Page 95 of Ravaged By the Reaper
That night shimmers in my memory—smoke, heat, her feral whisper:We’re soldiers. Not killers.
“I remember.”
Her eyes shut tight, and when they open, there’s rain behind them. “I miss her,” she whispers. “The only person I thought I could be.”
I reach out, thumb brushing her knuckles. “We all lose parts of ourselves.”
She breathes into it, a slow defiance weaving through her bones. “But I’m not the same—not because someone changed me. I changed.”
“Yeah,” I say, softer. “You did.”
She meets me then—eyes red and bright. “Sometimes I wonder if I lost more than I gained.”
That question scrapes across my chest.
I hold her gaze.
“You’ve gained a future,” I say. “Just don’t let the price weigh you down.”
The silence wraps around us, fragile. She leans into me, forehead resting against my shoulder. Her breath warms my collar.
I wrap my arms around her. Metal plates shift quietly. My voice trembles.
“You’re not alone.”
She holds onto me.
Outside, the engine hum is steady—proof that the Widowmaker still lives. But right now, the only pulse that matters is the one between us, slow and steady.
We sit in the hush. No words. Just the knowing.
Because freedom and power are heavy gifts. And sometimes it’s darker when you receive them than before.
But together?
We’ll carry it.
CHAPTER 26
AMARA
There’s a strange kind of quiet on the Widowmaker when the raids go right.
No alarms. No blood. Just the low thrum of engines, the hiss of recirculated air, and the occasional rattle of gear settling in its racks. And in that hush, I find a different kind of noise—the kind that lives under my ribs. A soundless ache. Constant. Coiled.
Respect. Power. Freedom. I fought like hell for all of it. And I got it.
So why does it feel like I’m bleeding from somewhere invisible?
I stare out the narrow viewport of the observation deck, watching stars blur past like tears we never earned. Haktron is below, training new recruits—shouts echoing faintly through the steel bones of the ship. They listen to him like he’s a god. Because he is.
He tells them stories with his fists. I tell them stories with negotiations.
We win.
But something’s missing.
My hands twitch, restless. I clench and unclench my fingers like I’m trying to find something that was once there. A softness. A rhythm. I haven’t touched a piano in months. Haven’t danced. Haven’t recited poetry in the dark to an audience of one. Haven’t even played my lyre.
