Page 40 of Claimed By the War Brute
She smiles, laden and wry. “Let’s.”
And with that—Vigil’s End disappears into the void, leaving threats behind and a world forced to wake.
CHAPTER 31
SYD
Isit alone in the Vigil’s End’s communications bay. The ship’s hum mingles with the steady blink of indicator lights and the far-off hiss of coolant lines—mechanical lullabies for someone on the edge of obliteration. In my hand rests the chip—the one that contains every filth my father hid: secret contracts, hush-money records, summit footage, and most damning of all, his own voice admitting to orchestrating murders. It’s humming quietly—almost like it’s alive. Death crouches inside this little thing.
With one push, I can erase the Malmount dynasty entirely. I should feel triumph. Relief. But all I feel is grief.
Not for him. For what I thought he was.
I close my eyes and taste the emptiness—metallic, like cheap synth-caff that’s been burning in the pot too long. My chest tightens with the weight of stolen illusions. The hero sent off to war, the doting dad at childhood birthday parties—someone I never actually knew, but always needed to. Every lie he told me washes over me now like an acid tide.
“It’s not who I am,” I whisper, pressing my fingers to the chip’s logo—Malmount crest burned into the metal. “Not anymore.”
The door hisses, and Garrus steps in. His silhouette, framed against the dim corridor light, is impossibly large and impossibly gentle in this space. He doesn’t rush to me. He doesn’t even speak. Just leans in the doorway—in that still, unyielding way he does.
I don’t bother looking up.
“I’ve been thinking about names,” I say, voice cracking. “What they mean. What they don’t.”
He steps forward, the scent of engine oil and scorched tech drifting ahead of him. “A name’s just a word. What matters is who answers to it.” His low voice rumbles like distant thunder.
I stare at the crest on the chip again. “Dad never took me to an amusement park,” I admit. A childish admission, but sucker-punched me in the collar with longing. The words taste like defeat.
A silence, soft but electric. Then I hear him breathe, long and slow.
“When this is done… I’ll take you to one,” he answers. His tone holds no sarcasm—just sincerity. “And if there’s a long line, I’ll beat up anyone ahead of us so we won’t have to wait.”
I look up at him. His grin is half-cracked, cautious—like he’s feeling hope for the first time in years.
I laugh, quiet and incredulous. It echoes off the console panels. “You—beat up people in line?” I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs, uneasily casual. “I’ve got time to learn charm later. For now, I’ve got muscles—and people ahead of us in line.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth ache upward. “Fine. But only one punch per person. No gratuitous hits.”
His laugh is deeper. “Deal.”
I slot the chip into the transmitter again. Green flash: ready. My hand shakes.
“Look,” I say, voice tight but determined, “if I do this… there’s no going back. No inheritance. No Malmount name. No home. Just us.”
He kneels beside me, and sunlight seems to glint off his red scales even here in the cobalt glow. He reaches out and cups my hand. “You want a home? Build one. You want a name? Pick your own.”
I shut my eyes. The weight in my soul lifts—just a fraction.
“You think that’s enough?” I whisper.
His golden gaze misses nothing. “You are enough. You always have been.”
Something in my chest breaks—like a lock being turned from the inside. I inhale, then slot the chip into broadcast.
“Sydney Malmount died in a cell,” I say, voice steady. “But I didn’t.”
I press transmit and feel it echo through the ship’s hull like a detonator.
