Page 129 of Scorching the Alien Empire
My fingers trace the pulsing embers flaring over my runic-scorched chest and neck, their warmth strengthening my resolve. Even the Gods has forsaken him. How can Dracoth claim to be diminished when Arawnoth still blazes within me? An inferno of passion and lust for life raging, igniting my blood with his love.
Even Aenarael blesses me—her power hums beneath my skin, my godlike barriers stronger than ever. Her voice, her acceptance lifts me higher, sending my heart soaring.
My divine mother and father—their love sets my soul ablaze. The parents I always deserved.
My suffering has finally been rewarded.
And don’t get me started on Dracoth...crying? It was like finding out he’s a secret alcoholic with a smelly feet fetish. The memory alone is enough to douse the firestorm inside me with ice-cold disgust.
I glance over my shoulder at his mother.
She trudges forward, hunched, clinging to her gown for heat, despite the blistering sauna-like haze closing in. The other women are no better. Most are oblivious. Imprisoned in their memories of pain, their gazes lost, empty. A few press their hands against the shimmering dome of my shields, their whispers frantic, half-muttered prayers to gods that answered too late.
It’s rude of me to drag them along like this. But what choice do I have? Typical Mr. Frowny Face—charging in without a plan, leaving me to clean up the mess. Making me the bad guy.
But I will not abandon them. They’ve suffered enough. And I will see to it that they get the care they need.
And if I happen to walk out of here—divine, untouchable—the long-lost Klendathian females in tow, their deliverer, their savior... well, that’s just an extra bonus.
The anticipation is delicious. A giddy flutter stirs in my stomach, little Lexie-moths taking flight. Dracoth, left behind, out of the picture. Forsaken by Arawnoth, drowning in his sad, bitter tears. While I alone ascend the bone-through-the-nose throne.
Her Royal Bone-ness.
The keeper of the sacred words. The caretaker of Ignixis’ holy ashes. Savior of the Revered Mothers. The blessed daughter, rippling with divine power. Who would dare doubt me? Who could challenge me?
No one here. Only Rocks and Krogoth remain. But they—like everyone else—will underestimate me. And by the time they realize their mistake, it will be too late.
Behind me, the corridor is a graveyard of ruined metal. Smoldering murder-bot husks litter the path, their twisted remains fused to the walls like some hellish junkyard. Space-knights trail in my glorious wake, their shoulders sagging, their energy shields sputtering, armor scorched and singed. Their weapons fire desperately, but the cracks in their endurance are showing.
I lift a hand, prepared to grace them with a protective barrier, when I catch sight of the annoying prick Drexios hurling a grenade into the thinning mass behind us.
Temptation strikes like Fifth Avenue’s new season’s catalogues.
I’m so very tempted to seal him off. Let him remain with Dracoth, drowning in an endless tide of murder-bots. A fitting lesson. Arawnoth teaches it—adapt or die, overcome or be reforged in his divine image.
The grenade detonates, a thunderous shockwave rattling the corridor. The walls tremble as shards of metal and debris pelt my protective bubble like demented hailstones. Nerdy Razgor stumbles, clutching his arm—armor half-melted, the limb a floppy noodle.
Drexios and another space-knight half-carry, half-drag him forward, their movements urgent, labored.
Fine. Whatever.
With a dismissive flick of my wrist, I summon another barrier, sealing off the passage behind us. Adjoining corridors close in shimmering silver, cutting off the ceaseless march of the murder-bots.
The dumb machines slam into my divine wall of graciousness, firing uselessly, twitching and spasming like wind-up toys banging against a locked door.
I’m too kind, really.
The path ahead is clearer now. Most of the droids have been reduced to scrap, their numbers thinned, drawn away—swarming Dracoth deeper within this accursed haunted labyrinth of horrors. The few that dare to emerge, I dispatch without effort, my shields sweeping them aside like shopping receipts into a bin.
Yet, with each step, a cold stillness creeps in.
A silence so heavy, so absolute, it presses down like a frozen tide, winding its way beneath my skin. No matter how tightly I clutch my robes, the chill gnaws deeper, sinking its fangs into my bones.
It’s like someone forgot to pay the energy bill for my heart.
My blood—once blazing, once divine—twists into something treacherous. Something bitter, like a half-melted lemon Slurpee.
“COME! COME AND BE SLAUGHTERED!”
