“Keep a shadow on her,” I say to Yorta. “Discreet.”
“She won’t like that.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
Yorta grunts, disapproving but obedient.
Later, I sit in my quarters, staring at my hands. Clawed. Scarred. Hands that held her like a treasure. Hands that could rip an armored hatch apart — and yet trembled when they first touched her skin.
I grip the arms of my chair until the metal groans.
If this rebellion is real…
If they come for her…
The thought makes me rise, pacing.
I’ve been careful. Maybe too careful. She’s strong — I know that now. But strength doesn’t stop a blade in the dark.
I reach for the dagger on the table — not to use, but to feel its weight. Cold. Balanced. Merciless.
A whisper of sound makes me freeze. Not danger. Just memory.
Her voice.
“You want to be a leader, then lead. Show them what we are isn’t weakness.”
And I’ve been trying. Gifts. Training. Letting her breathe instead of caging her.
But I’ve kept the shadows from her, thinking I was sparing her.
Truth? I was sparing myself. I couldn’t bear to see fear in her eyes again. Not because of me.
That night, sleep comes like a trap. Deep at first — then sharp.
I dream of her.
Freya, dressed in white.
Then covered in red.
Blood — not mine. Not hers. Just… everywhere.
Her hands reach for me, but I’m too slow.
Her voice calls, but the sound’s swallowed by darkness.
I wake with a snarl in my throat and my claws buried in the mattress.
The frame is splintered. The sheets soaked in sweat.
And still, I feel cold.
The compound humsaround us like a beast in slumber — steady, controlled, primed. On the surface, nothing moves. Trade freighters still dock. Haul wagons still roll through the rounded arches. The hum of life-support and distant engines pulses soft — like the slow breath of a wounded soldier lying still in the dark, waiting.
I walk among that hum tonight, cloak drawn low, boots clinking softly against metal plating. My jaw aches from lastnight’s dream, but I don’t turn away. I don’t blink. I don’t allow that tremor inside me to surface. Because the world doesn’t know of dreams. It knows scars. It knows decisions. It knows war and blood and bone. And I carry all three like a banner.
I pass through the edge docks, where cargo crates line the walls. Crates sealed. Warrants filed. Guards nodding as they register in and out. The scent of oil, rust, and recycled air washes over me — familiar as home, but tonight it tastes bitter. I taste the weight of possibility, of poison hidden in plain contracts.
