Page 86 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I reach down and brush a hand over her scarred cheek. The metal of my gauntlet warms in her presence—and so does my heart, even though it’s not supposed to. Not for me.
“You were the blade,” I whisper. “Forged in fire, tempered in doubt… the only one who could cut him down and leave him standing.”
She smiles, a slow exhale of laughter, more breath than sound: “Then you’ll always be my guard.”
I groan, half-laugh, half-throat-deep laugh, and let my forehead rest against hers.
The hum of Gamma shakes the walls, and I close my eyes. I feel her there—steady, alive, too dangerous and too precious.
Out in the void, guns still wait. Orders still wait. History still waits. But here—in this moment—we are something new.
Her fingers lace through mine at my side. Calloused under the glove, warm. Her warmth burns through the steel of my armor, through the cold histories I carry like chains.
I pull her closer. Feel her lean into me. Not for protection, not for safety, but because she knows I’m here. And because she knows I would burn the galaxy to keep her breathing.
I don’t say that—can’t. Words are cheap in halls built on blood. But I hold her closer. Bone to bone. Heart to heart.
After a while, she murmurs, “Stay.”
Not as an order. More like a prayer.
My answer is silent. It’s a promise delivered in the slow press of my lips to her hair. The hush of the damper between heartbeats.
Outside, Gamma groans, healing and wounded. Inside, we find something resembling peace. Not clean—but ours.
And tomorrow, we walk back into the breach.
CHAPTER 24
AMARA
Silence falls across Gamma like a soft blanket—impossibly fragile for what we’ve just made. Peace. Real, breath-saving, dangerous peace. The kind you earn with fire in your veins and scars in your bones.
The station hums under new orders—Alliance repair fleets decelerating into docks, tools clattering with purpose, human voices hopeful. I can smell fresh solvent, hot metal, and the sweet sting of things being fixed instead of broken.
This place—once a beacon of war—now pulses with reluctant calm.
I stand on a balcony overlooking the docking bays, the view framed by steel girders and glowing repair drones like moths at a torch. Below me, Alliance engineers work shoulder-to-shoulder with Gamma’s crew. No uniforms. Just people rebuilding, repairing life.
A lieutenant steps up beside me, voice soft. “Captain Sorell—diplomatic council wants to offer you a post. Prestige, resources… stability.”
So many words inside me twitch to escape. I don’t want prestige. I don’t want stability disguised as chains.
I shake my head. “Tell them thanks, but no thanks.”
She blinks, stunned. “May I ask why?”
I exhale, leaning against the railing. The air tastes like hope, and I’m not ready to spackle it with politics.
“I’m not a pawn anymore,” I say, voice clear. “I’m not a symbol. Not anywhere they can stage-manage me in a hallway with polished lies dripping from every corner.”
The lieutenant’s eyes flick with confusion and something like respect. “Then… what do you want?”
I look out beyond the station—out at the stars pinned to the void like promises.
“My place isn’t in orchestrated peace,” I say. “It’s among the wild, the chaotic, the free.”
“And that means…” she prompts.
