Page 220 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Their downfall.
Our ascent.
Chapter 41
Alexandra
Party Crashers
Thedoorspartwitha creak like ancient trees exhaling their final breath. Cold, pristine light spills through—clinical, almost sterile—and then the chamber swallows us whole.
It’s a cathedral of power and alien opulence.
The walls curve inward, smooth and seamless, forged from polished stone in swirling, sandy hues. At each corner, towering crystalline columns pulse with luminous rainbow light, their glow shifting subtly like breath. The whole room hums—not loud, butalive.
And at its heart?
A table. Massive. Obscene.
It stands out—a scrapheap dumped in Buckingham Palace. A brutal slab of black-gray alloy fused together as if my divine shields had crushed murder-bots into terrible décor designs.
Above it, two suspended orbs rotate slowly—part chandelier, part astronomical flex. One sparks sapphire, the other pulses molten orange—a heartbeat of wealth. Elerium. My breath catches. That’s not just expensive. Like my ring—if my ring were the size of a compact car. A casual fortune orbiting like two naughty planets playing footsie.
“Class,” Sandra mutters, reverent.
“Dracoth, I really like this spaceship,” I purr, whispering into his long ear, heart stuttering with the delicious thought that one day it’ll belong to me.
He says nothing, but the bond hums with low approval as his boots thud across the polished stone. The sound silences the distant muttering at the table.
They see us now.
The Big Chiefs.
Five of them, seated in mismatched thrones—each more dramatic than the last. Old. Young. Robed. Armored. Colorful. Grimy. Cloaked figures with watchful eyes, half-shadowed, heads twitching toward us like hobos at a soup kitchen. Suspicion simmers in every glance.
My breath hitches. I crush the strange pang of doubt under four-inch platform boots and smile like I own the place.
“Gorexius...?” one of them breathes. A round-bellied elder, forked beard like purest snow. He stares at Dracoth like a ghost just strolled in munching brains. “By the Gods—how?”
He stumbles from a crystalline ice throne, nearly knocking it over in his panic.
And then—
“Oh. Look! Women!”
A human voice. High, light, and painfully enthusiastic. It echoes like the sound of someone clapping at a funeral.
A swarm of Lexie-moths dive-bomb my stomach as my eyes lock onto the source.
Bitch Brick. In the flesh.
Hazel eyes sparkle across the room like we’re old school friends. I study her—a woman in her mid-thirties, face framed by mousy brown hair... and scarred. Deep, jagged, painful-looking scars slashed across one cheek like an oversized cat used her face as a scratching post.
How unfortunate.I almost smirk.
She’s wearing a gleaming purple dress with a white fur cloak draped over her like a curtain from a forgotten opera house. The same color as mine. My jaw clenches so hard it nearly cracks. I fight the urge to rip it off her and set it on fire with my eyeballs.
She disappoints me. I’d imagined something else—some Conan the Barbarian meets Barbie cyborg warrior queen. Not... this. Not Plain Jane with bad taste in accessories.
