Page 199 of Scorching the Alien Empire
And Dracoth?Mr. Frowny Facejust watches them go, not a single blink of resistance. Letting them ride off into the ash-sunset like some tragic, slow-paced cowboy movie.
No. No, no, no.
“Babes,” I coo, sweet as poison, my teeth clenched tighter than Basic Mothers’ wallet. I clutch his arm with both hands, voice low and glittery with barely-contained panic. “I think we should go somewhereprivateand discuss this little matter.”
I lean in closer, eyes practically screaming, careabout my feelings for once, even as my voice flutters like a schoolgirl with a secret.
“You know. Before they all fucking abandon us!”
And then—
A horn blares. Long and mournful.
Then another. And another. A war horn chorus rising into a deafening cacophony.
The crowd shifts, heads turning. A ripple of motion spreads like oil over water. The space-knights part, murmurs rising. Something’s coming.
No—bone-through-the-noses.
A new group strides forward through the ashen smoke and broken stone. Space-knights, yes, but different. Bronze armor, polished to a divine gleam. Silver filigree curling along their plates like constellations. Their skin is dusky, golden undertones glinting in the ashlight. Long, thick hair spills down their backs, adorned with plumes so vivid and colorful they make a peacock look like a sad chicken.
Dracoth’s head lifts slightly.
Drexios scoffs, folding his arms, muttering to the side, “Chieftain Vorthax of the Astranix Clan. Old featherhead himself.”
Chapter 38
Dracoth
Peacock
MyMagaxuswarriorspart,a sea of ashen armor glittering with shard-like glints, shifting aside to reveal the newcomers.
A dozen Astranix warriors.
Their bronze armor gleams with silver filigree, hair adorned with bright, plumed feathers—colors too vivid for war. Avian frills from their mountain homeland, Aurnith. Beautiful. Inefficient. Absurd.
But their leader... he catches my eye.
One of the ancients. Broad and solid, his long iron-grey hair whipping in the ash-choked wind, brushing against the massive plasma axe slung across his back.
Chieftain Vorthax.
I know him by reputation alone. Said to have been a childhood friend of my father, Gorexius. So, is it blood ties and sentiment that draw him here?
“Featherhead’s a fine Chieftain,” Drexios mutters at my side, his breath warm in my ear. “Humorless as a festering gut wound though. Watch—I’ll show you.”
His lone eye gleams with mischief as he sizes up the warriors.
The Astranix warriors seem transfixed, frozen as they peer up at the power radiating from me in waves. Amusingly they wear respirators. The ash choked gales too much for their kind. Only us Magaxus—Scarn born—are strong enough to endure.
Vorthax studies me the longest, his wrinkled pale-golden eyes narrowed, thoughtful, piercing. Like he’s trying to drill through me, through the armor and into the bone.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. Neither of us blink. The air crackles, thick with the same electric charge as the crimson lightning tearing across the obsidian clouds.
“Ooh, lookie here,” Drexios croons, tilting his head like a predator eyeing its prey. “Colorful birdies come to visit. Pity the Scythians didn’t roast these strutting puffrios alive. Too grizzled? Too gamey?”
He vaults from the dais, landing hard in front of them. Slag cracks beneath his boots.
