Page 151 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“You know the will of the Gods?” I whirl around, my gaze cutting through the gathered bone-through-the-noses, searching for the fool who dared question me. My elegance, my grace—burned away in the searing heat of my rage. “Better than I? The one blessed by Arawnoth?” My fingers trail over the glowing furnace of runes etched into my chest and neck, their warmth a reminder of my divinity. “The one who has convened with Aenarael—my Divine Mother?”
Silver mist curls from my eyes, wisps of light bleeding into the dim purple corridor. My voice drops to a deadly whisper, the words slipping between clenched teeth, automatic, inevitable, divine. “The Gods did bring us to this point. Not to die. To fight.”
The silence is absolute.
“A battle like no other looms before us,” I continue, voice rising with the force of my conviction. “A war for our futures, a chance at redemption. But if you falter—if you prove unworthy—you will be lost.” My gaze sweeps across them, daring them to challenge me. “You. The women. Everything. Swallowed by the Voidbringer.” I step forward, pressing into their space, my presence searing like liquefied metal. “Or you could embody the sacred words. Arawnoth’s molten heart. Fight. Die in his strength, in his divine image. Unbreakable. Laughing, delighting in the carnage and vengeance.” I pause, letting the weight of my words settle. “Then, and only then, will you earn your salvation.”
A breathless hush follows.
Most avert their eyes, their gazes lowered in reverence, in thought. But one does not.
A grizzled veteran stands unmoved, his weathered face etched with scars, his long crimson hair streaked with grey at the roots. There’s something ancient in his gaze.
“All we’ve ever known is battle and death,” he rumbles, his voice deep, gravel-thick, as if dredged from the abyss of time, like my old sock drawer. “I grow weary of bleeding for ghosts.” His tired gaze flicks to the door behind me. “I long to see something beautiful. Something hopeful.”
Hello? Beauty is standing right here.
I swallow my annoyance, forcing warmth into my voice. “Just one more,” I urge, stepping closer, taking his massive, calloused hand in mine. His skin is rough, worn like old leather boots. “One final fight,” I swear, my voice softer now, intimate, meant only for him. “And then, I promise, you’ll know peace.”
I promise.
Why did I say that? I haven’t a clue what comes next! But my mouth keeps yapping like a shifty salesman trying to pass off a hobo ship as a golden space yacht.
His grip tightens for a moment, and when his eyes meet mine, stern and probing, searching for something that wasn’t there before. A flicker of belief.
“One more,” he exhales at last, his voice heavy with years of war. Then, turning sharply, his long mohawk fluttering behind him, he mutters, “Farewell, Divine Daughter,” before stomping away. One by one, the others follow in his wake, their footfalls fading into the distance.
I exhale, my shoulders relaxing as I watch them go. A few space-knights linger, their heads bowed in thought, caught in some deep, bone-through-the-nose existential crisis unique to their kind. But the tension has lifted.
The two guards at the door step aside at last, allowing me entry to Razgor’s lab.
Finally.
It shouldn’t be this hard to get into my own damn ship’s facilities. Fort Knox has nothing on this place. I might need to rethink this whole plan—leading these guys, climbing to the top. This is hard work! What’s it going to be like when I have an entire planet hanging on my every word? I’ll need minions. Yes. A whole army of them—mini-Lexie’s trained in the sacred words, to spread my divine wisdom while I lounge in luxury.
I need to figure out what’s next. Maybe Razgor has some answers—or at least more ashes.
Chapter 29
Alexandra
Jelly Stick
Thedoorshissshutbehind me.
“Hey, Lexie! Did you sleep okay?” Sandra’s voice greets me like honey to my gravel-abused ears. Her freckled face beams up at me, all soft warmth and effortless sincerity.
“Ugh, I just woke up, and I already need a triple espresso.” I thumb my temples, sweeping my gaze across the room.
The Revered Mothers lie on makeshift medical beds, some sitting upright, others still as statues, their eyes closed. They don’t stir at my arrival, barely reacting to Razgor as he moves among them, scanning their bodies with a glowing projection from his wrist console.
“I’m not surprised, with all the ogling going on outside,” Sandra flicks her chin toward the door behind me. “These poor women are being hounded like paparazzi.”
“Please, try to understand it from my people’s perspective,” Razgor chimes in, sweeping his scanner over the women, making notes on his blue holographic display. “We haven’t seen our females in two hundred years.”
I snort, folding my arms. “First of all, that’s a ridiculous amount of time. Second, it shows. They need a cold shower—preferably one filtered through ice. Not packing out the corridors like this is some kind of kinky burlesque show.”
They could use that horrible fridge-prison Ignixis stuck me in.
