Suddenly, Demira interlocks sweet and venomous: “We expect reparations. For last night’s… unfortunate incident.”
Behind Florence’s smile, my hands clench. My mind races. I exchange a glance with Aria. She shrinks back, but her gaze steadies me.
My voice? Quiet. Deliberate. “No reparations. Your guys died because they threatened mine. Or perhaps you’d prefer an apology for their funeral?”
Silence. Even the hover cars outside shut off.
Demira tests me: “So you say you have the right to murder at leisure?”
I meet her eye, unmoving. “It wasn’t murder. It was defense. I have no desire to kill anymore than necessary.”
“Then why are we here?” Her voice tight as a drawn bow.
“Because I want to build something. Not tear it down.”
She tilts her head—mock respect. “Grand.”
I lean forward. “Then prove your sincerity.”
She smiles, bare-teeth. “We’ll begin every trade with one of ours on the board. No surprises. No interference.”
Aria nods. “And Centauri remains accountable for oversight. We’ll establish a joint council.”
Her role solidified a fragile smile across her features. That’s when I realize: this isn’t just negotiation. It’s a crucible forging us into something new—together.
We slump into the rhythm—veiled threats, measured concessions, posture shifting under unseen tension. Nar’Vosk presses, “We want a joint-investigation into incidents of sabotage.” We counter: “Subject to neutral arbitrators.” Exchange tension.
Across the table: eyes—my crew’s, hers, theirs. Each waiting for the tremor in my posture: the slug of rage or exhaustion or fear.
I lean sideways, brush my fingers on her thigh. She tightens, minuscule gesture—but enough.
Demira glances, scoffs. “Intimacy at the negotiation table?”
Aria lifts chin. “If you can’t handle transparency, don’t demand it.”
The room stills. A tension-beyond-words spreads. Nar’Vosk’s men shift. My lieutenants exchange looks.
Silence ruptures. Demira inhales slow.
She nods. “Very well. Let transparency be our guide.”
From there, the final segment: details, boundaries, timelines. Arbitration boards, split oversight. Truce points in Redlight district and Supernova perimeter. They press on public messaging. I counter with protection clauses for our people. Aria negotiates tone, terms—grace in every paragraph.
Three hours later, we sign the accord: shaky, hopeful. We shake hands—Aria, me, Demira. The orchid withers in the center, as if exhaling.
Outside, the ocean stretches untouched by blood.
I look at Aria. She leans against me.
Our shadows fall together on the polished floor as cameras dim.
We’re not safe. But maybe—for the first time in centuries—I feel close.
I taste salt and exhale.
We leave the table as allies. As something... more.
I’ve built a promise on floating steel. And I’m terrified it’ll crash.
