Page 41 of Claimed By the War Brute
He stays silent—just watches me, respect shining in his eyes.
I rise to my feet, lit like a newly minted icon. “So…” I run a hand through my hair, brushing away sweaty strands, “what do I go by now?”
He steps forward, his height nearly towering, but he hunches just enough to ease the distance. “Syd,” he says, grin slow and rare. “No legacy. Just you.”
A giggle escapes me before I suppress it. “Guess I’ll make that one famous.”
He offers his hand. I take it—this time I don’t hesitate.
“Ready?” he asks.
I clamp my hand around his. “Let’s go make some waves,” I say firmly.
A flicker of something triumphs in his eyes. “Waves,” he echoes.
He leads me out of the comm bay, past humming conduits and dying consoles, toward the flight deck where data files pulse like bones waiting to be rattled before collapse.
I pause at the threshold, thinking of amusement parks—I never got the rollercoaster, the thrill-shudder of track dropping away, the water slide sensation of leaping off a cliff. Now my life’s cliff is power—data, blackmail, living free.
“This is one hell of a rollercoaster,” I whisper.
He rumbles a laugh. “Buckle up.”
We step onto the deck. My pulse thunders in my ears, a fast-acting drug. The ship hums beneath us, steady and strong—our armor in an endless void.
I review the systems monitor. The transmission confirmed. Black market channels bubbling. Underground networks murmuring. Filters breached. Aid leaks beginning.
“This starts tonight,” I say, bones warm with purpose. “Leaks to press syndicates, resistance comms, black-ops info—diverse pathways so he can’t just quash it. We drown his assets and vanish.”
He nods. “He’s on edge. Malmount might strike back fast.”
I lean closer, voice low but electrified. “Let him strike. We’ll be gone. Under —”
“Vigil’s End,” he finishes.
I wink. “Yeah. Under a ghost.”
He loops an arm around me—my ally, my refuge, my war. “Syd,” he says. “Screw the amusement park. Let’s conquer galaxies.”
I press my head to his chest. “One fight at a time.”
The engines hum deeper. Lights shift to warp-ready green. The viewport ahead ripples with horizon-lights like dawn cresting.
And behind us, somewhere, Malmount’s empire unravels—devoured by truth, firing bones in the night sky.
But ahead—possibility.
“Your rollercoaster, then?” he murmurs. His shoulder presses against mine—solid.
I grin, bold and unfazed. “Only if you hold my hand.”
He squeezes. “Always.”
In that moment—beneath the glow of pilot monitors, the echo of rebellion—I know we’re not just fugitives.
We’re architects of our own legacy.
And our names—even simple ones—will echo farther than any empire ever could.
