Page 137 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Murder-orbs swarm like frenzied bees wanting their honey back, raining blasts upon theRavager’s Ruinand our rusted fleet. Our creaky, space-hobo ships return fire, streaking spacewith ballistics and missiles. Most miss or explode against murder-bot sparkling shields, the force sending them spinning but unharmed.
“Earth is even further away! We’ll never make it!” Jazreal snarls, crushing my hopes and dreams like a hot air balloon meeting a flamethrower.
“Get those shuttle doors open! Now!” Sarkoth’s voice cuts through the storm, commanding, desperate.
A fresh volley of blasts slams into our ranks. A space-knight’s shield shudders, absorbing too many hits at once. Then, it fails. The plasma bolts rip through him. His scream pierces the chaotic air, his armor melting, warping, turning to liquid fire against his burning flesh. The stench of charred meat hits me, sharp and acidic.
“Fargor’s been gooped, get his warvisor!” someone shouts.
And then—Jazreal is on me. “Look at me!” His hands fist my collar, dragging me to him. His face is far too close, his breath hot, his green eyes burning with something primal, demanding. It’s not just him. All of them. They look at me like I’m the head jock, needing to make the final play, to put the ball in the bullseye ring or whatever it is jocks do.
Like I have the answers.
I don’t.
“You said the Gods sent you to guide us?” His grip tightens. “Voiding guide us, then!”
My hands tremble, breathing unsteady, erratic, eyes dart frantically, searching for something—anything. This is all too much for me. Dracoth should be here. This is his job. I’m the brains behind the Mr. Frowny Face. The engine to his bulldozer. The suspenders to his three-piece suit. But he’s gone. And It’s just me now.
Alone. Abandoned. Like always.
Jazreal’s right. It falls to me. I inhale sharply, forcing air into my lungs, forcing my spine straight, forcing the trembling in my fingers to still.
I can do this. I have to do this. I lick my lips, take one final breath—
And say, with all the divine authority of a goddess in the making:
“I... I think we should get the fuck out of here.”
Chapter 26
Dracoth
The War Chieftain
ThereoncewasaWar Chieftain known as Dracoth. A giant. A titan. A warrior with thoughts, feelings, hopes... destiny.
Now?
Now those things are gone.
They have faded like mist on a summer’s morning, insubstantial and fleeting. Surreal tendrils of a life that maybe never truly existed. An abstraction, a construct to mask the enormity beneath. A comforting façade to shade from the blinding light. A shield from the inferno.
Now, it burns.
Molten rivers of hate erupt within me, unstoppable, all-consuming.
Every blow, every slash blurs into the next. Weightless. Inexhaustible.
I reave through the horde of droids, each strike an extension of my rage. Servo gears whine. Plasma blasts scream. Metal limbs skitter and snap. An endless song. All of it. War drums beating a rhythm of my life, my death.
Steam rises from my body, curling from the joints in my armor, mingling with the superheated air. The Rush leaks from my eyes, silver-crimson plumes billowing into the haze. I see nothing but light and fire, yet I do not need sight. Not here. Ifeelthem. The enemy pressing in, countless mechanical limbs grasping, clawing, snapping—desperate to tear into me. A metal tide against the peaks of Scarn.
Through our bond, my ruby flame surges, burning ever hotter, reaching toward new, impossible heights piercing the darkness. Princesa’s silver fire coils around its base—alluring, seductive, but tainted with her conceit, her arrogance. Even now they flare brighter—the emotions that do not belong in me. Spoiled borack milk churning my guts with revulsion.
I rip my focus from her. Pain lances through me, relentless, inescapable.
My body burns, a thousand white-hot needles piercing my flesh. From within. From without. It does not matter. The stench of charred skin clings to the air, mingling with the acrid bite of scorched metal, melted polysynth, and the discharge of ozone.
