Page 150 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Oh, great. A talker.
Those are the worst. It’s not enough that I bless them—they want me to be their personal therapist, too. And these guys come pre-packaged with centuries’ worth of trauma dumping. There’s only so much Lexie to go around.
“Go on,” I say, masking my impatience behind a carefully measured tone of encouragement.
He exhales, shoulders stiffening. “I was on Argon Six... but instead of Nebians, we fought Scythians. The world was teeming with them. I—I fought as hard as I could, but they kept coming. The ancestors would weep to see such a sight.” He shakes his head, the raw emotion in his voice fraying at the edges. “I died, Divine Daughter. I saw the plasma strike me. I felt it melting my flesh. It was real, like a fated curse.” His blue eyes meet mine, pleading, desperate for reassurance.
I suppress a sigh, keeping my face smooth as butter. A little bitty nightmare and suddenly it’s my problem.
“Powerful dreams speak to the fears in your heart,” I say, resting my palm against his chest plate, the metal cold beneath my warm skin.
That sounds good, right? Yeah. That’s good stuff.
I pause, considering my next words, allowing the silence to settle between us, thick with unspoken authority.
“Arawnoth’s molten heart thrums with the same lifeblood that flows through his sons’ veins,” I say, my voice steady, commanding. My eyes flare mercury-bright, silver burning into red coals across my chest. “He hears your concerns; he feels your pain. He prepares you for what is to come—glorious death.” The words spill from my lips like a chant, carried on the fervor of my own passion.
The space-knight’s breath catches, his nod slow, reverent. “Yes... yes. How did you know?” His voice softens, as if recalling something fragile. “When I fell, as I lay dying, I saw him descend—a behemoth of fire in a world of flames, coming to claim me. He didn’t speak, but I felt it. His pride. He was proud of me, of how well I fought.” His blue eyes flick away, as if ashamed of the emotion threatening to spill over.
He saw Arawnoth! While Divine Father has been playing hide and seek with me?
“What is your name?” I ask, stretching up to cup his towering cheek, my fingers warm against his rough skin.
He hesitates before answering. “Arsasrk.”
The name rolls off my tongue like honey over sand.
“Arsasrk,” I echo, a hushed whisper, letting my smile bloom beneath my lashes. Just a little dusting of seduction—enough to make his heart pound, not enough to invite a stage-ten clinger. “You are strong. You are proud. A warrior worthy of Arawnoth’s notice.” My fingers drift lower, pressing against the center of his chest plate. “When the time comes, you will not falter. You will burn bright in his molten image, a beacon for your brothers, a hero worthy of tales.” I let the words settle, sinking into him like molten metal pouring into a mold. “And then, you will return to us—reborn, stronger than before.”
His shoulders square, his jaw tightening, blue eyes no longer glistening. No, those pathetic tears evaporate in the heat of his own conviction. A blazing mist wafting into the crisp air.
“You’re right, Divine Daughter,” he growls, the words carrying renewed purpose. “I will embrace my destiny. I will make my ancestors proud. I will protect the females and our future.” He pounds his fist against his chest plate, the sound nearly bursting my eardrums and making me jump.
“I am glad,” I reply, my smile deepening, though my eyes remain sharp. “Bathe in the truth. Let it wash away your doubts.”
With that, I turn, my black robes swirling behind me as I stride down the corridor. Another satisfied lost soul. It’s a hassle, but damn if it doesn’t give me a warm, fuzzy tingle over my skin. Still, the words come from somewhere strange, like a drug-induced trance—just without the alcohol or blaring EDM beats.
As I near Razgor’s lab, the corridor thickens with space-knights, their muttered voices a low hum of excitement. The sheer number of them turns the hall into a shifting wall of metal, their bulky frames jostling for space as they strain for a glimpse of the treasures inside.
“I just want to see them with my own eyes,” a nearby space-knight grumbles. “It could be some trick, some illusion.”
I grimace, halted at the edge of the crowd, stuck behind a mass of clicking armor like a toddler trapped in a mosh pit for tanks.
“It is no trick!” My voice rings out over the dim murmur, carrying the weight of absolute authority.
The space-knights turn in unison, surprise stamped across their features like the ash smeared on their foreheads. Many of them I recognize—I blessed them myself just yesterday. It was glorious, truly. Their tears of joy, their whispered prayers as they glimpsed their long-lost females, the way they clung to my every word. A delicious delight that continues to bear fruit as theydrop to their knees, metal-clad joints striking the polished black marble in reverence.
“The great Arawnoth and Aenarael have returned them to us,” I declare, sweeping my arms wide as I move between them. “But the Revered Mothers need time to heal, space to breathe deep the air of freedom. Give them peace. It would be such a great help—perhaps a few days’ worth.”
Or months.
Two guards stand at either side of the lab door, statuesque in their vigilance, nodding as I approach.
“Days?” someone scoffs from behind. “Look around. We’re in hostile Scythian space. We have hours at best,” the moaning minnie mutters, and a few others rumble in agreement. “We would see them now, before the end comes for us.”
“Yes,” another voice chimes in, thick with self-righteousness. “That is why the Gods led us here—to face the suffering we have caused. And as divine punishment, our damnation will come before the final reckoning.”
Idiots.
