Page 186 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Even as I give the command, I know the grim reality. Each Battlebarge holds a warband, nearly ten thousand warriors. Even with every availableShorthairracing to extract them, theprocess will be excruciatingly slow. Too slow. Thousands will be left to die. Many already are. The lifeblood of my people—young, strong, proud—ebbs away with each passing moment, their fire guttering into the abyss.
“At... at once, War Chieftain.” Corsark steadies himself with a deep breath, his fingers flying across the controls.
He sees what I see, hears what I hear. We all do. Our warvisors link us to the horror unfolding outside, an unrelenting tide of death. Through the towering viewport, we watch Battlebarges engulfed in shimmering blue plasma, the eerie, flickering light dancing over their fractured hulls that rupture like overripe fruit.
Some drift like corpses, colliding with others in slow-motion devastation, their armored spines snapping like brittle bone. Warriors tumble like discarded ballistics, their bodies scattered dust upon the wind.
May they be reborn in strength.
A sudden impact jerks the ship violently. Princesa yelps as she’s thrown against my chest. My gaze snaps to the navigational display. The rogueBattlebarge—myBattlebarge—slams into us again, its shattered prow scraping against our hull as it continues its relentless bombardment. Our shields shriek in protest, their glow fading to a sickly pulse.
“Ugh!” Princesa huffs, catching herself on my arm. “This issoannoying,” she complains before sliding from my lap, striding toward the looming viewport. “Guess I’ll clean up this mess too.”
She lifts her arms, black robes flowing like liquid shadow. I watch her closely, hoping—praying—that she can do what none of us can. Then, as if the Gods themselves answer, her barriers surge to life, shimmering walls of translucent silver spreading across the void. The rhythmic pounding against our hull ceases in an instant. The whining shield generators fall silent.The incoming fire halts against her unseen shields like waves breaking upon an immovable cliff.
“Am I not divine?” she breathes, then laughs—a manic, exultant sound that reverberates through the bridge.
She doesn’t stop. Hands sweeping through the air, as if all she surveys dances to her tune. Nearby, Battlebarges moments from detonation—their ruptured arcweave hulls spilling molten plasma—suddenly find themselves encased in gleaming barriers, contained. Others, tangled together in their death throes, tremble as unseen force pries them apart by unbreakable barriers.
“Am I not glorious?” Sweat drips down her temples, but her grin is wild, exultant. “Am I not beautiful?”
Her voice wavers with exhilaration. But those words—those exact words—send a shudder through me. I have heard them before. Spoken in the same breathless cadence, in the same regal posture, chin lifted in triumph, arms raised as if commanding the universe itself.
Aenarael.
The Goddess she seeks to become, the source of her chilling conceit, her boundless arrogance. Her blazing silver-red eyes lock onto me, expectant, a smirk twisting her lips.
Gods, she is beautiful. The kind of beauty that belongs to an inferno, untethered in zero gravity.
A sharp laugh cuts through the crackling tension.
“Oh, so glorious. Oh, so beautiful,” Drexios drawls. “You know what would bereallyvoiding divine, though?” He pauses, gaze flicking between us. “Shielding the rest of our fleet.” He gestures toward the viewport, tilting his head. “I’d bet my favorite eye Krogoth Star Eyes could do it.”
Princesa’s mirth fades like a dying star, twisting into a narrowed eye glare, hands tightening into fists. For a moment,I fear she’s about to crush Drexios with barriers. Then, with a sharp exhale, she lets her shoulders drop.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Drex-iot?” she sneers. “Like I wouldn’t see through your sad little reverse psychology attempt? It’s as obvious and obnoxious as every stupid thought you stink up the air with.”
Drexios shrugs, casual, either oblivious or unfazed by the plasma-hot rage he stokes. “Call it like I see it,Pinkie.”
Princesa blinks, incredulous. “Like yousee it?What are you freaking blind? Didn’t you just see—” She cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. “Fine. Whatever. There’s no point arguing with morons, is there my littleChug Bug?”
She strokes her pet Todd, the pointless bloated creature blinking up at her with its gleaming single black eye, dumb and content.
“Oh no, there isn’t,” she coos, turning toward the viewport, lifting her arms once more.
Beyond the glass, the distant wreckage of Battlebarges—twisted metal and drifting ruins—suddenly flickers with shimmering shields. Silvery edges catch the harsh crimson glare of Argon’s star, reflecting the cold blue fire of plasma blasts. Other hulks drift like a graveyard of metal. No longer ramming, no longer firing, lights dimmed, engines silent. Most likely the warriors within have heeded my instructions to cut ship systems.
Princesa exhales, voice tight with strain. “Hey, babes.” She glances over her shoulder, gesturing ahead. “Bring me closer to those ones. I can’t reach them from here.”
Without hesitation, I guide the ship forward, carefully weaving through the wreckage, past the silent goliaths floating like lost souls in the void. On the navigational display, myShorthairsdart back and forth between Battlebarges, ferrying the survivors unimpeded.
A modicum of relief settles in my chest.
Drexios’ gambit—goading Princesa into action—has saved many lives this day.
Princesa stifles a yawn despite the sweat beading on her flushed face. Still, she presses on, summoning barrier after barrier to shield our battered ships.
The vast throne room is steeped in silence, broken only by the soft thuds of debris against our shields. No. Not just debris—bodies. Warriors drift into view, their frozen forms like shattered asteroids. Arcweave armor gleams beneath a thin frost, their final anguish masked by warvisors. We push through the wreckage, undeterred.
