Page 181 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Dracoth...”
The sound lingers, scratching at the edge of my mind, followed by the faintest trace of laughter—mocking, taunting.
The defenders? No. This has become a desperate retreat.
Below us, the bloodied Nebian fleet no longer cuts through the Scythian ranks with brutal efficiency. Their momentum has been lost, their forces whittled down by the surging metal cages of the Voidbringer’s swarm. Now cautious, they fight from the edges, striking and retreating, scavenging whatever small victories they can.
It will not be enough.
The Klendathian Battlebarges mimic their tactics, though their formation is tighter, lacking the darting speed. But the mercenaries? They barely commit to the battle at all, lingering at the flanks, striking only at stray drones.
The Voidbringer adapts.
No longer attempting to grasp at Nebian ships, it reforms its vast forces into a solid wall, driving them toward Argon’s crimson sun. It looms behind them, burning like the molten heart of Arawnoth. Like a wave cresting in the distance, the Scythian metal tsunami expands, curling inward, swallowing space itself.
It is not simply crushing them.
It is herding them.
My gaze hardens. Our salvation is being swallowed below, devoured by a tide of Seeker drones and Voidbanes locking into formation. A rolling tide, washing all toward the sun at frightening pace. There will be no escape. Not for us. Not for anyone.
Do I sacrifice the Shorthairs to buy us an opening?
No. Offload the females. A savage last stand. A glorious death. The only choice left.
“Corsark—”
A voice cuts through my warvisor, calm but heavy with finality.
“Ravager’s Ruin, High Chieftain Krogoth commands you to disperse. For your own protection.”
Retreat? The word burns like acid.
He sees it too. The inevitable. The crushing fate awaiting us.
Still, every fiber of my being rejects it. The molten fury clenching my fists in rage. The desire to lash out, the desire to kill, burning through my veins like boiling lava. Withdrawal? I hate it! It’s an anathema to everything I stand for, everything I am—Arawnoth’s chosen, a titan of war.
“Cowardice?” I project, my claws digging into the throne’s armrests, the obsidian cracking under the pressure.
A slight hesitation.“Hope.”The response is laced with amusement. With anticipation.
Hope. Hope for death delayed?
But there is something in his voice that stirs my curiosity. Gritting my teeth, I wrench the ship sharply upward, the hull groaning in protest. The blazing ruby sun of Argon slips out of sight as I redirect our course.
Plasma fire thunders through the void, colliding with our shields, forcing the generators to scream under the onslaught.
Then something happens—a shift that undulates in the recesses of my mind, sending the hairs on my neck standing on end. Princesa senses it too. She gasps, a hand flying to her mouth.
Space itselfripples,as if the Gods have dragged their claws across the fabric of reality.From the heart of the embattled Klendathian fleet, it begins. Vortexes erupt—not the Voidbringer’s mockery of nature, but the Gods’ divine fury given form.
They bloom in the abyss—not darkness, but pulsing maelstroms of energy, swirling with the hues of creation. They open like unfurling flowers, their cores alight with the vibrant glow of nebulae, their edges rimmed in violet light. A Klendathor eclipse, a dance of annihilation. The Scythian swarm doesn’t just fall into them—it is pulled. As if the universe itself has deemed them unworthy.
The first vortex tears through a Voidbane.
The obsidian leviathan shudders, its shields flaring white-hot in protest—then contorts, its vast hull twisting like wire pulled by Arawnoth’s hand. For a heartbeat, it hangs there, a grotesque sculpture of warped metal, before imploding into a singularityno larger than a warrior’s fist. The shockwave ripples outward, vaporizing a thousand Seeker drones in its wake.
The second vortex opens amidst a million drones.
