“They sent ghosts into my walls,” I growl. “They cut my people. They almost killed him. I’m done playing defense.”
He hesitates.
Then nods.
“Omega line open.”
I lean in.
“To the Nine,” I say, the words acid in my mouth. “No masks. No go-betweens. I want them in front of me. In person.”
Razo blinks. “You’re calling a full summit?”
I nod. “On Centauri soil. Under my terms.”
“That’s suicide.”
“Then let them bring body bags.”
Silence stretches. Then, quietly, he activates the transmission code.
And just like that... the message is sent.
My hands don’t shake. My voice never falters. But inside—beneath the iron and ice—I feel it: the cold scream of fury that’s been building in my chest since Aebon’s body crumpled into my lap.
They think they know what wrath looks like.
They haven’t met me yet.
The docking clamps hiss like snakes as the shuttle locks into position.
Neutral space, they call it. A joke. There's no such thing. Not when every eye in orbit is watching for the first flicker of weakness. But the Intergal Exchange Station over Glimner comes close—international jurisdiction, third-party security, and walls thick enough to muffle even a Reaper’s scream. No one owns this place.
Which is exactly why I chose it.
I step off the shuttle into a lobby that smells like sterilized ambition. Clean. Cold. The kind of place where death happens behind doors and diplomacy is measured in how much silence follows your words. Every surface gleams. The guards wear matte chrome armor—no faces, no emblems. Just rented neutrality.
They scan me twice. Once for weapons. Once for intent.
The latter pings inconclusive.
I smirk.
Razo follows a half-step behind, tension rolling off him like static off a storm wall. He’s armored up in black Centauri executive gear, two pistols holstered, one visible. That’s deliberate. A warning shot with no sound.
“This is insane,” he mutters under his breath. “You sure about this?”
“No.” I pause, adjust the collar of my jacket. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
We’re led down a corridor that’s too bright, too quiet, and finally ushered into a chamber carved like the inside of a diplomatic shell—long oval table, ambient lighting that shifts with vocal pitch, and a dozen seats waiting like thrones for ghosts.
Only three are occupied.
The others will join in staggered waves, as if showing up last means dominance. Typical.
I recognize the first immediately.
Vikar Than—gilded bones, violet skin stretched taut over a frame that’s more metal than man. His left eye glows orange; the right’s a glass marble etched with kill codes. He nods once, a slow predator’s motion.
