Page 76 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I step forward, voice low, grounded. “Hold the line. That’s it. No shots unless fired on. Let her speak.”
Panaka narrows his eyes. “So the little human’s the voice of the galaxy now?”
“She’s the voice that’s kept Gamma breathing. The voice that stalled the slaughter. That counts for something.”
His gaze sharpens. “And what does it count for when they break their word?”
“Then you burn them all. But not before.”
The silence thickens.
Then he leans back, folding his arms across his massive chest. “You believe in her that much?”
I meet his stare. “More.”
He studies me like he’s sizing up an enemy—or a successor.
“You were never the diplomat,” he mutters.
“She’s not asking for diplomacy. She’s making a stand.”
“Dangerous thing.”
“She’s dangerous.”
That, at least, earns me a nod. Panaka rises from his seat, boots echoing against the deck as he paces toward the viewport.
“We’ll hold position,” he says. “No fire unless provoked. But if even one of those Alliance scum so much as flinches?—”
“Then we answer. I know.”
He turns back to me, face hard as hull steel. “We’ll see if your human can stop the slaughter.”
I don’t respond.
Because it’s not up for debate.
She will.
She’s not just human. She’s mine. My jalshagar. My mirror in flesh and flame.
She walks with the weight of a thousand dead and dares the living to match her pace. She talks like fire and bleeds conviction. She’s not here to ask permission. She’s here to make the galaxy kneel or learn.
And I’ll stand behind her, blade in hand, while she teaches it.
The Widowmaker hums under my boots as battle tension coils tighter. Outside, the void waits.
But I don’t.
I turn on my heel and head back to the shuttle. The captain’s given his word, and Reapers don’t back down.
Neither does she.
The return flight to Gamma is short, but every second crawls like a dying beast. I can feel the shift in the stars, like they’re holding their breath. Maybe the whole galaxy is.
The Widowmaker disappears into the black behind me, her promise carried in her silence. No shots unless provoked. That’s the deal. Now all that’s left is for the rest of us to walk the razor edge Amara’s laid down.
I land hard, striding off the shuttle before the clamps finish their hiss. The air tastes burnt—ozone and scorched polymers still clinging to the ventilation systems. The station isn’t healing. It’s surviving, just barely.
