“They’re watching,” I growl. “Let them. We will not retreat.”
Haarvik exhales. “Your decision, godfather?”
I meet their eyes. These are men who will follow me into fire, but they need more than resolve—they need clarity.
“Tonight, I face them all—every cell, every operative who dares whisper challenge. I will remind them the Reaper who builds is stronger than the one who burns.” My fist slams the table. “They want combat? They’ll get it.” My voice echoes.
Council members shift—shock, then fierce approval rips the tension taut.
I clear my throat. “But I need time.”
Bruna’s gaze flickers over the room. “Your plan?”
I unfold it succinctly: patrol sweeps, sentinel squads along borders, a series of limited yet public skirmishes to root out dissent. Show strengththenoffer clemency—not weakness. Show loyalty rewarded, betrayal crushed.
I pause. “I will lead the charge,” I say. “My choice.”
Haarvik nods emphatically. “Then we stand behind you.”
It’s acceptance—and alliance.
As the council disperses, I linger. The dossier from Ink weighs in my coat. But tonight it’s not for tearing down—it’s ledger of trust earned. Aebon doesn’t need me to be weak. He needs me to be equal.
I leave the chamber and approach my transport—armed escort waiting low in rumble, starlight sheen overhead.
Before I climb aboard, I pause and glance back at the penthouse—at the window where her silhouette lingers. She remains silent, but I read the message swinging in her posture:Be safe. Come home.
I clench my jaw. “I will,” I mutter, though part of my soul quivers against the departure.
The transport hums to life. I step in and settle, voice low to the pilot: “To the eastern ring. Sweep ops.”
He nods. The hatch closes, sealing me in.
Now, all I feel is the hum of engines and purpose hammering through metal suits. I sit rigid, the dossier in my coat brushing against my ribs—like a memory I must not forget.
I picture Aria’s face: fierce, worried, more powerful than most gods I’ve worshiped.
If this is our final embrace before fire, so be it.
I steel myself.
Because if we built it, we must stand it—or watch it burn.
And I will not let that happen.
I ride into the neon night, every bone in my body aching to return to her.
But first—I must fight.
I land hard on the platform, boots thudding against cracked concrete. The scent of ozone and spilled coolant hangs in the air, and my bones ache from the fight. A dozen Nar’Vosk rebels litter the ground, their weapons shattered, their resolve broken. I stagger forward, my thigh pulsing with pain, each step lurching like a wounded beast. But I’m alive.
In the center, Goh’Vak lies prostrate, secured by sentinel drones and battlefield nets. His breathing is shallow, but life persists in his ruined chest. I lean against a steel column, drawing a ragged breath—lungs burning, blood slick beneath my ribs where a blade cut close. But I’m whole enough to rise again.
The deafening silence that follows slashes through me—no cheers, no hiss of radio, just survivors and swift tidal guns humming low. I feel the weight of my pack, the burn of bone-spurs ready to coil. The air tastes of scorched armor and charged metal.
My comm chimes. Two words: “Return now.” Aria’s voice—urgent, trembling. My chest tightens at the sound of her fear.
I stagger onto the transport, trembling, half-carrying myself into the cabin. My vision rides a tightrope of light and shadow. But even wounded, I am aware: I am returning to her.
