But he doesn't.
And that—that—breaks me more than any word could.
I sink to the floor, my back against the cold wall, burying my face in my hands. The tears come fast now, hot and hard, pulled up from somewhere deep.
I hate that I’m crying.
I hate that I’mstill here.
I feel the blanket before I see it—coarse and warm, tucked gently around my shoulders. Roja crouches in front of me, his voice low.
“We’re not done yet.”
That’s all he says.
No speech. No soft apology. Just that promise. That anchor.
And gods help me, I believe him.
Later, after the panic has dulled into silence and I’ve stopped flinching at every creak of the hull, Roja brings out a drive.
He sets it on the table between us like it’s a weapon. Maybe it is.
“This is what they’re using,” he says, voice low and flat. “Bribes. A cleric pushing for your deportation. The trail’s dirty—covered in shell IDs and layered messages. But this? This is real.”
I stare at it. My gut twists.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why come after me like this?”
Roja doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps the drive once, then drags a folder onto the screen. A list of transactions appears—cold, clinical. Numbers and names. One of them glows red.
I recognize it instantly.
Joren Talaas.
My mouth dries out. “That’s not possible. He’s dead.”
Roja nods. “He is. But his family’s not. And someone with pull—someone tied to them—paid to flag your name. Paid to make sure it didn’t stay buried.”
The room spins.
I thought I left this behind. I thought crossing the stars, burying my name, burning my past would be enough.
Apparently, the past has longer arms than I realized.
I sit back, hand pressed to my stomach, like I can stop the churn with pressure alone. “They’re trying to finish what he started.”
Roja’s eyes are on me, unreadable. “That’s the idea.”
I laugh, hollow and short. “I should’ve killed his brother too.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t.”
“They’re going to keep coming.”
“I know.”
“And you’re what—planning to hold them off with homemade traps and a half-broken door?”
