CHAPTER 13
FREYA
Iwake to the hum of the ship’s life-support, the low-tone warning bells indicating the start of a new shift. The blankets are too warm, heavy against my skin — the cloak gone, replaced by standard-issue sheets. I lie still, listening.
Outside the bunk hatch, the corridor pulses with footsteps and recycled-air hiss. I close my eyes and pretend sleep might return, but it’s gone. The moment I shut my eyes I see last night’s stars. I smell moss and earth and water. I taste fear and longing together, sharp and bitter.
When I finally pull myself up, I realize something’s different: I’m not invisible. At least, not anymore.
Jorko cornersme in the mess-hall corridor before I reach the cleaning supplies — the ladder-belt whines, the hum of his hoverbelt heavy in my ears. His eyes flick to the cloak still draped across my shoulders, even during the day.
“You look like hell, kid,” he says, tone soft but laced with concern. “Spike-boy in your head again?”
I force a dry laugh. “Maybe just the draft from the vents,” I lie.
He shakes his head, knock of limp-belt echoing. “Listen. If you’re getting tangled up with a Reaper warlord because you think it’s romance or rescue or whatever fairy-tail you’re building, you better be sure. You’ve got friends, you’ve got pride. Don’t throw them away ’cause you feel… spark.”
His words hit harder than I expect. I swallow. The rag I carry trembles in my hand.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, voice firmer than I feel.
But even as I say it, I taste uncertainty.
Later that day, I’m dragged into a conversation I didn’t ask to have.
General Hugh Rection stands at the top of the stairs in the negotiation wing — his old skeleton-frame hunched, eyes sharp as broken glass. He doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t ask pleasantries. Just cuts straight to business:
“McDonnell.”
My throat seizes.
“You’re becoming… important,” he says, slow, deliberate. “To certain parties.”
My spine tightens. I swallow.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He smirks, the kind of sick-thin twist that smells of greed and calculation. “Don’t play coy. The Reaper warlord doesn’t stake a claim like… like you without expecting something in return. Influence. Leverage.”
The words chill me, colder than recycled air, colder than the nights on Storder.
“Are you threatening me?” I whisper, voice barely above hiss.
He leans forward, the metal bolts on his chair groaning under his weight. “I’m warning you.”
He turns — as if expecting applause. Diplomats shuffle. Reaper officers behind him shift, bone-plates rattling faintly.I can smell the tension: sweat, fear, ambition, and something darker. Possibility. Danger.
I step back, rag dropping. Plastic clatters to the floor.
“I’m not some token to be traded,” I say, louder this time. “I’m a person.”
Rection laughs — low, ugly. “Person? Sentiment doesn’t pay tariffs. Doesn’t sign treaties. Don’t forget that, girl.”
I don’t argue. I don’t defend. I turn and leave — as fast as my legs will carry me.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. I just need to get away from the weight around my throat.
I end up in my bunk, cloak shoved into a corner, sheets twisted around me. I press my forehead into the thin pillow, hot tears burning my cheeks, rage and fear twisting together like serpents.
