Then he passes out.
And I stand there, staring down at the man who broke my heart and never even knew it. The man who could destroy everything with a single sentence.
Drel clears his throat. “I’m guessing this isn’t just a war buddy situation.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s not.”
He nods. Doesn’t press. He’s good like that.
I turn back to the console and pull up the containment file. Restricted. Sealed by command order. But I have root access. I was granted it years ago. On the condition I’d never askwhy.
Now I know why.
I read the details in a blur. Vael was presumed dead. Recovered six months ago. Severe injuries. Inconsistent memory. Off-grid until now. Transferred here for neural calibration and prosthetic evaluation.
They sent him tome.
Not random.
A trap? A test? Or fate?
My hands clench. It doesn’t matter. What matters is this:He remembers me.
And if he starts asking questions, he won’t stop.
Not until he knows the truth.
Not until he finds out aboutNessa.
And gods help me…
I’m not ready for that.
The medbay lights hum in low amber as the drugs cycle through his veins.
The smell of antiseptic and ionized metal clings to the air — sharp, dry, clinical — but underneath it there’shim: iron and smoke and that faint mineral scent that’s pure Vakutan.
I can’t believe it’s the same scent I used to wake up to, back when life still made sense.
He shouldn’t even be conscious yet.
But Vael Draykorr never did follow the rules of biology.
The monitor spikes. His arm jerks against the restraint, servos whining under the strain.
Drel moves to increase the dosage, but I throw out a hand. “Wait.”
Vael’s eyes snap open — golden, wild. They pin me like a targeting lock.
The world narrows to that color.
Molten metal, edged with old hurt.
“Rynn,” he growls, voice shredded. “You’re?—”
He cuts off, breath hitching, muscles seizing.
I force calm into my tone. “You’re in recovery. Don’t move. You’ll tear the grafts.”
