Page 77 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I don’t head for the command deck.
I head for the forge.
The Reaper wing of Gamma’s armory is tucked in deep, beneath levels no human ventures without an escort. It smells like fire and old blood. My kind doesn’t believe in prayer, not really, but we know the weight of ritual. The sanctity of preparation.
My armor’s already waiting, laid out in reverence. Scorched plates reforged, claws refiled to razors, the blackened ridges gleaming in crimson light. I slide it on piece by piece, feeling the strength settle into my bones.
Bloodfont rests on the obsidian slab in the center of the forge, as beautiful and brutal as ever. I draw her from her sheath and run a whetstone down the edge with slow, steady strokes. Sparks spit into the shadows.
Every whisper of steel says the same thing: be ready.
If the summit fails, if Amara’s gamble ends in betrayal, we will not ask questions. We will not seek justice. We will make examples.
I sheath Bloodfont again, the hiss of the blade sliding home like a promise.
But I don’t leave.
Not yet.
In the far corner of the armory, hidden behind crates of shock charges and void grenades, there’s a workbench no one touches but me. The tools are old, analog—Reaper-made in the time before nanoforges, before precision AI. They bite back when you use them. Just the way I like it.
I set a strip of alloy down. Darksteel, forged from meteor-core and tempered in solar heat. Strong enough to hold meaning. I heat it, hammer it, shape it with hands still trembling from the memory of her skin against mine.
The collar isn’t for possession.
It’s not the old kind. Not a brand. Not a claim.
It’s a vow.
The first collar I gave her, I forged in rage and desperation—when everything I knew was spiraling out of control. This one? It’s different. Balanced. Thoughtful. A match to mine, but not identical. Hers has a different sigil, one carved not with dominance, but with reverence. With trust.
The metal sings under the hammer. One note, then another. By the time the shape is done, my hands ache, and sweat has soaked through my undersuit. But the pain is grounding. It reminds me why I fight.
If this peace she’s bargaining for holds… if she pulls this off… then maybe I can give her more than war. Maybe there’s a future outside blood and bone.
She’ll wear this, not as a tether—but as a choice.
And if it falls apart?
Then she’ll never need to wear it. Because I’ll be dead.
I set the collar beside Bloodfont and exhale slow, controlled.
This is what hope feels like. Heavy. Fragile. Dangerous.
And I’m ready for it.
CHAPTER 22
AMARA
The shattered command bridge still smells like blood and smoke. Not metaphorically—literally. Burnt wiring curls in my nose with each breath, tangling with ozone and a copper tang that refuses to fade. One of the blown-out consoles still sizzles softly. They told me they could hold the summit in the diplomatic wing, that it would be cleaner, more… presentable.
But I said no.
If we're going to talk about war, we’ll do it where the war already cracked the bones of this station.
The table is jury-rigged from debris—half of it scavenged from broken hull plates, the other half barely balanced on a stack of uninstalled fusion cores. Around it, the galaxy’s most dangerous egos shift in their chairs.
