Page 159 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Dracoth
Wakey, Wakey
Idonmyfather’sarmor,the thick plates sealing around my limbs with the weight of his legacy, the fate that now must be won in fire and blood. The call had come in moments ago, dragging me from the depths of sleep. The enemy is near. Scythians. Not merely pursuing, but encircling us. A swarm gathering in the dark, waiting to descend.
My fingers clench into fists, the power surging through me like a second pulse. Skin, muscle, bone—every fiber of my being trembles with renewed strength, tempered by pain, reforged in fire.
The healing pods, Jazreal’s training, Princesa’s bond—all of it has led to this. I am no longer the warrior I was. I am something more. I can feel it, the energy rolling off me in invisible waves,bending the air with its heat. A force beyond flesh, stretching beyond the peaks of Scarn into the cosmos itself.
That the Scythians delayed their attack is the only surprise, allowing my rest and recovery. It shall be their undoing—a fatal mistake. But why? The Voidbringer does not hesitate—an entity without fear or remorse. It would act with mechanical precision from the cold, dead circuitry at its core. Could it be the damage we inflicted slowed their advance? Or perhaps—Arawnoth willing—their forces are stretched thin, distracted by our proximity to Argon Six. No one has ever emerged this deep from their territory and lived.
We shall be the first.
I reach for my father’s cloak. The dark green hide, taken from some ancient beast long lost to time, flows down my back as I fasten the clasps. My own sneachir Chieftain’s cloak rests in shreds on the nearby table—torn, scorched, little more than a ruin. A worthy sacrifice for the thousands of droids I destroyed. I do not mourn it. My father’s cloak will serve now. It will bathe in the corpses of my enemies. Their deaths will cleanse the stain upon his honor.
Armed. Armored. Ready. A titan of war.
I leave the chamber at a run, my stride long, relentless, my focus narrowing to the path ahead. The corridors blur past—the viewport, the war trophies, the berserkers standing at attention. My warriors salute as I pass, but there is no time to return the gesture. They are moving as well, hurrying to their stations, preparing for what is to come.
Tension coils in the air, thick and suffocating. A held breath before an orbital drop. My footfalls hammer against the black marble, each step echoing like the march of Nebian Battlesuits. My ears strain for the telltale whine of plasma cannons or the deep, shuddering impact of shields under fire. But there isnothing. Only the distant hum of hyperspeed, the faint hiss of dormant shield generators.
Good. There is still time.
The command bridge doors slide open at my approach, revealing the berserkers standing in rigid formation beneath the towering war banners of battles fought long before my time. As one, they strike their fists against their armored chests, lowering their heads in the solemn Klendathian salute. The sight stirs something deep within me, a pride that surges like a war drum beating in my chest.
This is our time—my time. What I do here will echo through the ages, a legend carved in fire and blood. Deeds worthy of song.
The air hums with anticipation, thick with the unspoken weight of their faith, their expectations. A weight only my broad shoulders could bear. Born not from fear or sycophancy. No. Their belief was hard won. Forged in battle, tempered by impossible victories, sharpened by my unrelenting will. I deliver savage death—my divine gift.
“Morning, Sparkie,”
Princesa’s voice slithers through the charged silence, her smirk playful, but her silver-flecked gaze burning with something far less amused.
Sparkie.
New. Tiresome. Even now, in the face of what lurks ahead, she cannot resist the urge to goad me. Is it to mask her own failings, whatever madness transpired here?
I see it—sense it—the truth she tries to bury. The flush of her skin, the sheen of sweat dotting her brow, the delicate fingers curled into tense fists at her sides. And there, discarded at her feet, a crumpled polymer wrapper.
My gaze flicks toward the throne, where Drexios lounges, one eye fixed on the pulsing blue navigational displays.
A cocktail of trouble.
“I was just reminding this naughty doggie not to sit in my seat,” Princesa huffs, narrowing her eyes at Drexios, whose attention remains locked on the data flooding the screens. My gaze follows, my stomach twisting at what I see.
Azure lights blink in unison, converging on our position from all directions. Seeker drones. Voidbanes. A metal vice closing around us.
Ominous.
“And then all these blinky beeps started,” Princesa continues, her voice silk-wrapped arcweave as she presses against me, her lashes fluttering in faux innocence. “Could you sort it out for me? That would be the biggest help, babes.”
I barely hear her. The Rush grips me, a seething current in my blood. My heart slams against my ribs, already preparing for the inevitable carnage. Slowly, my gaze settles on Drexios, my shadow stretching long across the bridge.
“War Chief,” he greets, flashing a knowing smirk before vaulting off the towering obsidian throne. His half-cloak flutters behind him as he somersaults through the air, landing with a thud of armored boots against the black marble, arms spread wide.
Impressive. Pointless.
“Shit’s all voided up,” he drawls, shrugging. “Metal cocks behind. Metal cocks in front. And little ol’ us, bent over backwards like a ten-credit whore caught in the middle.” His gaze slides to Princesa, a lazy grin curling his lips. “As our resident expert, what’s the protocol here,Pinkie?”
