Page 147 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I suppress a frown.Droids?
After we splattered their frenzied brother’s guts across the vats?
“They are to be left unharmed,” I state, my voice even but firm.
Drexios sighs, throwing up his hands. “Have no fear, fearless leader.” His smirk returns, playful and sharp. “Jazreal and Razgor are sorting through them now. Knowing those two, the clones will come out doing backflips with scientific terminals glued to their faces.”
To punctuate his point, he executes a near-flawless cartwheel across the deck, landing with a dramatic flourish.
My hands grip the armrests of my throne, the bone-laden edges digging into my palms. The exhaustion gnaws at me, a dull ache that spreads through my muscles and settles deep in my bones. My vision blurs for a moment, the holographic display of the battlefield flickering as if mocking my weariness. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus.
Beyond the viewport, Seeker drones continue their relentless assault, but their numbers dwindle, disintegrating under the blistering fire of our cannons. Retaliatory blasts spark violently against our shields, casting brilliant white-blue flashes across the bridge. But even those once-blinding strikes are becoming less frequent.
I stifle a yawn, fighting the weight pressing against my body. I must remain alert. The battle isn’t over. The swarm lingers in our wake, a mechanical tide refusing to let go.
“Shields building at sixty-five percent, War Chieftain,” Corsark reports, his voice steady but tinged with relief. “The drones are losing ground.”
I nod, my jaw clenched against the fatigue.
Drexios saunters over, his usual swagger undiminished by the chaos around us. He leans against the armrest of my throne, a lopsided grin stretching across his face.
“You know, boss, you’re looking a little rough. I’ve seen Scoomed-out Glaseroids in better shape.”
I glare at him, but the effort feels hollow. My voice, when it comes, is raw, my throat still scorched from hours of smoke and superheated air. “I’ll live.”
Drexios snorts. “You’re a big ol’ hemovyrn bleeding out.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “We’re heading to Argon Six?” He flicks a glance at Corsark, waiting for him to nod in confirmation before continuing.
“That’s plenty of time for a sweet, sweet dip in a healing pod. Trust me, you’ll need every bit of strength once we get to that voiding netherworld. And I’ll be too busy watching my own ass to save yours again.” He chuckles, the smug amusement ringing through the bridge.
I ignore him, turning my attention back to the viewport. The swirling chaos of plasma fire and the endless streaking stars bleed together in my vision, a tapestry of war and escape. My head throbs, a relentless drumbeat pounding in time with the ship’s cannons. Rest is a luxury I cannot afford. Not yet. Not when the gap between us and death is measured in fleeting moments.
Drexios’s tone shifts, the humor fading into something quieter, almost concerned. “Remember what I said when we were knee-deep in droid guts? The Second comes after the First? The clue’s in the name.” He exhales, watching me carefully. “I know what you did down there, what you endured. You’re running on fumes, and it’s starting to show.”
I clench my fists, the gauntlets groaning under the pressure. Yet I remain silent. Speaking is an effort I refuse to waste.
“Did you fall asleep on me, you big bastard?” he asks, moving around the base of my plinth, his singular red eye narrowing. “With you, it’s hard to tell.” His voice dips into something sharper. “The clan serves the War Chief. The War Chief is not the clan.”
He’s incessant. Droning on and on. A gas-cloud that would put Ignixis to shame. He buzzes at the edge of my consciousness like a znat I can’t swat.
I rise from my throne, my mouth opening to argue—but the words catch in my throat. My vision swims again, the edge of the viewport warping into a haze of light and shadow. The battle outside wavers, slipping in and out of focus. My grip tightens on the armrests, but it does little to steady me.
Drexios moves faster than I expect, his arm snapping up like a striking vipertail, his hand gripping my shoulder, steadying me before I can stumble.
“That’s it,” Drexios declares, his tone firm now, any trace of humor fading. “You’re cooked. Berserkers, escort him to the healing pods. The War Chief needs a nap.” He jerks his head toward the warriors lining the walls.
I want to protest, to push Drexios away, to reclaim my throne and remind them all that I am unbreakable. But the exhaustion is too much, a weight that presses down on me, crushing my resolve. My body betrays me, my legs trembling as I rise from the throne.
Drexios’s hand remains firm on my shoulder, steadying me as I take my first step away from the throne.
“You’re too ugly to be up there anyway,” he quips, his voice slipping back into something light and teasing. “I’ll keep the seat nice and warm for you. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll wake you up. Probably.”
I shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Anything. You wake me.”
With an exaggerated flourish, Drexios slaps a hand against his chest, straightening like a warrior at attention. “MAGAXUS SECOND RELIEVING THE WAR CHIEFTAIN!” His expression is momentarily rigid and serious before it twists into a wicked grin. “Don’t worry. I’m a safe pair of hands.” He claps, waggling fingers dramatically in front of his face.
Two berserkers approach with outstretched arms, ready to support me, but I wave them off. This farce is already bordering on the shameful. What would it do to morale if they saw their War Chieftain being half-carried like a whipped Prospect after his first day of training? No, Drexios plays the fool, but he is right—I must regain my strength. I must embody our ideals—unyielding strength and furious resolve.
The walk to the healing pods feels longer than it should, each step a test of will. Every viewport I pass fills me with unease, my gaze flicking to the battle raging beyond, where plasma fire streaks across the void.
