Page 225 of Scorching the Alien Empire
The words spill out of me in a euphoric rush. I love the power play. All eyes on me, hanging on my every word. I finish my monologue overcome with a sense of pride and self-satisfaction.
But something’s wrong.
There is no victory. No. Something much worse—Krogoth, face twisted in rage, eyes glowing like twin purple infernos. “You will undo whatever foul thing you’ve done to myPebbles,” he commands, raising a hand at me. “Or I will end you.”
Oh, fuck.
“I—I didn’t do anything,” I swallow a lump in my throat, regal composure cracking. “It was her own power—her backlash—”
“Face me,” Dracoth says.
A low growl. Pure thunder. He steps forward, crimson-eyed and colossal, rage simmering in every movement, his shadow falling protectively over me.
He stops before Krogoth, towering over even him by a head. Massive. Invincible. Totally hot. But annoyingly showing restraint. The pair lock burning eyes. Purple and crimson suns burning fumes into the tense, sterile air.
Can Dracoth kill him before he unleashes those vortexes? Maybe—maybe—if I get my barriers up in time.
My heart jackhammers in my chest. This is it. The moment I’ve been building toward, hoping for. Our enemies in one place. The gooey, delicious tension is so thick I could marinate in it for weeks.
Dracoth’s hand twitches—ready to strike. Krogoth’s eyes crackle with power. Todd croaks with sleepy, divine protection.
Then—wood creaks. A long, ancient groan.
Light spills in. Cool. Pristine. Unnatural. Next comes—music. Twinkling, high-pitched and eerily serene—like a fairy tale turned sideways.
All eyes snap to the source.
Nibs.Lots of them.
Two hulking purple Robo-Nibs. A dozen armored guards. And Consul Catokar at the head, flanked by a new figure—a tall Nib woman with radiant yellow hair and a collar high enough to pick up Wi-Fi.
But it’s the one floating on a strange disc that silences everything. A figure suspended like royalty. Ancient. Wrinkled. Glowing Elerium-like eyes. Blue skin, bushy white eyebrows, a beard like frosted moss curling down his robe. His collar is the largest yet: half iridescent orange, half shimmering blue.
He doesn’t walk. Hehovers—a radiant techno, Papa Smurf.
A voice echoes through the chamber, formal and rehearsed:
“All rise for Imperator Bulba, Fourth of His Name, Protector of the Twin-Sunned Empire, Slayer of the Scythians!”
Bulbasaur?
I blink.
Seriously?
That’s his name?
Chapter 42
Dracoth
Twin Suns
IglareatKrogoth,fistsstill clenched, the Rush surging through my veins like magma—pressure mounting, desperate to erupt in a volcanic storm of brutal vengeance. Can he feel it? The fury radiating from me like solar fire? A righteous heat screaming to erase the shame he stained me with—burned away by his blood.
Then, movement.
The Nebians enter. In numbers.
