I think of Vokar — his bone-spurs, his red eyes, the way he saidI learn fast.I think of his promise, the moss under starlight, his hand waiting.
And then I wonder: does he see me as a possession? A bargaining chip? A demand to be met?
I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to.
My fingers ghost over the seam of the cloak — rough fabric, warm, real. I trace the stitches with calloused nails. I close my eyes.
I remember the field of moss, the soft press of his hand in mine, the hush of the waterfall. I remember the way the night tasted alive, not metal and smoke.
But I also remember Rection’s words. I remember Jorko’s warning.
I whisper aloud, though there’s no answer but the hum of systems: “I didn’t ask for this.”
The next few hours blur — cleaning quotas, supply checks, corridor rounds. I move in autopilot, numb. Everywhere I gopeople look. Some with pity. Some with speculation. Some with thin-lipped curiosity.
I catch snippets in hushed tones: “Did you see how the warlord glared at her today?” “Rumors say she might influence the resource deal.” “IHC’s playing a dangerous game meddling with Reapers this close to home.”
Each whisper lands like a stone in my gut. I try not to wince. I try not to listen. But the sound clings.
When I slide into the locker room after shift, I realize I’m shaking. Not from cold — though the recycled air is always too cool — but from rage, fear, and grief.
I scrub my face raw. I dump the bucket. I stare at my reflection — green eyes rimmed in red, cheeks pale, jaw clenched.
I’m tired. So tired.
I sigh and realize I need to see Vokar. Now.
I find him readily enough. The corridor lights hum overhead, a dull wash of white across metal walls, but nothing feels steady anymore — not the floor beneath me, not the recycled air, not even my own breath. My hands shake when I push open the door to the small side-corridor where Vokar’s cloak is draped over the metal railing. I half-expect him to step out, armor clinking, claws gleaming — but instead he’s silent. Just waiting.
He turns slowly when I step inside. No guards. No bluster. Just his dark bulk shifting softly in the glow, the cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a shroud. His red eyes catch me as though I’m the only thing in the world, and the world tilts a little sideways.
I close the hatch behind me. The hiss echoes. It feels like sealing a deal. Maybe a bad one. Maybe a dangerous one.
I draw in a breath — cold air, sterile metal, a faint tang of machine oil somewhere nearby. My heart thuds loud enough I’mscared he might hear it. My voice comes out soft, but steadier than I feel.
“What happens if this all falls apart?” I ask. “If you — if your people — don’t accept me when the shine wears off?”
He doesn’t shift. He doesn’t blink. For a moment I see the weight he carries: bone scars, death memories, moons burned, oceans spilled. I see the warlord. I feel the threat.
But then — something else. Soft. Determined.
“They’ll have to,” he says. Voice low, gravel-toned.
I let the words settle. They crack the air. But I don’t see anger. I see pain. Resolve.
I step closer. My boots scrape metal. The sound feels loud. Too loud.
“And what if they don’t want to?” I ask. “What if they see me — a human — as a weakness? As a blade against the clan’s honor? As a liability?”
He tilts his head — just slightly. I smell him: dark leather, cold metal, damp night-air outside. It’s so like danger I should shrink back. But I don’t.
He steps forward. Close enough I can feel the heat vibrating off his body. Closer than I thought I’d ever let a Reaper stand.
“Then they’ll see what they always needed to see,” he growls. “Strength isn’t only muscle, Freya. Strength is protection. Loyalty. Sacrifice.”
The wordsacrificerolls off his tongue like blood on steel. I taste it bitter, but not unwelcome.
I step in so close I can count the ridges of bonespur beneath his collarbone — harsh, jagged, alien. I know what those spurs have done. What those claws have torn. What those eyes have watched burn. I know what this man is.
