Page 20 of Scorching the Alien Empire
His thrusts grow frantic, his rhythm unraveling into raw, primal desperation. When he finally comes undone, the roar that escapes him is earth-shaking, monstrous, a declaration to the universe itself. The walls tremble under his voice as jets of his blazing seed fill deep inside me, a molten warmth that seeps into every part of me, leaving me cozy and whole.
I collapse into his arms, my body melting against his as he holds me close. His panting breaths match mine. The both of us spent, recovering from the delicious insanity that is ours alone.
This was the day Pulsar’s moon trembled.
Chapter 5
Dracoth
Preparation
Jazrealflowsthroughtheair, narrowly evading my wooden practice claws. Sweat beads on his brow, but his sharp green gaze never falters. Despite hours of my relentless pursuit, his resolve remains unbroken, his speed undiminished.
His feet touch the coarse sand with grace, barely disturbing the grains, and his wooden spear snaps toward me like a vipertail’s strike. The blow whistles past my left ear, precise but futile, as I pivot just enough to avoid it.
I grunt, more annoyed than impressed. His tactics are predictable now—baiting attacks, relying on superior speed to counter when his opponent overcommits. Clever and effective—if I were anyone else.
I execute a brutal sweeping kick, watching as he blurs to my right, skimming the edge of the sparring ring.
A smirk tugs at my lips. If this were a true fight, I’d already have him pinned to the ground, his throat torn open. But for now, I throw a deliberately slow strike toward his heaving chest, testing him.
“I must admit, young Dracoth, the attack on Pulsar’s moon proved valuable,” Ignixis chimes in, almost breaking my concentration. “Yes, most fruitful indeed. SeemsCaptainBalsar and his rabble weren’t entirely useless after all.” His blackened, weathered hand flickers across the wrist console display.
Jazreal intercepts my thrust with his spear, turning it aside easily because I let him. He spins in a black-silver whirlwind, hoping his parry has unbalanced me—it has not. His predictable follow-up whips around from his other side in a brown blur of pain, but I catch his spear between my claw prongs.
With a savage twist of my wrist, the shaft shatters, the splintered end raining down in jagged shards.
“Oh-ho, you’ve broken another one! Very good, young Dracoth,” the old gas-cloud voice drips with mock amusement. “Gods, I swear we’ll run out of wood if you keep this up.”
I resist the urge to glare at the tiresome Ignixis, focusing instead on the few beads of sweat clinging to my forehead. Across from me, Jazreal runs his fingers over the jagged edge of his broken spear, a flicker of amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Nevermind wood,” I growl, flicking a dismissive hand over the barrels of training weapons lined against the black metal walls. “Tell me what my victory has won.”
“More battles. More death. That is victory’s gift,” Ignixis whispers, his green eyes flashing from beneath the shadows of his black hood. His cryptic tone, as ever, grates on my nerves. Unfortunately, Princesa is not here. She could absorb his time-wasting riddles.
“Itwasa great victory, War Chieftain,” Jazreal interjects, his voice carrying a rough, earnest edge. He gulps greedily from a canteen, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “For a moment, I thought I was back aboard theRavager’s Ruin, watching your father commanding once again.”
The unmarred side of his face twists with distaste as his gaze flicks to the rust-speckled corner of the training room. “Except, of course, for the junkers and this less-than-impressive Battlebarge.”
Pride surges in my chest, yet I do not allow it to show. To emulate my great father has always been my life’s ambition. Yet the thought of his mechanical corruption—his inevitable downfall—stirs unease where unshakable certainty once resided.
“Can this victory carry us to the next battle?” I ask, forcing myself to feed into Ignixis’s twisted logic, even as irritation threatens to sharpen my tone.
“Yes,” Ignixis mutters, his gaze distant, as though seeing something far beyond the room. Then, struck by a sudden revelation, he snaps upright. “Oh, yes,” he blurts, his voice reverberating with a manic edge.
“Fifty pounds of Elerium and three million credits,” Ignixis murmurs, his voice tinged with reverence. “Enough to fuel this ragtagfleetfor many campaigns. Yet a little puffrio tells me you’ve been giving away our precious Elerium to the junkers. Such generosity. Do you think funding their scoomer addictions and pathetic whoring outweighs your own need? You weaken them by allowing them to wallow in their—”
“Silence!” I snap, my glare cutting through his rambling. Even my flawless victory begets more criticism.
Unfazed, the old gas-cloud smirks, his yellowed fangs gleaming in the dim purple light.
“So sensitive. So quick to anger,boy,” he drawls, spitting the word like venom. “Jazreal, do you remember War ChieftainGorexius stooping to such childish tantrums?” His black hood swivels toward the Ravagers Berserker veteran.
“Never,” Jazreal replies, selecting a wooden spear from the rack with deliberate slowness. “Not over trivial matters. But when provoked? His fury was... legendary.”
“Seems even your father was flawed.” Ignixis barks a laugh, sharp and humorless, though his gaze shifts back to me, piercing like a pouncing venefex. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?” he sneers, tilting his head to study my reaction.
Once, I would’ve torn out his heart for speaking these words. But now they ring with the cold, hard truth.
