Page 81 of Ravaged By the Reaper
The words fall like a stone, dangerous and plummeting. They’re an invitation—or perhaps a surrender. A hand raised in peace, or in defiance?
Yentil clamps his jaw, paralysis pinned on his face. The Alliance envoy blinks. Panaka folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. The Reapers shift like threatened beasts.
No one moves.
Except me.
My boots are steady. My head’s clear. Blood pounding fierce, but clear.
Malem watches, calculating.
I can read the chill in his stare. Knowing that if I walk forward, I’m walking alone. Into his lair. Into his logic.
He opens his mouth.
“Bold.”
“I didn’t come here to negotiate from safety.”
His lips curl. “You didn’t come alone.”
“Not anymore.”
A heartbeat.
“Very well.”
A promise? A threat? Both?
“Guards,” he says, directing the room at once. “Sequester the others. Bring only her. No bodyguards, no weapons.”
Gasps rise again—then choke as they realize: I’m stepping into the vulture circle by choice.
Yentil looks ready to bolt. I meet his eyes, just for a second, before turning away.
“I’ll be fine.”
He opens his mouth to argue. I wait. Then walk toward the door.
Haktron steps forward and catches my wrist for a split second. His eyes flick to mine—warning, grief, pride tangled inside.
I nod once, tight with gratitude.
Then I let go.
The guards flank me, escorting me through corridors that feel narrower than when I walked in. Every step echoes through my head. Every breath tastes like aftermath.
I reach the holo-door.
It opens with a hiss. Malem stands beyond it—half in shadow, half in his crimson uniform, arms folded, waiting.
No theatrics. No weapons. Just cold steel affection, if such a thing exists.
I step inside.
The door closes behind me with a finality that shakes the bones.
The room is smaller inside. Warmer. Smells like power and old leather. The hum of life support is louder here.
