They hug.
It’s quick—fierce—the embrace of sisters who’ve survived too much together. I watch from my spot on the floor, Rynn’s head still in my lap, and feel something crack open in my chest.
“I’ve missed you, you know,” Mother says quietly. “Junction One isn’t the same without someone setting off the fire alarms during experimental engine mods.”
“That wasonetime.”
“It was seven times, Suki. Seven. I have the incident reports.”
Suki pulls back, laughing, and Mother’s eyes travel to Henrok.
The massive Zaterran straightens under her scrutiny. Even warlords, apparently, feel the weight of Mother’s judgment.
“You must be the husband.” Mother doesn’t look away. “The one who married my courier without inviting me to the wedding.”
“It was...” Henrok pauses. I’ve never seen him choose words so carefully. “Somewhat spontaneous.”
“They always are.”
Silence stretches. The entire generator chamber seems to hold its breath.
“You keeping her safe?”
“With my life.”
“Good.” Mother nods once. “Because if anything happens to Suki Vega, I will find a way to make you regret it. Warlord or not.”
Henrok’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something new in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Recognition of one apex predator by another.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Medical teams swarm the chamber.
I’m prodded and scanned and declared “remarkably intact for someone who apparently fought a small war,” which I choose to take as a compliment. Rynn is loaded onto a hover-stretcher, still semiconscious, still reaching for my hand every time the medics try to pull him away.
“The bond,” one of them explains to Mother, not unkindly. “It’s new. They’ll have trouble separating for the next few days.”
“Ofcoursethey will.” Mother pinches the bridge of her nose again. “Add it to the report.”
Rusty reactivates with a whir and a concerning amount of sparks: “RUSTY HAS MISSED SIGNIFICANT EVENTS. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE.”
“Is that droid armed?” Mother asks.
Suki shrugs. “Technically? Yes. Legally? Let’s not ask questions.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
One of Mother’s couriers—a tall woman named Reeves who I remember from training—approaches with a series of supply crates. “Medical supplies in crate one. Tactical in crate two. And, uh, Mother? What’s in crate three?”
Mother’s expression doesn’t change. “Emergency supplies.”
I crack open the third crate with my free hand.
Inside: formal wear. Ceremonial items. And what is unmistakably a wedding gift basket, complete with a sparkly bow and a card that reads “Congratulations on your diplomatic acquisition.”
“Mother.” I stare at her. “Did you bringwedding supplies?”
“They’re emergency supplies. For diplomatic situations.”
