Page 7 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“No,” he says. “She’s your jalshagar.”
There’s a finality in his voice that silences everything else—the humming of the bulkheads, the distant clank of crew boots, the muttered curses from the mess. I feel it deep. Right down in the marrow of me. Like hearing a prophecy spoken aloud after years of denial.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, pacing like a caged beast. My breath is short, my bones too tight for my skin.
He watches me, calm as a corpse. “Reapers don’t bond like humans do. We don’t ‘fall in love.’ Wefind—or areclaimedby—our jalshagar. One. Ever. There’s no second chance.”
“That sounds like poetic garbage,” I snap, but my claws twitch at my sides. “Like something the priests tell softbloods so they stop sleeping around.”
Panaka’s mouth curls. “I used to think the same. Then she walked into a raid on Nalthor Three and nearly killed me with a fusion lance. Gods, she was magnificent.”
“You married her?”
“No. I buried her.” His voice is steel wrapped in smoke. “But I still feel her in the dark. She’s the reason I wake up screaming sometimes, not because of the pain… but because she isn’t next to me.”
I stop pacing.
“You're telling me I’ll always feel her?”
“You already do.”
I curse, low and vicious. The kind that tastes like iron. I don’t want this. I didn’taskfor some galactic soulmate. I’ve got blood on my hands and ash in my wake. I’m not built for connection.
But she’s in me now. Burrowed under my armor. Every breath feelshers.
Panaka reaches out and claps a hand on my shoulder—his one good hand. His grip’s hard enough to bruise steel. “You gonna stand around crying about it? Or you gonna go get her?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
Because something in my chest shifts—clicks into place. A magnetic pull yanks at my gut, pointing me not north, not south, but toward her. Like a compass made of bones and blood.
I stride to the hangar bay. The Widowmaker groans around me, a living ship built from stolen tech and war metal. She knows when I’m coming. Knows when I’m leaving.
The scout shuttle’s small, sleek, barely a blip to a sensor scan. Cloaking drive’s got a finicky actuator, but she’ll hold together long enough for a blind jump through Coalition borders. I override the launch protocols with my personal code—Panaka’s not gonna stop me, and anyone else who tries can explain to my fist why they thought that was smart.
I board and slide into the cockpit. The seat smells like ozone and leather soaked in rage. Systems light up one by one under my touch—engine hum, nav flare, cloaking shiver.
“Where to?” the onboard VI chirps.
There.
The coordinates slither into my brain like they’ve been carved there since birth. Coalition space. Grolgath sector. A moon I don’t know by name but feel in my veins.
“Inputting trajectory,” the VI confirms. “Confirm jump?”
“Do it.”
The stars stretch like molasses in fast-forward. We slingshot through reality, space bending like glass beneath pressure. I feelit in my teeth—the jump always does that, like the universe is briefly chewing on your soul.
When it smooths out, I rise and head to the weapons locker. Bloodfont hangs on the rack like a lover waiting to be touched.
The scythe-hybrid curves like a predator’s smile, wicked and lean, the chain coiled like a viper. I grab it, let it unspool in my hand, the links cool and familiar against my palm.
I test the edge. It sings.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
I strap her across my back, double-check my sidearms, then lock down the rest of the armory. No point in over-packing. If it gets bad—and itwill—Bloodfont’s all I’ll need.
