They think I’m helpless.
They don’t know what they’re facing.
Because I’m not afraid.
And I won’t break.
I shift again and feel a vibration beneath the deck—shuttle movement. Either they’re refreshing the auction feed or transporting me closer for the winner. Either way, I might get a chance.
When I heard “auction,” they thought to terrify me. What they gave me instead was a map: countdown to rescue or escape. I let fear live somewhere else behind my ribs.
There is no fear.
There is only resolve.
And the faint hum of rebellion rising in the cold orbit.
I crumble when the shutters close behind those arrogant Nar’Vosk pigs and the silence returns. My breath echoes on the metal walls, muffled but persistent. My ribs scream again—burning shards of memory—but it's not physical pain that defeats me. It's the knowledge of what's coming.
I sink to the cold floor, hips pressed into the grit of chipped paint and rust. My shoulders shake with silent sobs. The tears aren’t for me. Not for the binds. Not for the bruises. They’re for what awaits him once he knows I’m here. I swallowed his fierceness like a bullet to save myself, never realizing he'd come for me with equal intensity. And when he realizes he's too late—he’ll lose everything. He’ll unravel the galaxy’s seams.
I dampen my blouse against my cheek and grit my jaw. If he finds me, the sky above Glimner—or what's left of it—will ignite. They’ll call him a monster, as if they don't already know. When they hear the wordAebon, their pulses will stutter. And believe this: that's only the beginning.
But I won't let their fear drown me.
I cover my mouth, whispering into the steel plate collar of my binds:
“He’ll do it. He’ll burn it all.”
My sobs burst again: tears fat with anguish. Not from weakness but from knowledge. From love. From a damn terror I never expected to feel about him.
I press my hands against the floor, pushing up, my ribs protesting in white-hot flashes. Hot tears slide over cold metal. I imagine him—his coat blood-slicked, his fists cracked, his voice reverberating like a reaper's sermon. He'll come, burning through orbital drift and compromised locks. For me. Forus.
My breathing slows. I scrub my eyes with the sleeve of my blouse. My hand finds that failed panel again and traces the gap. I steady myself. I will fight. I will survive. I will be worth his fury.
Heartbeat steadying. Tears drying. Resolve igniting.
Inhaling the mechanical stench, I hear it first low and buried—a vibration, a tone. Deceptively soft. Like soot humming on memory’s edge. The walls thrum in response. Metal groans in its sockets. Lights flicker, dimming like dying stars.
I freeze—I know that sound. It’s his song. Not melody. Something deeper. A Reaper’s artillery. A whisper of ancestry calling across space.
The corridor doors behind me buck harder. Every bolt rattles. Then, with a thunder of iron and shrapnel, they implode into the chamber. A sonic wave shatters the heavy steel and debris rains into the room.
Silence—and then he steps through.
Aebon stands in the doorway, silhouetted by frenzied sparks and bending light. His suit is torn, armor cracked. His bone spurs flicker white in the haze. His eyes... they burn like twin suns at night. I’ve seen hells less terrifying.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
The residual thrumming pulses through the walls. Sparks sprinkle at his feet. The atmosphere tastes of ozone, oil, and a mournful thunder.
He looks like a god summoned into our broken world.
I stare—fear and awe twisting through me. I’m parched but cannot speak. My hands tremble, but the binds are gone—or maybe I’m free. Maybe his presence alone ripped the chains from me.
He steps forward. Every footfall shatters the debris. The thrum quiets—fearful hush—but the tremor in the walls doesn’t abate. Like the world is bowing to him.
He reaches out. With slow agonizing purpose, he touches my cheek. My skin tingles—lips part, words catch, but only longing pours through:
