Page 52 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“I am Corsark, son of Magnus,” one of the five soldiers before Dracoth proclaims, clamping a fist to his armored chest. His voice booms through the hall with resounding pride. “I served your father, our great War Chieftain, for three hundred years.”
Three hundred years!
I’d be spitting out my mocha if I had one.
Oh, how I miss my mochas.
This Corsark stands with not a single gray hair in his long, meticulously braided black mane, the only hints of age being the faint creases nesting near his steely yellow eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was in his early thirties, not three hundred.Three hundred!That’s ridiculous. I swear, if I hadn’t seen those buff grandpas under Scarn’s mountains, I’d think Klendathian’s lived forever.
What the hell age is Dracoth, then?Two hundred?Ugh, he really is robbing the cradle.
Corsark continues with his overly animated gestures, the epitome of a war-meathead lost in his own heroic monologue. “...And in the flames of Argon Six, I claimed two confirmed Nebian Battlesuit kills...” I tune out the monotonous embellishments.
All meat, no substance.
As Sandra and I edge closer to the throne, a horrible realization hits me like an eviction notice stapled to my forehead.
There’s only one chair!
My heart pounds, and my mouth opens and closes like I’m trying to catch flies. This is an outrageous oversight. I’m so very tempted to interrupt Corsark’s meat-headery with a loud protest. But a side-eyed glare from Emperor Dracoth, First of His Name, stops me cold.
Look at him up there, sitting stone-faced and massive, his head practically scraping the vaulted ceiling.
That should be my head up there!My head, my throne!
The pastel redecorations can wait; this needs to be fixedyesterday.
Sandra and I stand awkwardly, like wide-eyed orphans outside a closed adoption agency. The bitter taste of neglect washes over me—like someone shoved the sourest Lemon Drop Martini down my throat.
“Psst.”
The hiss comes from my left.
“Psst!” Louder now, pulling my attention to Drexios, who’s beckoning us with a crooked finger. His perpetual smirk, sweaty face, and patched eye screamtrustworthy—if trustworthy were a bloodthirsty great white shark grinning with its jaws wide open.
“What are you both, voiding imbeciles?” he sneers, his whispered voice cutting through Corsark’s droning like a shout.
I shoot him a withering glare as Sandra and I shuffle to stand beside him, like we’re at a police lineup for a lunatic asylum escapee.
“Oh, stop,” Drexios drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re making me all tingly.” He even shudders dramatically, the creep.
“I’ll make you allpancaked, you rude prick.” I hiss through a smile faker than my mother’s veneers.
Drexios shows no sign of offense, maintaining his infuriating smug smile.
“Pancaked?”
I sigh, careful to keep sound below the endless boasting echoing from Corsark. Still, I decide not to answer Drexios. No way I’m giving this creepy lunatic the pleasure of my voice.
Apparently, Sandra missed the memo. “A pancake is a soft, flat, sweet bread from Earth,” she chimes in eagerly, her voice brimming with the kind of mistimed naivety that makes my eyes roll.
Read the room, Sandra.
Drexios leans closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “Which is it, female?” His voice drops to a whisper so cold it sends shivers down my spine. “I’m to be all... soft. Flat. Or sweet?”
How is it possible, there’s someone creepier and weirder than Ignixis?
“Flat!” I blurt out, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a few nearby guards. My cheeks burn as I glare silver daggers at him. “Flat—like your hand when Dracoth crushed it. Remember? Oh, Ibetthat hurt,” I add, lowering my voice to a syrupy tone laced with venom.
