Page 258 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Then—BOOM!
A thunderousCRASHtears through the world. My Red Dragon erupts through the door like an avenging god.
Krogoth looks up—but it’s too late. Dracoth slams into him like a meteor wrapped in fury.
Krogoth flies—an ugly bird—a screaming blur crashing into the far wall, denting it with his body like a wrecking ball made of pain.
“Coward!” Dracoth booms, voice erupting like a volcano. “You refuse my challenge—but assault myPrincesa?”
By the Gods. This is hot.
He stalks forward, every footfall reverberating through the wreckage. The groundtrembleswith fury and raw cosmic intent.
Krogoth groans, shaking his head, green blood trickling from his nose as he rises from the crater his ass just made.
Delicious.
“Honor demands you answer for thissacrilege,” Dracoth snarls, fangs bared. “I challenge you. ToKrak-Tok.” His words fall like a divine surprise birthday cake—frosted in redemption and cosmic reckoning.
Is this it? My redemption arc? Are my prayers being answered?
My heart slams against my aching ribs. My breathing, erratic.
Silence.
Krogoth climbs fully upright, glaring up at my towering murder-husband. Evenheis dwarfed by Dracoth’s sheer mass and divine wrath.
Say it, Cringe-Eyes. Just say it.
“I could kill you where you stand,” Krogoth rumbles, low and seething. He flicks a glance toward Bitch Brick as if searching for Plain Jane answers—collapsed, cradled now by a softly whispering Sandra.
“With a mere thought!” A cosmic orb flickers above his clenched fist—there and gone again. Murder potential in one breath.
Dracoth doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Supreme Mr. Frowny Face, carved in volcanic stone. “Honor demands you face me,” he growls. “Warrior against warrior, Chieftain against Chieftain.”
Krogoth’s face contorts with disgust. “The same honor your father showed?” he spits. “That corrupted machine who tore our people apart?”
“I AM NOT MY FATHER!” Dracoth roars. Sudden. Brutal. Deafening. Thrilling. Even Todd croaks with awe.
Krogoth’s eyes flicker once more to Bitch Brick. Sandra—brainwashed—whispering comfort to the limp and raspingPlain Jane.
Come on, just say it already!
He exhales. Long. Heavy. Like a dying star. “So be it.” His voice is low now. Icy. “If it’s death you seek—I shall be its deliverer,” he intones, a judge passing a divine sentence.
He whirls around to scoop up the noodlized Bitch Brick like she’s made of shattered porcelain. Surprisingly gentle. Gross.
“Tomorrow, Argon-Six, Sector Sixty-Six.”
The traitor marches away, cloak and hair whipping behind him like some melodramatic explosion-ignoring villain.
My heart surges. Buoyed like a sugar-addicted schoolgirl, I can’t help myself. “May you bereborn in strength,” I call sweetly after him, voice dripping honey and razor blades.
Then the worldtilts—Dracoth lifts me into his strong arms. I groan, melting against him like a blonde marshmallow pressed to flat irons. But even as my cheek hits his armor, I hear it—buzzing. Whirring.
Murder-orbs. Dozens of them, hovering above, surveying the devastation like we’ve just played our parts in some cosmic space opera. Filing the moment under:Goddess Catfight / Deadly Waffle Fries / Pending Blood Trial.
Whatever.
