk.
Ugh. I miss Sandra.
“War Chieftain,” Jazreal calls out, his voice rising above the din of rowdy warriors and the shuttle’s descent. “What is the warband’s objective in this Gods-forsaken place?”
Through our bond, I feel Dracoth’s eager uncertainty, though he hides it well. His face is carved from two-week-old brioche—deliciously soft when I warm it up.
Mmm. Bread.
“Reconnaissance and possible extraction,” he growls, crimson eyes flicking to the oddball of the group, wedged into the corner like an anxious sardine. “Razgor, your expertise will be crucial.”
Silence falls. Every warrior turns to Razgor, their eyes gleaming with curiosity. He looks up from his wrist console, blue eyes darting between us. Then, realization dawns, and he jolts like he’s been hit with one of my mother’s rants.
“Yes... well, it would help if I knew exactly what we’re dealing with,” he stammers, growing more confident until he sneaks a glance at my man—Mr. Frowny Face himself. “...With all due respect, great War Chieftain.”
Classic nerd behavior. He even looks the part—armor fresh from the shop, gleaming without a single scratch marring its dark surface. He’s smaller than the rest, short blond hair making him stand out from the mane-wielding techno-barbarianscrowding the shuttle. I was expecting an ancient, creepy mini-Demon Egg-Head scientist, but this guy looks young. Early thirties, maybe? Then again, with Klendathians, who knows? He could be a few centuries old.
Which reminds me.
“Hey, babes, how old are you?” I ask, shifting my sexy self in Dracoth’s arms, seeking his attention.
“Twenty,” he rumbles without hesitation.
“Twenty?!” I echo, aghast.
No way. He’s just a baby—a big murder baby. This news is kind of upsetting. It makes me feel old, even though I’m only twenty-four. When I was twenty, I was partying it up, travelling the world, living my best life. Meanwhile, he’s been storming across the universe, bashing skulls, and collecting people’s spines like they’re limited-edition Pokémon cards.
“I was born... or grown here,” Dracoth adds, his voice little more than a mutter, our bond flaring with doubt and something heavier.
Jeez. Tough neighborhood.
Before I can probe further, a voice cuts through the shuttle.
“Open your eyes, Razgor, it’s the Scythians,” a dark-haired warrior barks, grinning. “We’re finally dealing with the Scythians!”
The space-knights erupt into raucous laughter, but Razgor purses his lips, subtly shaking his head like he’s just been handed all my shopping bills at once.
“That’s not what I meant!” he sighs, exasperated, though his words drown, lost and alone in the crowd’s mirth. “You fools think the Scythians are a monolith,” he mutters under his breath.
Dracoth’s gaze sharpens on him. I recognize that look—slightly narrowed eyes, fangs just barely poking out from tight lips. Part irritation—partI am contemplating murder.
Ugh, he’s so impatient sometimes.
“Stick with us, Razgor,” I purr, batting my lashes as I trace Arawnoth’s blessing across my chest and neck. Watching him squirm is just a bonus. “And all will become clear soon.” I smile with regal confidence.
Total lie—I have no idea what’s going to happen.
“Yes... of course, War Chieftainess,” he utters, nodding quickly.
“There’s no need for such formalities, Razgor,” I chuckle, my eyes narrowing into silver slits. “Please, call me Blessed Daughter.”
His smile drops faster than the price of second-hand fashion. “Blessed... Daughter?” he echoes dumbly, like a parrot that’s just been fed existential dread.
