Page 239 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“I’m sorry to disturb your Mura-Tok, Chieftain,” I say, pitching my voice into the most respectful, softest whisper I can conjure.
One pale green eye creaks open. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s about to demand I answer three riddles before letting me stay.
“War Chieftainess,” he rumbles, voice deep as an avalanche. His thick white brows lift slightly in surprise. “There are few aliens who know of the Mura-Tok.”
“Oh, I know itverywell,” I groan theatrically, flopping into a cross-legged sit with a squelchythump—immediately regretting the massive brunch binge. “I practice it every day like Elder Ignixis taught me,” I add, dropping the name like a golden ticket to Club Respect.
“Elder Ignixis...” He breathes deep, closing his eye again. His total lack of interest makes me clench my teeth hard enough to risk dental surgery.
“Did he not teach you proper etiquette?” He gestures toward the door with a massive hand that could probably snap me like a breadstick. “You risk scandal by entering my chambers alone. I will not offend your Mortakin-Kai’s honor. Please, leave.”
Crap. Maybe I should have dragged Sandra here. She’s technically my ginger-in-waiting. Except... mind-controlled by Bitch Brick. Total liability.
Of course, the bone-through-the-noses would be super old-school, I’m probably supposed to be tied to the kitchen or bedroom, shooting out adorable Klendathian babies like a malfunctioning stapler and packing cute little battle lunches.
Oh! I could cut the bread into wee frowny faces.
“It was the War Chieftain who sent me.” The lie rolls from my tongue smooth as silken lace. “He honors your ancient wisdom. Your respect for the old ways—the very traditions Krogoth mocks and attacks. I respect them, too. That’s why I come beforeyou,” I purr, leaning forward slightly, ensuring that gravity and my strategically-too-small robes let my cleavage fill his eyes, while my words muddle his mind.
My fingers brush his massive, tattooed hand—it’s cold, like touching frozen iron—but I ignore the burn, layering my smile with just the right mix of sadness, submission, and longing. The kind of look that melts men’s brains faster than molten lava.
Big Belly snaps his hand back like I’m made of live wires. His forked beard—still loaded with enough bones to build a xylophone—jingles like a discarded Bargain Bucket. His mouth falls open in dumbfounded horror.
So...seduction’soff the table. Honestly? I’m both impressed and offended. Peak Sexy-Lexie is not something most mortals can resist. Especially not the overly serious types—they usually fold like cheap suits the second a bombshell drops into their lap.
Fine. Whatever. Pivot time. Chaste Lexie it is. Howboring.
I rock back onto my heels, fold my hands neatly in my lap, and cast my eyes down in my best imitation of when the principal scolded me.
“Forgive my outburst, Chieftain,” I whisper, voice quivering with quiet, reverent desperation. “Arawnoth fills me with furious passion—a rage I struggle to contain when such open sacrilege goes unanswered.”
Big Belly studies me a moment, rubbing his hand where I touched him like I’m made of poison ivy. “You are most peculiar,” he rumbles finally.
Rude.
“Did you know,” he says, shaking his massive head until his pristine braids sway like ceremonial wind chimes, “that Krogoth abolished the title of War Chieftain?” He sounds almost mournful. “That, I do not condone. A tradition shattered over petty semantics.”
Bingo. I can work with that.
“A tyrant who is—” I start, lunging for the momentum—
“But,” the rude prick slices me off mid-sentence like a giant emotional nail clipper. “You speak of sacrilege. What other crimes do you lay against his honor?”
Something shifts. The cold, sterile air turns heavier, sharper. I realize—belatedly—this isn’t casual small talk. This is a cross-examination. And I’m the exotic criminal in the witness box for the crime of being too fabulous.
I thought Big Belly would be easy, but here I am, hunting frantically for the right answer, like the teacher has just called me up to solve calculus on a blackboard made of embarrassment.
I clear my throat before replying. “He killed Dracoth’s father, Gorexius. He seizes leadership not by right, but by brute force,” I say, smoothing the wrinkles from my robe, fighting to keep my voice low and controlled.
“You speak of our rights?” Big Belly tuts—like a disappointed grandfather Buddha—and it scrapes against my nerves. “An outsider who knows little of our ways? Krogoth invoked the right of Krak-Tok. By conquest, he earned the mantle.”
“The same challenge he now refuses?” I snap, arms folding across my chest. “How... hypocritical and convenient.” I shake my head, scowling. “You saw what Krogoth can do. How is that fair? Where’s the so-called honor when you flush your enemy down a cosmic toilet?” I lean in, voice sharp as broken glass. “Seems like a big, fat cheater move to me.”
“Gorexius was corrupted by Scythian technology. More machine than warrior. Those who witnessed it swear so on their honor.” Big Belly breathes deep, studying the runic tattoos etched across his colossal hands. “In truth, I held no love for Gorexius. He abandoned our traditions, forsook the Gods. Tore our society apart. It did not surprise me to hear that in his quest for power he betrayed what it meant to be Klendathian.”
Brilliant, I’m barking up the wrong damn tree. And the forest is rapidly burning down around me.
“Dracoth isn’t like his father,” I insist, forcing my voice into a low, passionate growl. “He honors the Gods. We both do. He’s the leader Gorexius should have been. With Arawnoth’s divine fire, he resisted the Voidbringers’ corruption. He rescued the Revered Mothers. He crushed the murder-bots. He’s rebuilding everything Gorexius and the Scythians tried to destroy. Unlike Krogoth and Rocks, who just want to run away and bury their scarred heads in the sand.”
