“And what if the admin dogs pull jurisdiction?”
“Then we burn that bridge,” Roja says. “And everything on the other side.”
The silence after that stretches too long.
I pull my legs up on the cot and stare at the ceiling. It’s stained and cracked, but it’s the only roof I’ve got.
“They’re gonna make me into a story,” I say.
“They already did,” Ceera replies.
Roja’s voice comes softer this time. “You flipped the script.”
I look at him. “For how long?”
No one answers. We lapse into silence. The lights outside flicker again, like the city’s nervous system is glitching.
Roja’s posted by the window, motionless except for the flick of his eyes tracking every shadow, every drone buzz, every face that doesn’t move like it belongs. His calm is unsettling. Not because it’s fake—but because it’s not.
I sit with my back against the peeling wall, knees pulled up, fingers fidgeting with the edge of my scarf like it’s some kind of anchor. The silence stretches too long. Ceera’s out. Roja made her take a burner route to check the fallback. It’s just us now.
“What happens,” I ask, “if we lose?”
Roja turns. Not fast. Just… deliberate. Like the question was expected. Like he’s already run the scenario in his head a hundred ways.
He studies me for a long beat. Then he says it, quiet but firm, like it’s carved in stone.
“Then we go down swinging. Together.”
Something in my chest tightens, but not the way it used to when I heard threats. It’s not fear. It’s… certainty. He’s not offering escape. Not pretending there’s some miracle fix. He’s just offering his presence. His fire. His fists.
And it’s enough.
I nod once. Slow. Then I push up from the floor and cross the tiny room. I kneel beside the crate in the corner—the one he never lets out of arm’s reach. He doesn’t stop me.
I flip the latch. Inside, steel gleams in the low light. Blades. Six of them, each with a name etched in a language I can’t read but somehow feel.
My hand hovers. I don’t know which one to pick. But one catches the light—sleek, curved, like it was made for a woman’s spine. I reach for it. Roja says nothing.
It’s heavier than I expect.
The moment my fingers close around the grip, my wrist dips under the weight. But it fits. Perfectly. Like it remembers me. Or wants to.
I hold it up. It smells like metal and oil and something older. Not blood. Not quite. Just… promise.
I don’t cry.
I don’t shake.
I just turn to Roja and say, “Teach me.”
His eyes flare, red catching in the dim light. Not surprised. Just… moved. In the way only a Grolgath can be—deep and slow, like tectonic plates shifting.
He walks over. Takes a knee beside me. Reaches out and curls my fingers tighter around the hilt.
“First rule,” he says. “It’s not about strength. It’s about will.”
I nod.
