Page 204 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Chapter 39
Dracoth
Let Go
“Weneedonlyremove...Krogoth.” He hesitates, a flicker of doubt lowering his gaze for an instant. “Perhaps that sunbaked Aelioth, too. They wish to formalize peace. Others hunger for vengeance. But most?” He leans forward. “Most don’t know what to believe. Not about Krogoth. Not aboutyou.”
Folly layered upon folly.
“That sounds like awonderfulplan!” Princesa beams, eyes alight with manic delight. “I mean, obviously you’ll need my help to remove Krogoth.” Her blazing eyes look us up and down. “Because, let’s be real—you two loser-turds would get flushed down his cosmic toilet in two seconds flat.”
Vorthax blinks, as if suddenly struck by a hammer blow. “Do... all humans speak with such—?”
“Goddesses do,” Princesa interrupts sweetly, her tone bright, edged, and dangerous. “And only a Goddess can kill a God.”
The way she calls Krogoth aGodsends a white-hot spike of hatred through me.
She leans toward Vorthax conspiratorially. “And my husband,” she adds, jerking a thumb at me, “is a little out of order right now.” She giggles and shoots me a daggered side-glance. “Don’t worry, babes. I’ll handle everything. Like Ialwaysdo. You just rest your little sparklers.” She giggles, each vibration a claw slicing my heart.
Shame coils inside me—cold, strangling. I feel it. Like chains around my throat. No escape. No answers. This sense of powerlessness. The lack of control boils my blood. How can I stop this folly—the immense danger she flirts with.
“I forbid it!” I roar, slamming my fist into the table. The metal buckles under the blow. “You cannot defeat Krogoth. None of us can overcome his powers.” Princesa flinches. Vorthax leans back, arms crossed. “I won’t let you die for this foolishness.” I exhale slowly, my coiled muscles loosening. “There is only one path forward—negotiation. A vote of Chieftains. If he’ll honor it.”
“You,” Princesa hisses, her voice low, laced with venom. “Don’t get to tell me what to do. Not anymore.”
Then, with a smile like a swooping arrohawk eyeing prey, she turns to Vorthax. “Ignore the meathead gaslighting over here, I’m more than capable of killing Krogoth.” Her eyes narrow, glowing silver-crimson with ambition and heat. “I’ll squish him like a big fat, juicy bug.”
She traces her fingers across the divine runes on her chest—they ignite under her touch, flaring like molten coal.
“I’m blessed by both Aenarael and Arawnoth. It’ll be easy. But,” she adds with a grin, “just to be safe? We surprise him. And then—BAM!”
She raises her hand. A cage of shimmer-shields flashes into existence around a slumped servitor nearby. The force clamps inward like a vice. With a shriek of metal, the machine crushes inward—imploding with apopinto a neat, solid cube.
Princesa grins, voice low and sultry. “See? Easy asthat.”
I do not see.
To my Rush-infused senses, her motion was sluggish. And I remember clearly—Arawnoth’s fire gave me strength enough to tear through her barriers.
“Yes...” Vorthax murmurs, eyes locked on the runes burning across her skin. “Yes,” he repeats more firmly, as if snapping free from a trance. “Tomorrow, a council gathers. The Nebian high command. The remaining Chieftains. AboardThe Imperator’s Fist, no less.”
The name lands like a crashing meteorite.TheImperator’s Fist—the arcweave leviathan that helped rout the Scythians—equal parts palace, forge, and executioner.
“Their Imperator will be present?” I ask, unable to suppress all the surprise in my voice.
Vorthax shrugs, plumes rustling faintly. “Perhaps. Some claim he has sat like a useless, fattened borack on his Elerium throne for centuries. Yet his flagship and Praetorian Guard are here.” He leans forward, his voice gathering urgency. “It could be a trap. Lure us all in one place, sever the heads from the bodies. Complete their supposedvictory.”
Then he jabs a finger toward Princesa, eyes burning. “But withyou, the hunters become the hunted. If their Imperator truly sits aboard that beast, it’ll behishead we sever. And we’ll cast it at the feet of their trembling Consuls—before we finish Gorexius’s work and burn Nebia to ash.”
He seizes my wrist, strong and steady, his eyes boring into mine—beseeching, almost pleading. “Our final gift. Light his path back to the ancestors... in honor.”
I see the pain in his eyes—the regret and loss, glistening with intensity, but beneath it, lies something else—bloodlust. Vengeance. Raw, and seething, begging brutal release.
But to follow this path? One forged on shaky hope. Projecting power we donotpossess. Our people are bled dry—anemic and sickly. Our population on the brink. A fleet useless and broken. A final strike would be suicide dressed as glory.
“The Nebians will not attack us,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “They fear Krogoth’s power—the Gods’ blessing that consumed the Scythian hordes. The very strength you seek to remove.” I glance between Vorthax and Princesa, letting my words take root.
Vorthax recoils, disgust twisting his weathered face. “Then void the Nebians!” he roars, slamming his fist to his chest plate. “More reason to strike while their heartsquiverwith fear. TherealGorexius would’ve seen that as plainly as Klendathor’s sun. But not you. No... whatever you are.” His words drip poison. “Where a proud Klendathian heart should thunder with righteous fury—I see a Glaseroid’s. Pumping putrid cowardice.”
