Page 52 of Ravaged By the Reaper
When Panaka’s face finally appears, it’s a grim painting of everything I feared.
His one eye burns like a dying star. No bluster, no grin, not even sarcasm.
That’s bad.
“Thought you’d feel it,” he says without preamble. “We just intercepted Coalition chatter. Tightband. Burned quiet, but not quiet enough.”
I snarl low. “How many?”
“Fleet.” He doesn’t blink. “And not the bargain bin. Flagships. Interdictors. Transport carriers. The whole damn parade.”
My knuckles crack as I grip the console. “They’re coming for her.”
“They’re coming forus, Bloodsinger,” Panaka growls. “Malem Karag’s leading the hunt. This isn’t about Amara anymore. It’s what shemeans. A human. With a Reaper.”
He spits to the side. “To them, it’s heresy.”
I glance back toward the sleeping cabin, where she’s tangled in our blanket like a secret I haven’t earned. Her presence, her scent—her—is still in the air. She’s the gravity I orbit now. And the universe hates that.
“Let them come,” I mutter.
But even I hear the lie in my voice.
Panaka leans closer, lowering his tone. “Listen to me, Haktron. This ain’t just a disciplinary fleet or a warning flyby. This is extermination. They’re coming to erase you. To unmake her. The bond you’ve got? Theideaof it threatens every protocol in their books.”
I grit my teeth. “So what? We hide? Run?”
“You ever known me to run?” he snaps, voice sharp. “No. We stall. You dig in. You protect her. I’m redirecting Widowmaker—she’ll cut through the Outer Verge and punch gravity holes the minute we’re in jump range. ETA twenty-one hours.”
I nod. “We won’t be here when you get here.”
“You better be.” His voice softens, barely. “You were born for war, Bloodsinger. But this… this ain’t just war. This ispersonal.”
The screen cuts off.
I stare at the silent comm.
For a second, I let myself breathe. Just one second.
Then I turn.
She’s standing in the threshold, blanket around her shoulders, hair a wild halo of silver in the emergency lights. Her eyes are half-shadowed, but there’s no mistaking the steel in them.
“You’re going to leave me behind,” she says quietly.
“No.”
“You were going to,” she insists, voice low. “You were going to fight alone.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.”
“Then maybe it’s time you were,” I growl.
We stare each other down. She crosses the room, barefoot, unflinching.
Her hand rests on my chest. Not soft. Firm. Claiming.
