I press my forehead to hers. “Nothing will keep me from you.”
She clutches me like I’m the only thing holding her upright. And maybe I am.
I lift her again, higher this time, spinning her so slowly sorrow disappears and only wonder remains. The station creaks as if applauding.
We settle, cheek to cheek, breathing in the chaos and the promise.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispers.
I plant a kiss on her hairline. “We will. Together.”
The station alarms blare—they’ve realized their prize is gone. But I’m too close to feel fear. Rage stirs again, but this time I’ll channel it. Not to kill. To carve us a way home.
Aria tightens her arms. I step toward the hatch, each stride grounded by her warmth.
Outside, an escape shuttle drifts across the viewport—our ticket.
I press a hand to the hatch controls. She steps behind me, her cheek brushing the steel.
“No more silence,” she murmurs.
I exhale. “Not ever.”
We leave the wrecked chamber arm in arm. I carry more than her body—I carry her heart, her trust, her fragile hope.
And this time, I’ll never let either break.
The station behind us collapses in a wave of sparks. We step onto the shuttle as the world fractures into starlight.
Our lips meet in a promise: we’ll heal. We’ll build. We’ll survive.
The shuttle's engines hum a lullaby of safety as we descend through the barren miles above Glimner. Aria sleeps in my arms, head resting on my shoulder, breaths shallow but steady. Each exhale a fragile testament to survival. Her hair, damp from orbital stress, smells of lavender and smoke. My heart clenches for each tuft that brushes my face.
When we dock, silence cuts us free. No sirens. No scanners. Just the quiet chime of the safehouse door sealing behind us. I carry her through narrow corridors lit by soft amber glows into the main chamber—an austere space of cots and electronic monitors. A med-drone hovers, its scanner hum low, ready to treat her wounds.
I settle her onto the cot. She’s lighter than I expected, delicate as a fallen leaf. Her fingers twitch, find mine, squeezing like a promise. “I’m here.”
I brush her hair back, fingers lightly tracing the bruised lines of her ribs. My fingers hesitate where the old wounds still ache. “You are,” I whisper.
Two med-drones click forward: one softly hums as it scans her ribs, assessing fractures; the other injects analgesic gels into the bruised tissue. She winces.
Emotion throbs me like a wound. I grit my teeth. The physical pain is temporary; the emotional cost, I fear, may linger forever.
She opens her eyes, gaze foggy but aware. “They’re cleaning me up.”
I slip into the seat by her cot. Her hand finds mine unconsciously—an anchor. She closes her eyes again, then opens them. “Was it worth it?”
Low. Painful. I hold her gaze. No hesitation.
She’s fragile and fierce combined. A paradox of light and shadow that broke through the dark godfather I’d become.
I massage her hand. “Every splinter of pain, every drop of blood spilled—it was worth it.”
Tears gather in her lashes. Not for what she endured, but for what I did. She swallows. Lips tremble.
“Aebon… you killed again. You sank into the Reaper.”
The words aren’t accusations—they’re confessions of fear. She looks at me, searching. My faults laid bare.
