Page 305 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Three miniature stars descend—writhing, shrieking, divine. They fall on the Dreadforges like liquid gold from a vengeful god. Metal screams. Armor blisters and melts like bad mascara in a heatwave. Core plasma detonates—and for one glorious second, the world turns white.
“Yes, my Red Dragon,” I scream. “Scorch them to ash! Melt them with Arawnoth’s love!”
Laughter rips from my throat as shockwaves slam into our ship. The Dreadforges collapse—slag heaps of molten agony. Their final spasms scatter murder-droid-Armxians like scorched roaches.
Dracoth’s grip tightens. Our bond erupts—shared ferocity, shared bliss. “Let them be reborn in strength,” he growls, tearing off his pervy mask.
More suns bloom above the battlefield. Divine judgment made fire. They descend like slow vengeance, turning legions of murder-droids into puddles of wax.
I twist in his arms, back to his chest, grinning up at him. His eyes are wildfires. His teeth, fangs. Skin burns where it touches mine, and the bond between us thrums with divine fury and hunger.
“Burn it all,” I whisper.
And he does.
The air reeks of scorched metal and divine fire. Dracoth’s suns have reduced the last obsidian monstrosity—a mountainous murder-bot foundry—to a glowing puddle, molten slag hissing as it devours the earth like it’s hungry for absolution. Silence follows. Not the silence of death—but of awe. Of reverence.
Another planet cleared of murder-bots like we’re divine, industrial-strength hovers. Another notch carved into theDracie-Lexie-verse.
Most of the systems we’ve liberated were nothing but barren metal husks. Whatever lifeforms that might have existed, thrown into murder-bot inclinators like last season’s fashion. Every scrap of resources stripped bare.
Though some planets, like these Armxians, and not long before that, the Droopy-Laxians, clung to existence like stubborn weeds in poisoned soil. Most of the inhabitants were twisted, cybernetically fused nightmares that still keep weeTodd croaking in his sleep. But somehow, survivors emerged, desperate to help, desperate to fight back against the murder-bots.
Azure sunlight pierces the clearing smog, spilling over darting ships and whirling Robo-Nibs overhead. But my breath catches not at the sky—no. It’s what lies before us.
Hundreds of thousands, all eyes raised.
Space-knights from every clan, their plated armor as different as Dracoth’s rapey space hobo aliens. They stand a jarring tapestry of hairless, scaled, spiky heads, flat insectoid faces, horns or tusks gleaming in dirty, garish garbage bags. Four-armed Armxian freedom fighters twitch with reverence. Even a few Smurfs attend this glorious moment, their stubby blue fingers darting over wrist-consoles, recording everything.
The scorched air crackles with tension like hair irons on the fritz—the universe holding its breath. The heat’s radiant as expectant murmurs stoke the fire building in my core. My skin prickles—not from fear, but from the delicious pressure of attention. Like an EDM beat waiting to drop.
Dracoth’s arm tightens around my waist as I raise my hand. A barrier of shimmering force erupts beneath us, lifting us high—until we hover above it all.
Gods on a pedestal.
“Again, the pathetic Scythians wilt before our divine wrath!” Dracoth bellows, his voice like a war drum cracking the sky. “The Gorglaxians. Now the Barlyxians. A wrong, righted. Your conquerors return—not to enslave—but toliberate.”
He turns to the mass of disheveled four-armed aliens, pumping his massive axe—Stormchaser—into the air. “Your freedom earned with fire and blood. Let it carve away the weakness. This is not death. This is tempering. As I was forged—so shall you be.”
The roar that follows israpturous. A tidal wave of sound, raw and full of yearning, crashes over me—and I inhale it. My breath hitches. My heart stutters.
And then—my Acolytes.
My lovely, ash-drenched faithful. They flow through the crowd like liquid shadow, carrying bloodroot burners raised high. The intoxicating fumes curl through the air like green-sweet fingers beckoning the crowd into Arawnoth’s domain of flames and fury. War drums thunder like heartbeats torn from the gods.
Their hands—stained black with the sacred ash of Scarn and the fallen—press blessings onto the bowed heads of the faithful. And through it all—I feeleverything.
Their devotion hits me like sunlight. Like pleasure. Like lightning wrapped in silk.
“Bathe in the sacred truth,” I breathe, lifting my arms skyward, voice trembling with joy. “Let Arawnoth’s love scour away your weakness.”
Each smear of ash on a forehead sends a jolt up my spine. My runes blaze. My breath shudders.
“You wear the ashes of Scarn,” I cry, eyes burning like twin suns. “Hisblessing.Hiscommand—Scourge the weak, embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image.”
Dracoth’s grip crushes my ribs with pride. My voice rises like fire finding oil.
“Let his molten wrath fill your hearts.” My fingertips trace my scorched skin, Arawnoth’s runes exploding to life in glowing agony-joy. “Let him flood your souls with unbreakable might. Slay his enemies. Shatter their spirits. Crush their pathetic wills.”
