Page 75 of Ravaged By the Reaper
To be trusted for my presence.
Panaka’s words echo in my skull.If you’re wrong, girl… we all burn.He’s not wrong. This alliance she’s trying to cobble together is built on ash and venom. But she doesn’t flinch. Never does. She doesn’t just carry fire—sheisfire.
And gods help the fools who try to smother it.
I catch movement in the corridor ahead—Yentil’s second-in-command, pacing like a storm about to crack. She sees me and stiffens.
“Status?” I ask, voice low.
“Talks are ongoing,” she says. “Your girl’s holding court with murderers and politicians like she was born to it.”
“She wasn’t.”
“But she’s good at it.”
That, she is.
I grunt and keep moving, each step dragging against the tether of restraint coiled around my instincts. I’ve never been good at spectating. But this isn’t about me. It hasn’t been for a while now.
She’s shifting the war, not with fire, but with force of will.
And for once, I’m content to watch her burn.
The shuttle groansunder pressure as it detaches from Gamma’s upper port and banks toward the Widowmaker, black space yawning around me. Coalition ships loom at the edge of the sector, but none move. Not yet. Everyone’s waiting. Including me.
The Widowmaker doesn’t blink. She’s a fortress cloaked in midnight, armed to the fangs, and unapologetic about it. Just like her captain.
The docking clamps lock with a hiss. I step out into a corridor that smells like plasma, blood, and loyalty—Reaper signatures soaked into every inch of metal. I know this ship like I know my own bones.
Panaka waits in the command chamber, perched like a gargoyle in his highback chair, scowling before I even open my mouth.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
He grunts, gesturing me forward. “You’re late.”
“I was busy not killing people.”
“That’s a shame.”
I can’t help the snort. Same old Panaka. Crusty bastard.
The room is dark, lit only by crimson emergency lights and the ghost-glow of tactical holomaps. Coalition cruisers blink likewolves on the edge of the pack. The Alliance scatter like startled birds. We’re the scythe in the wheat, still and waiting.
He doesn’t offer me a seat.
“You want a war council or a suicide pact?” he asks.
“Neither,” I reply.
He tilts his head, the jagged scars along his temple catching the light. “Ah. You want theater.”
“I want restraint.”
Panaka barks a laugh that could peel paint. “From Reapers?”
“From you.”
The smile drops.
