The work is hard and silent. No drums. No cheering. No death. Just quiet sweat, metal echo, the pull of muscle. I command a small crew — a handful of Solari herb-tenders and two Reaper metal-workers. Under the moonless sky, only dim starlight and trek-lights to guide us.
We haul heavy slabs. We drag away shards and jagged stones, pile them at the cliff’s edge. The smell of crushed rock and sweat fills the air, mingling with the evergreen after-scent of the forest breathing below. The night is cold — cold enough that hot breath clouds, even against leathery skin. Steam rises off skin, off metal, ghosts of warmth against biting wind.
Yorta occasionally checks from my six. Arnab stands at a distance, eyes sharp. I sense the measuring — bones shifting, calculation, threat. Let him. Tonight isn't for him. Not for conquest.
We work until the deck-bells hush and the warning lights dim. The last of the slabs drop into a tomb of jagged stone at the cliffside. I lean back on my heels, feel the ache in my thighs. The crater is shallow but wide — a scar on the moon’s belly. But inside — inside I smell change. Soil turned. Gravel exiled. Space carved out for something else.
I call for the Solari. They emerge from crates carrying small vials under protective sleeves — racks of dormant moss fragments, glowing blue spores known to bloom under darkness: lunar-glow moss, rare, dangerous in its own fragile beauty. I instruct them carefully: plant them in soft earth, away from the wind’s cut-knife blasts. Water them with mist sprayers. Cover with heat-lamps as they acclimate. Each drop of liquid glitters under floodlight like glass tears on metal.
I stand back as they work. The chill of night air nips at exposed skin. I smell metal, sap, damp earth, and the bitter tang of control — all overlapping in a bruised cocktail that tastes familiar.
I picture her walking here. Not as bloody token. Not as claim. But as someone soft, human, alive. I imagine her hood up, cheeks pink under frost. I imagine her gasp. I imagine her trusting.
The last vial sealed. The crates moved away. The field — flat, clean, ready — is empty again. Wind sweeps across. I feel the stir of possibility.
I conquer silence.
I don’t go to my quarters. I walk down to the edge of the field. The stars overhead — distant, cold, tight as nails. The smell of crushed moss, turned soil, forest hum — the world doesn’t smell like death tonight. It smells like a promise half-delivered.
I crouch, fingers digging in the loose earth. I trace the shallow furrows where moss lies sleeping. I breathe in deep, and the cold night air stings sharp in my lungs.
I utter the word: “Mine.” Not as a claim. As a hope.
Hope is dangerous. For a Reaper, like flame near dry bones. It can burn worlds. It can burn souls. But maybe — this time — I want to burn with light instead of ruin.
I stand, bones creaking. I feel strength. But something softer pulses under my skin. Memory of her scent. Of her voice. Of the rough brush of her fingers against my armor when she asked for distance.
Small gestures. She wanted small. This is the smallest — and biggest — gesture I know.
The knock that builds a door.
Later, after the shift, I roam the corridors under dim red lighting. I’m unarmored, save the waist-belt — something human soldiers wore. My cloak swings open, catching the recycled air, tail hovering just above deck plating. The scent of damp fabric, metal, and distant star-static drifts around me.
I walk toward the galley — not for food. In hopes. In dread. In possibility.
When I pass by, I see her. Leaning against a bulkhead, cleaning rags tucked into her belt. The cloak she wears sways gently — hood down — charcoal and new. Her hair brushed backtight. Eyes tired, red-rimmed, but alert. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t turn.
I inhale ragged. The world narrows. Every sound — the hum of the ship, the hiss of machinery, the distant ventilation — fades into background noise. The only real thing is her.
I pause. Watch. My shadow falls across the floor’s gleam.
Her fingers curl around the rag. She squeezes. Hard. Maybe to remind herself she’s real. Still human. Still hers.
I shift forward.
She drops her rag as I step beside her, silently. In the red-light flush, I don’t even need to ask if she smells anything. The scent of damp moss, earth, night air — I wear it beneath my skin.
She glances sideways. I see the crease of fear, hesitation — and … something else. Question. Wary hope.
No words. Not yet.
I extend my hand. Open. Flat. No armor, no bone-spur, no claim.
“Walk with me,” I say. Voice low. Gravel-smoke.
Her eyes flick past my palm — to the field’s closed door. Then back.
Slowly, she nods.
