Page 99 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Thanks to my divine grace, my smile doesn’t falter. “Yes, that would be the very best,” I say sweetly—enough fake sugar to fuel an entire soft drink empire.
Razgor nods, eyes downcast, but I notice the furrow in his brow. He’s thinking.
Seriously, what’s so hard to understand? It’s just two words! Typical. I try to help the boring nerd, and what do I get? Disrespect. Let’s just say he might be the last person I bless with my divine protection. The rude prick.
Before I can stew any longer, the floor rumbles. The walls groan, shuddering like a tin can in a cyclone. The force rattles through my bones, jostling me and the entire squad. Then—an ear-splitting screech of metal grinding against metal. My stomach lurches, and I clutch Dracoth tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Which blind bastard is flying this rust bucket?” Jazreal shouts, grimacing, his head snapping from side to side.
“My apologies, Death Herald, my hand slipped,” comes a nervous voice, barely audible over the groans and curses filling the cabin.
The shuttle finally settles, though the tension lingers. Space-knights grumble and shove at the unfortunate pilot, muttering well-earned obscenities.
“Move out, Berserkers!” Dracoth roars, his voice a twelve on the Beaufort scale, stiffening my spine like I’ve been dunked in ice water.
He wastes no time tearing open the shuttle’s hatch with a mighty yank, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. I grimace. If only Ignixis were still alive—he’d have lectured the overgrown meathead for that.
One by one, we leap from the shuttle into the waiting dark. My breath catches.
Before us looms a colossal structure, blacker than the void itself. So dark it drinks in the starlight. Almost invisible but for the stars it obscures—a shadow of a terrifying fortress someone forgot to paint. Spires stretch impossibly high, their edges sharp as blades, their surfaces crawling with alien statues, their insectile forms frozen in eerie reverence. Every inch of this place is etched with worn glyphs that could only be threats and warnings.
Above us, a soft blue light ripples like a disturbed pond. More of theRavager’s Ruinshuttles pass through the barrier.
My stomach flips as I stare into the abyss. No clouds. No atmosphere. Nothing. Just space—big empty, endless, scary space. My breath catches. How am I breathing? How am I not floating off to become the most beautiful star in the galaxy? It’s wrong, like I’m walking on the surface of the moon without a suit.
Sensing my unease—whether through our bond or my frantic babbling—Dracoth squeezes me tighter. His touch steadies me.
More shuttles touch the sprawling hangar’s surface, their landings far smoother than ours. From them, more space-knights pour forth in their hundreds, an army of towering techno-barbarian, man-meat ready to murder. It would be kind of hot if I wasn’t standing exposed on this cursed murder-bot fortress.
Yet, despite the sheer mass of soldiers, an eerie silence lingers between each long breath. No wind. No movement, no animals, not even the ambient hum of machinery. Just creepy stillness. The air is sterile—cold, lacking the fresh crispness from our flagship. It’s the lifeless cold of stone sealed too long in the dark, reeking with its chemical scent, like someone dumped bleach by the gallon.
Then a voice makes me cringe further.
“Would you look at this great big shithole? We’re just little znats buzzing around. BZZZ!” Drexios flutters his fingers mockingly, taking in the ominous scene. “Don’t see why we’ve brought half the voiding warband, when we could just melt this place from orbit and be on our merry way?” He casts a singular red eye over his shoulder at us.
Razgor snorts, his face lit with something disturbingly close to awe. “Are you crazy?”
Dumb question.
“This predates any known Scythian structure.” He gestures wildly at the monolithic horror looming over us. “You see these glyphs? Those statues? You almost never see these in modern construction. In fact, I’ve only—”
“Get that door open,” Dracoth commands, cutting through the academic droning with a flick of his massive hand toward a sealed entrance. Its seams are barely visible in the dark.
“You heard the War Chieftain!” Jazreal bellows, slamming the butt of his spear against the metal floor.
Soldiers rush forward, first hesitating as if expecting the door to open at their presence. It does not. Next, two warriors press against each side, muscles straining, teeth bared. The metal doesn’t so much as groan in protest.
Dracoth exhales sharply, his annoyance and anticipation flaring through our bond. He stomps forward like a bipedal tank, his hulking new armor clanging heavily with each step. The space-knights scramble out of his thunderous approach.
Through our bond, his crimson flame surges, flaring hot with frustration. It coils around my silver fire—raging, licking, consuming. It’s intoxicating—his seething fury bleeding into me, sending my heart racing, my blood pounding, my adrenaline singing in my veins.
I surrender to it.
Our flames roar, becoming one, bridging the space between us.
My senses sharpen—voices louder, glyphs clearer, every detail etched in perfect clarity. Time slows, the world stretching like honey. It’s like I’m truly alive. Everything else? Nothing but a hazy dream in comparison. I could laugh. I could cry. This feeling. This power.
I love it.
