Page 80 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“Because this isn’t just about species. It’s about power. About who holds it, and what they do with it.”
I look directly at Malem’s projection.
“I chose restraint. I chose diplomacy. I chose to believe there could be another way. And so did he.”
The room tightens around me like a vice. You could hear a hairline crack in the hull echo right now.
“He could’ve claimed me. Controlled me. But instead, he stood beside me.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t let the emotion choke me. Not here. Not now.
“We became something none of you expected. A bond not based on dominance or utility—but choice. I don’t need him. And he doesn’t need me. Wewanteach other. That distinction? That’s the foundation for what peace could look like.”
The admiral across from me narrows his eyes. “You’re asking us to base an interstellar ceasefire on your relationship?”
“No,” I say, tone clipped. “I’m asking you to recognize that change is possible. That centuries of hatred can evolve. That enemies can become more.”
I let my gaze sweep the table again.
“I’m not standing here as a Companion. Or a soldier. Or a political pawn. I’m standing here as a bridge.”
A pause.
“A human bonded to a Reaper. A woman who has nothing left to lose but everything to offer. And if you still can’t see the value in that, then maybe none of you should be leading anything.”
The silence after that lands like a blow. No rustle. No cough. Even Panaka’s glass is still.
And then Malem speaks.
“Interesting.”
One word. But it cuts like a blade.
I meet his gaze and wait.
The silence after Malem’s “Interesting” clings to me like frost. Then it breaks.
He leans forward in his holographic chair, face sharper than a blade. "I'll withdraw the fleet," he says, voice measured, clinical. "Release me the human-reaper bonded one. Surrender her."
My chest caves in tight, and for a moment, simple biochemical panic flashes behind my eyes. But I keep it hidden.
Surrender me. Remove the “infection,” and peace returns. His logic's savage, brilliant, efficient. A surgical strike on the source.
It’s a sentence delivered by someone who’s never known what love is.
Gasps ripple around the room. Yentil's second-in-command glances at me, pale and horrified, mouth opening and closing like a wounded animal. Alliance admirals recoil as though he’s offered to dine on my bones. The Reaper delegates stiffen, claws tightening on tables.
Panaka's lips twitch. If amusement is cowardice, then he’s guilty—at least partly.
I breathe in, the stale command bridge air thick with ozone and tension. The floor rattles under the faint thrum of station systems. My throat runs dry, but I refuse to blink.
Haktron rises from the shadows. The faint scrape of armor echoes. Every eye follows him. I see the question in their eyes—Is he going to fight?
Instead, he steps aside, gaze fixed low, letting me stand solid and sovereign.
I raise my hand. One slow move. The room hushes deeper. Even Punaka’s amusement dims.
“Let me speak to him. Alone.”
