Page 8 of Scorching the Alien Empire
My Mortakin-Kai turns toward the blinding light streaming from the void outside. A black planet drifts into view—barren, unlike Earth or Klendathor. Just a massive ball of obsidian rock with a gray, swirling atmosphere.
“Keth, report,” Dracoth growls, his voice as steady as ever.
The black-haired mini-Dracoth manipulates the navigational console like he’s playing a particularly intense game of Pokémon.
“Pulsar’s moon is ten thousand clicks away,” Keth reports in his annoyingly monotone voice. “A dozen small vessels in its orbit.”
“So few!” Ignixis sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “But is it a trap, young Dracoth?” His laughter cackles through the air, unsettling in its echo.
Dracoth remains as poised as ever. He flicks his hand forward, the edges of his Chieftain’s cloak billowing dramatically. “Full speed toward the moon,” he commands. “Nexarn, signal Balsar. The Shorthairs remain here.”
“A suicidal charge?” Ignixis tuts, clicking his tongue. “How unimaginative, even by your thick-headed standards,” he snickers.
I shoot him a withering look, but he merely grins back at me, his yellow fangs gleaming in the shadow of his hood.
The ship groans, the floor vibrating with a steady rhythm as the white moon grows larger with every passing frantic heartbeat.
“War Chieftain,” Nexarn’s voice cuts through the tension, emotionless as ever. “We’ve received comms from the Whores’ Orphans. Reads: ‘Death to traitors.’”
“Well, that’s not very friendly,” I quip, my voice steadier than I feel, trusting in Dracoth, my red dragon. His unreadable expression, however, is starting to get really fucking inconvenient.
“Prepare weapons, shields at full strength. Maintain course,” Dracoth commands, his tone an iron edge. The mini-Dracoths’ fingers fly over their consoles, rushing to obey.
“War Chieftain, approximately three hundred and twenty-five small vessels are registering from within Pulsar’s moon.” Keth’swords hit like an eviction notice, sending my stomach into freefall. I’m strapped to a rollercoaster of death I can’t escape.
“That... that’s more than we have, right? Likea lotmore?” I stammer, my gaze darting up to Dracoth, hoping for some shred of reassurance. Instead, I’m met with more Mr. Frowny Face. But through our bond, I sense the blood-red flame of excitement blazing within him.
He’s actually enjoying this!
“Oh dear,” the annoying prick Ignixis mocks, threatening to fray the last nerve holding back my flood of panic. “Who could have guessed it would be a trap? I wonder if the great Gorexius would have made such an obvious blunder.”
That’s it. We’re all going to die!
“Silence, you old gas-cloud,” Dracoth says absently, sounding as confident as I feel in new heels.
Has my Dracoth got some trick hidden up his giant Bobo the Clown sleeves? Some miracle, straight from Arawnoth himself?
“I’ll prevail with not a single loss,” Dracoth announces, whipping his head over his shoulder to flash an ultra-rare, tiny grin at Ignixis. Despite his gruff voice, his words go straight to number one in Lexie’s greatest hits.
Ignixis scoffs, but it’s Jazreal who speaks next, his laugh rich with disbelief. “Surely, a wild boast!” he chuckles, as though this is all one huge twisted joke at my expense.
Dracoth steps forward, his towering frame silhouetted against the viewport. Hands clasped behind his back, and I can’t help but trail after him like a lost puppy begging for a treat calledhope.
“Keth,” he says, his voice a low growl, “evasive maneuvers. Engage and destroy the approaching ships.”
“At once, War Chieftain,” Keth replies. The ship tilts, forcing me to steady myself against the giant red pole of man muscle that is my Dracoth.
Outside, the incoming ships shimmer like specks of dust against the blinding white of the moon, growing larger with each heartbeat. I shield my eyes, my pulse hammering.
Maybe Sandra was right. This is far too terrifying.
Jazreal’s excitement cuts through the tension. “The fools advance before their forces have gathered?” he exclaims, half in disbelief, half in delight. “They’re moving outside the range of their battle moon!”
Wait, that’s good, right?
“Eager amateurs,” Dracoth rumbles, a faint note of grim amusement creeping into his voice. “It shall be their doom.” He sweeps his arm wide, as though dismissing the enemy ships like chess pieces from a board. Then, with the force of a thunderclap, he roars, “Open fire!”
The sheer volume nearly makes me jump out of my skin, forcing me to grip his arm tighter.
