Page 202 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Besides, I’m not finished explaining toPeacock Big-Chiefwhy he’s wrong.” Her voice dances again, equal parts amusement and threat. “This isn’t yourbrother,Gorexius.” She jerks a thumb toward me. “This ismyMortakin-Kai. Dracoth. War Chieftain of the bone-through-the-noses. Red Taxi of the Lexie-express. Crimson Radiator of Central Heating. Ruby Ruiner of Chanels. Spine-Stealer the Sparkler Machine.”
She nearly chokes with mirth listing off my “titles,” voice bubbling with laughter barely restrained.
Irksome. Infuriating. Shame coils around us like a vipertail. My fingers clench so tightly, the bones groan beneath my gauntlets.
“I am the true-born son of Gorexius,” I announce, my booming voice slicing through her confused nonsense like claws.
“Weren’t you listening?” Princesa says with a giggle. “Ijustexplained that,babes.”
She lies.
“Son?” Vorthax echoes, his pale-golden eyes narrowing. He steps forward, slow, heavy, every movement weighted with skepticism. The slag crackles beneath his boots. “No, your youth betrays the falsehood.”
He pauses, bending to yankStormcleaverfree from the rock. “With these strange... powers manifesting. I dared to hope one possessed the ability to return Gorexius. That Krogoth’s treachery could be undone.” He rises, eyes locked to mine. “When theRavager’s Ruinappeared above the battlefield, and we heard the tales—of a titan, obsidian-armored, claiming the title of War Chieftain. Claims sworn from a hundred tongues, all swearing it. Gorexius had returned.” He swallows—barely—then lifts his gaze. “I... prayed it was true.”
Vorthax exhales deeply, then sheathsStormcleaverwith a resounding clunk. The metal seals across his back. “I had prepared my clan to turn on the Nebians,” he rumbles, each word slow and deliberate, “thinking you came to restore order. To reclaim what was lost. But instead... I saw you fightingbesidethem.”
His gaze cuts between me and Princesa, the weight of disappointment thick in the ash-clogged air.
“And now, standing before you both.... I see power. Yes. Great power—like Krogoth andhishuman female. But not the kind that restores life. Not the kind that redeems.”
He steps forward, pale-golden eyes flashing with rising fury. Rush leaks from them in shimmering tendrils, caught and scattered by the wind.
“My old friend is gone. And in his place—defiling his armor, corrupting his Berserkers, sullying his memory—I find apuppet. Aclone.”
The last word hurls like a thrown axe.
He stands unshaken, fearless. The resolve in his posture is unmistakable: one who would die for his belief. Or kill for it.
My claws pierce my palms, blood pooling in my gauntlets. Some months ago, I would have flayed the skin from his bones and cast him screaming into Scarn’s molten pits for such blasphemy. Now? The wound is dull. A scar long healed. My father was a relic—fallen, corrupt. I forge my own path.
But my warriors are not so calm.
A tremor of anger ripples through their ranks—fingers flex, gauntlets twitch. None more than Drexios.
“Call the War Chief a clone again, you feather-brained cunt.” He bounds forward, unblinking, andsneersdirectly in Vorthax’s towering face. “And I’ll rip your guts outbeforeyou can haul that hunk of shit-metal out your asshole.”
The silence afterward is laser-edged.
“That’s just lovely, Drex-iot. Why is your first reaction always ‘guts, assholes, and violence’?” Princesa waves him off, bored, spinning her Elerium-and-diamond bonding rings in lazy circles around her finger.
Then she smiles—sweet, poised, and dangerous.
“By Divine Mother and Father, I’m so sick of the clone thing. Clone this, clone that. Honestly, I’m over it.” Her voice softens, eyes fixed on Vorthax. “We got off on the wrong foot, because Iknowwe can help each other,” she breathes, a husky laugh curling from her lips. “I mean, beneath all the grunting andchest thumping—it’s obvious. You and I? Webothwant the same thing.”
“You wield the power to bring back the dead?” Vorthax snaps—not with scorn, but faint hope.
“Oh, no.” Princesa laughs, sharp and sudden. “I’ve got the very next best thing—revenge.”
Her smile widens, but her gaze blazes—silver-crimson spirals of ambition and glee—and I feel it through the bond. She thinks as I do. Exploiting the opportunity Vorthax represents. A crack in the fledgling rebellion, ready to be pried wide open. Chaos sowing chaos. Fractures in loyalty just waiting for the right pressure to become full-blown breaks.
“You’re interested, aren’t you? I can tell. Your peacock frillies are bristling.” Princesa leans forward, squinting with an exaggerated hand shielding her eyes. “Let’s talk somewhere less... public. Just the juicy details, I promise.” She glances around, the slagged ruins surrounding us, fingers stroking Todd’s bloaty side. “Not too long though. It’s nearly snacky time for His Divine Chugness.”
Vorthax exhales. Slow. Heavy. The sound of cooling slag seems to hush the plaza around us. His pale-golden eyes lock on hers—measured, wary, intrigued.
He nods toward a half-collapsed building just beyond the plaza’s edge—a blackened husk of alloy and stone, its skeletal frame leaning like a war ancient too proud to fall.
“There. We speak.”
