Now it’s war.
Kristi sleeps like she’s been dragged under. No tossing. No murmurs. Just deep, unmoving stillness, the kind that makes you check every few minutes to make sure she’s still breathing.
I do. I check.
Every. Godsdamn. Time.
She’s pale beneath the blankets. Her hair’s damp from sweat, curling at the edges of her brow. One arm bandaged from shoulder to elbow. Her leg’s elevated, the blood washed off but the memory of it still staining my shirt, crusted stiff where I clutched her.
I keep her satchel close, nestled in my lap while I sit on the bunk beside her. I can still smell the gun oil from the documents, still feel the chill that rolled off that nanite vial. Everything inside screams:they were going to kill them all.
Wipe out species. Silence dissent. Make it clean.
Not on my watch. Not ever.
I pull the drive from the bag. My thumb hovers over the input slot of the secure node. I could do it right now. Send it to Sheth Mornin. To Dood Radman. Burn Dennis’s world to the ground with a single keystroke.
But I stop.
My hand trembles, hovering over the port. If I release this now... Dennis will know. He’ll see the leak. And if he sees it before we physically disable the launch mechanism, he might panic. He might trigger the release early just to spite us.
I can’t risk it. Not while the weapon is still live.
I shove the drive back into the satchel. The silence in the room is a beast gnawing on my spine.
The truth is here. In my hands. But we have to time the strike perfectly.
I stand up. Walk to the weapons locker. Open it. Inside: my old gear. From the war. Wrapped in oilcloth, still sharp. My cooking knives beside my stun baton. Blades I haven’t touched since I swore I’d never kill again.
But this isn’t about killing. It’s about surviving. About protecting.
I unroll the wrap. Touch the hilt of my Vakutan plasma blade. The edge still hums. Still remembers blood. I remember it too. But I sheath it.
And as I slide a dagger into my boot and tuck a coil grenade onto my hip, I whisper the same vow I made the first time I saw her fall asleep beside me:
“If Novaria burns, I walk through the fire with you.”
CHAPTER 25
KRISTI
Iwake to the scent of antiseptic and something else—something warm and earthy, familiar in a way that hits me deeper than thought. Spice. The blend Kenron wore the first night I walked into his kitchen, back when I still thought I could stay neutral.
My eyes crack open. The room’s dim. Pale orange light leaks through the blackout drapes, casting long shadows across concrete walls and crates of stolen med supplies. There’s a low hum—ventilation, maybe. My pulse thrums loud in my ears.
And he’s there.
Kenron.
Curled in a chair beside the bunk, head dropped forward, hands loosely clasped, blades strapped to his hips like he’s ready to tear through the world if it so much as breathes wrong.
He looks… older. No—weathered. Like someone who’s carried a mountain across his shoulders and dared the gods to take it from him.
I blink again, and this time he stirs.
Our eyes meet. And the ground beneath me finally stops spinning.
“Hey,” I whisper, my voice like gravel and thread.
