Page 101 of Ravaged By the Reaper
AMARA
Months roll past like captured nebulae—raids and diplomacy, battles and ceremonies, nights lit by firelight and tangled sheets. The weight of command has shifted from oppressive to something warm, tethered, real. I slip between who I was—the girl who played sonatas in Academy halls—and who I’ve become—a leader whose weapon is both steel and cunning. Balance.
One night, I feel it before he returns.
The forge in the Reaper wing glows faint. It smells like molten darksteel and ancestors. My heartbeat picks up in warning, anticipation.
He steps back into the aether-lamp glow. His armor’s stripped—scar work laid raw and bright. He carries an artifact I recognize from myth: the war-bond chain—Reaper-forged, welded by ten shared slaughters, keratin and cold flame. It's brutal and beautiful, heavy as history. I feel the rumble of our life echo when I see it in his hand.
“Earned,” he says simply. Voice low.
My fingers tremble when I take it.
It’s not jewelry. Not a claim. It’s a covenant. Ancient and sacred. I place it gently around my neck, its weight burning me into the moment: not vessel, not pawn—mate.
“The ceremony,” he murmurs. “Tonight. Combat bay. No one leaves.”
And so the Widowmaker’s combat bay transforms. The hum of battle met with hushed awe. Tendrils of torch-light dance against red-rusted walls. In the makeshift arena, I stand surrounded: Reapers in solemn formation, former slaves with new names, diplomats in hesitant peace, outlaws drawn by respect for what this bond means. We don’t wear white and ceremony. We don’t need lace and flowers. We claim blood and fire.
I choose black—a charcoal dress that ripples like shadows. Left shoulder bare, the scar across my clavicle still faint. Haktron stands opposite, unarmored, scars clothed in flame light. We face each other under the glare of torches, reflections dancing in sweat.
Panaka watches from a ledge, expression hidden but unguarded.
I lift my hand, and Haktron does the same. Our fingers meet across space that means everything.
In his native tongue—a guttural warm promise—I speak the vows: naming fear, surrender, devotion. He answers in Reaper cadence, naming death, choice, blood.
When we clasp chains around each other’s throats, the alloy bites gently against skin, binding us.
Silence swallows as I lay hand on his chest. Then, slowly:
“I am yours by choice. By dream. By battle.”
He curls fingers around my throat-chain, gentler than I deserved:
“I am yours by blade, breath, soul.”
Panaka’s fist slaps the wall—hard. A single, echoing approval. The crew exhales.
We don’t kneel, bow, or break. We stand. Bound. Sacred. Alive.
The ceremony yields to celebration.
Torch-bearers ignite the bay, casting flares of orange and yellow.
Haktron nudges me toward the edge of the ring. In my hand: my lyre, battered but true.
I lift it carefully. My fingers press strings, and a haunting melody cuts through smoky air—a Celtic lament fused with Reaper rhythm. The notes coil like smoke in the bell-lit sky.
Haktron, bound in chain, digs a cloth blindfold from his belt, wrapping it over his eyes. The crew gathers five challengers: best fighters, drunk with adrenaline, honored to test themselves against a bound veteran.
He steps forward, blind and chained, toward the first.
The first swing and he counters with a knee. A second swing—he ducks, drives a palm to chest. He’s precise, brutal. The chain swings with him: a weapon, a tether.
Each fight ends with a fall and silence.
When the fifth challenger crumples, Haktron stands—breathing slow, chain brushing his chest.
