Page 43 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“I will convince Drexios,” I declare, giving Sandra a slight nod of reassurance.
Sandra manages a faint smile, though her incessantly twiddling thumbs betray her lingering unease—a nervous blur of pink movement.
“Of course you will, babes,” Princesa chimes in, her voice bursting with excitement. Then, leaning toward Sandra, she whispers close enough for her breath to tickle the female’s ear. “Don’t worry, Sandra. I’ll protect you with my divine shields while Dracoth burns them to ash with Arawnoth’s love.”
“Oh... that’s... um, good to know, Lexie.” Sandra stammers with a nervous giggle.
Our party continues in silence as we move deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of theRavagers’ Ruin. The viewports dotting the black marble walls let in pulsing green light from the unending churn of drones and machines darting through the void. Reinforcing our precarious situation and the greater threats my so-called Scythian allies pose.
Warriors pass us frequently, offering Jazreal and Sarkoth nods of respect or quick words of camaraderie. While they judge the rest of us with curiosity or suspicion.
It’s strange to see so many warriors. My own Battlebarge is a hollowed-out husk compared to this thriving fortress of strength. Even the very walls speak of it, lined with banners and trophies, some alien, others damaged beyond recognition. Ancient and magnificent, each tells a tale—a battle won, a people conquered.
It sings to me, sending molten Rush coursing in my veins. This is where true warriors reside. Not the feeble, withered cowards hidden beneath Scarn’s mountains. Here, among these battle-scarred walls, dwell my true Magaxus brothers—those whose hearts beat strong and proud for the glory that is ours by birthright. Our divine gift to the universe: death.
It’s with furious fire pumping through my veins when we finally halt before a massive, foreboding door. Unlike the others, this one is crafted from black metal, each side emblazoned with a glowing red eye dripping green blood. This must be it—the command bridge.
Sarkoth beckons with a hand, stepping through as if it were any other room, but to me, it’s so much more. Inside lies not a simple command bridge, but a throne room.
A raised dais dominates the space, upon which sits an imposing throne of black obsidian, its surface veined with jagged bone. Massive, monstrous skulls and spines form the armrests, while the towering backrest reaches high above, crowned witha fiery banner. The banner’s vivid depiction shows an unknown beast bathing a world in flames.
Framing the throne, a panoramic viewport stretches from the gleaming black-marble floor to the arched ceiling lined with flowing purple lightstrips. Through the void beyond, Scythian Voidbanes lumber among the endless stars. Seeker drones dart past in swift blurs, weaving through a lattice of green pulsing energy that blankets the heavens in an eerie glow.
“War Chieftain, I bring you Dracoth, son of Gorexius,” Sarkoth announces, performing a curt Klendathian salute toward a half-turned throne.
My teeth grind at that title—the one that belongs to me!
Sarkoth strides to join his war brothers, who stand silently along the walls beneath intricately embroidered crimson battle standards hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Tall, broad-shouldered, and immaculately disciplined, they stand like statues, their long hair flowing down their backs. A bitter thought creeps in: if my father hadn’t fallen to the usurper Krogoth, I too might have stood among them.
A deep, rumbling sound draws my attention to the throne. The dais rotates, and at last, I see him.
Drexios.
Chapter 10
Dracoth
Second the Best
Heloungesinthethrone’s red leather upholstery with a smirk. A scaled crimson cloak drapes his shoulders; the sight of it makes me tighten my fists. His long green hair cascades to his waist, flanked between his shaved temples.
Physically, he’s unremarkable—average, at best. Though, I know little of my father’s former Second, beyond his reputation for brutality and unpredictability. He appears bored, his head resting lazily on his fist.
“Well, well, we don’t get many visitors here,” Drexios drawls, barely sparing me a glance before shifting his gaze to the endless space beyond the viewport. “It’s the voiding Scythians. That voice, it never stops. Always whispering, but neveranswering.” His voice has an unsettling edge—part monotony, part challenge.
Abruptly, his head snaps back toward me, one crimson eye gleaming with malice, the other a glowing mechanical implant.
His hand shoots to his belt, his fingers trembling at a leather pouch. “You hear it too, don’t you,sonof Gorexius?” he sneers, twisting the vertical scar over his robotic, glowing red eye. “Yes, of course you do, the song that never stops... the song of death.”
He laughs insanely, before taking a deep draw from a scoomer inhaler, exhaling the crimson cloud that hangs like a haze around his twisted smile.
Pathetic addict.
“Let’s get a look at you!” he suddenly exclaims, vaulting from the throne like a swooping arrohawk. “Spooky,” he adds with an exaggerated shudder as he approaches, his eyes drinking in the sheer power I exude. “Behold! Gorexius has returned from the netherworld!”
He claps his hands with theatrical glee, making Sandra recoil behind me. Then his head dips, his crimson eyes glinting with malice. His voice drops to a venomous whisper. “Or is it a clone I see before me?”
His words strike like a vipertail’s stinger. My gaze falters, his accusation digging too close to what Elder Harkus had implied. The faded memories of my childhood—fragments like dreams within a dream. Are they real? Or am I nothing more than an altered clone created by machines? A twisted mockery that shouldn’t exist?
