Page 187 of Scorching the Alien Empire
There’s no time to mourn.
The battle still rages near Argon-Six—the accursed world of death, ever thirsting for more.
Through the navigational display, I see it unfold. The Scythian fleet, gutted but relentless, halts its retreat. Krogoth’s vortexes no longer harry them, and though their numbers are decimated, the Seeker drones and Voidbanes still swarm like a living tide. They form a glinting wall of metal, reflecting Argon’s crimson starlight.
Nebian forces react quickly to the shifting battlefield. Their nimble vessels weave through the chaos, performing maneuvers that would split the hulls of lesser ships. Ruby laser fire meets searing blue plasma, cutting precision against molten fury. Mercenary ships sense the tide turning; they linger at the edges, skittish cowards too afraid to face Scythian wrath directly.
But the tide of metal surges forward, grasping, clutching. Ensnaring isolated ships in an inescapable cage of molten death. Wreckage and corpses spiral in orbit, forming a grim celestial ring of carnage around Argon-Six.
The Scythians suffer the most. Their losses should be catastrophic, but their unending, unfeeling horde continues topress forward. The Voidbringer will sacrifice billions to grind the Nebians into space dust. Pay any price. Bear any loss. It will not stop until it’s extinguished all life.
It’s turning into a rout, the forces hurtling toward our crippled fleet, threatening to wash us away. I grimace noticing theShorthairvessels still ferrying survivors to theRavager’s Ruin. Time is running out. Our people are on the brink of extinction.
I steady my voice. “Corsark, how much longer?”
“A rough estimate, War Chieftain. Given current projections—thirty minutes,” Corsark replies, fingers flying across his shimmering blue terminal.
Thirty minutes. Faster than I dared hope. Still not fast enough.
Corsark hesitates, then lifts his masked face. “The chatter on the network says the warbands were already deployed on Argon-Six, War Chieftain.” His tone swells with infectious relief. “The Battlebarges only had skeleton crews.”
Praise Arawnoth.
Drexios lets out a sharp laugh. “Those sneaky voiding cunts. We’re up here floating in space like limp-dicked Shorties while they’re having all the fun planetside.” He sneers, claws snapping out with an audible click. “I say void this shit. Let’s do some killing, War Chief.”
Fighting planetside. An honor out of reach.
“No,” I growl, watching the defensive line collapse, ships pushing back toward us inch by inch.
Princesa exhales sharply. “That’s the last one.” She yawns, trying—and failing—to mask her exhaustion. “All nice and snug, wrapped up in my...” She pauses, lips curling into a smug smile. “...my divinity.”
She’s drained. I see it in the slump of her shoulders, feel it through our bond. A gnawing exhaustion, dragging her toward unconsciousness.
She stumbles toward my throne, smiling faintly. Pride swells in my chest. That she—my Mortakin-Kis—had the strength to shield the entire Klendathian fleet. That she bore the Gods’ toll and did not break.
Her legs tremble. Too much strain.
I move without thinking, sliding from the large obsidian chair in a rush of movement. In a single, practiced motion, I sweep her off her feet, holding her against my armored chest.
“Thanks... thanks babe, wee Todd is all tuckered out now.” She murmurs softly, eyes drifting closed like a beautiful mercury sunset.
A chuckle almost escapes me. Todd is always ‘tuckered’ out.
I carry her to the throne, golden strands of her hair slipping through my fingers like liquid sunbeams as I stroke her head.
“Told you I could beat that Krogoth guy, didn’t I?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Yes. You make me proud.” I growl, lowering her onto the throne she craves, my fingers gently tightening her robes around her sleeping form. My words may be lost to her exhaustion, but they are true nonetheless.
“Is she finally asleep?” Drexios asks, his voice laced with anticipation.
I nod in agreement.
“Thank void. Do you feel that?” He lifts his head and hands, inhaling deeply. “The air’s lighter. Every breath like a sweet scoomer drag.” He barks a short laugh. “Oh, you’ve got your hands full with that one, War Chief. One minute she’s all pristine puffrio, the next, a furious venefex snapping at everything in sight. My head’s spinning, and I’m used to dealing with crazy bastards.”
I should reprimand him. But I can’t deny the truth of his words. The same truth gnaws at my mind with concern.
To look upon her now—a tiny female, snoring softly, her ample chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm—she is innocent as a newborn, as beautiful as a sunrise. Yet beneath that serene exterior lies the dangerous uncertainty of a cosmic storm.
