Page 183 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I freeze as she unleashes an ear-piercing scream. The cage’s glow reflects in her dilated pupils—a sheen of pain flickering behind the arrogance.
My gaze darts between her and the viewport. The barriers quiver, struggling against such immense mass across such vast space. But just before Princesa’s strength fails, the Voidbanes’ armor yields.
Hairline fractures web across their hulls, merging into devastating fissures until the arcweave collapses. The implosion is swift—once breached, the ships and drones compress into an unrecognizable mass under the relentless pressure.
All that remains of the deadly force is a solid cube of twisted gray-black metal—a monument to Princesa’s power.
“See?” Princesa says breathlessly, a grin of pure self-satisfaction curling her lips. “So long, loser-bots.” She flicks adismissive hand over her shoulder and turns away from the viewport, her steps light with triumph.
I incline my head slightly, acknowledging her power. “Impressive.”
She passes me, but I don’t miss the way her legs quiver or the subtle roll of her eyes—signs of exhaustion creeping in. Before she can take another step, her knees buckle. She stumbles, but I catch her in an instant, scooping her into the crook of my arm with a blur of motion.
A drowsy squeal slips from her lips as she weakly protests. But I ignore them. Instead, I brush loose strands of golden hair from her beautiful face. She smiles faintly up at me, silver-crimson gaze locks on mine, her fingers brushing the contours of my jaw.
Princesa.
“Dracoth,” she murmurs, her voice soft, her exhaustion evident.
“Not bad at all,Pinkie,” Drexios hoots from the glowing blue weapons console, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though you never squeezed little ol’ me so tight. And all this time I thought I was your favorite.” He cackles.
Thankfully, Princesa doesn’t respond. She only blinks up at me through heavy, dazed lids, her expression... different. Not arrogance. Not condescension.
Something softer. Something almost... submissive and tender.
A vulnerability I’ve never witnessed.
A strange sensation surges through my chest—hot, protective, ferocious in its intensity. It’s unfamiliar, unlike anything I’ve ever known. A longing to shield her, to cherish her, crashes over me like a tidal wave.
This is my female, my Mortakin-Kis. The goodness that lies buried in her heart, beneath the conceit, beneath her ruthless ambitions, beneath her scathing challenges and cutting manipulations.
We will win this battle. And I will bring you back to me.
I ascend my throne, the bone-infused rock creaking under our weight. Tearing my gaze from the beauty of Princesa’s lingering stare, I return my focus to the battle beyond the viewport.
The Nebians rally.
Their battered forces surge forward like venefexes scenting blood. No more hit-and-run tactics. No more retreat. They strike with vengeful hatred, lasers cutting through the disorder spreading in the Scythian ranks.
My Klendathian kin advance.
The Battlebarges roar in unison, plasma cannons unleashing a coordinated barrage. Krogoth summons more vortexes, their cosmic maws devouring the fleeing Scythians.
For the first time, the mercenaries commit, their motley fleet diving into the fray like scavengers turned hunters, closing in for the kill.
And the Voidbringer?
It falters.
The vortexes multiply, ripping through its forces like wildfire. The Scythian swarm, once a monolithic tide, now fractures. Voidbanes scramble to regroup, but the divine storm is relentless. Inch by inch the tide turns against them, forcing a desperate escape back to Argon-Six.
I grip the controls, fingers flying over the ship’s command systems. The viewport tilts as I bring theRavager’s Ruininto formation with the Klendathian Battlebarges.
A strange pride swells in my chest, catching me off guard. I recognize these vessels. The Clan emblems emblazoned across their ancient hulls. Some are the personal warbands of Clan Chieftains.
Even Magaxus warbands are here. Now mine to command: Arawnoth’s Wrath. The Arrohawks of Scarn. The Molten Fangs. All twenty of my warbands fall into position around us.
I bare my fangs.
