Trade flows. The IHC is pleased. Rumors from human diplomats drift lazily through the air systems: “Profitable routes established,” “Good faith shown,” “Alliance potential solid.” On paper, we are a success. The Scarred Foot clan stands taller than other Reaper lines. My people — quiet. Obedient. A murmur of loyalty replaced uncertainty and muttered doubts.
But I feel it beneath the hum. A tremor. I feel it in muscle memory. In the low hum of bone-plates, in the way certain eyes flick when they pass me. In the small, careful glances any predator gives when it smells danger intent on closing in.
I should trust that stillness. I tell myself I should. After all—those who gather teeth speak loud. Those who plot quietly, in silence, are the ones who strike deep.
I slow, walk the curved corridor toward living-quarters. The corridor lights flicker halfway, a momentary blackout before backup circuits hum alive. Cold metal on my skin. A reminder: nothing is permanent. Control is everything.
Inside the warm glow of the quarter-block, I’m greeted by a soft light in the latch-door: the modest red glowpanels of her cabin. Freya. She leans in the doorway when I step through — simple uniform, hair pulled back, eyes bright even in the low light. She smiles. A real smile. Not politeness. Not caution. Just a soft curve of lips that means: you’re home.
My chest tightens — not from hunger, but from gratitude. Relief. Danger. Promise.
She reaches up and kisses me quick — just a brush of lips that tastes of stale coffee and iron tang of dock crates. It’s warm — too warm for recycled-air night. I feel her pulse there. Firm. Steady. Alive.
Everything in me aches to claim her. But I only pull her closer, arms encircling her waist. My bone-spurs press against her uniform-clad back through soft fabric. I feel every ridge, every contour of my armor. I’m armor, but she doesn’t flinch. That’s something. More than many ever dared.
“You look restless,” she murmurs. Her breath — warm, quick. Not impatience. Worry. Subtle. Human.
I kiss the top of her head. My breath tastes of cold metal and distant star-smoke. The hull hum through the plating vibrates under us — a reminder that safety is fragile. But as long as I hold her, I’m promise.
“Just thoughts,” I reply, voice low and gravel-soft. “Night is full of shadows.”
She shifts in my arms. Slips her hands up under my shoulders, finds the bone ridges gently, her fingers brushing smooth over the cold metal. For a heartbeat I see hesitation flick in her eyes — fear, maybe. But she doesn’t draw back. She presses in. As though anchoring.
“I like them with you,” she whispers.
I don’t laugh. I don’t comfort. I nod. Because some truths don’t need words. They need presence.
She straightens enough to look at my eyes — those constant red fires. I taste the air: recycled plastic, faint ozone, the distant tang of electronics. I smell her — hair shampoo, night linen, fear, desire, trust.
“Promise me you’ll tell me if something changes,” she says quietly. “If… if I’m in danger.”
I shift. The cloak hangs heavy across our backs. Bone-plate creaks faintly as I bend. I brush a spurred finger across her cheek — gentle, soft, as if polishing glass.
“I promise,” I say. “No secrets.”
She lingers in my arms. The world outside shrinks. The hum dims. The only real sound is her breath against my chest and the soft thrum of my heart — one of two, beating steady, strong, dangerous.
She kisses me again. Softer this time. Pale light flickers over the lines of her face. In that kiss, I taste more than flesh: loyalty. Fragility. Strength. Fear. Fire.
I draw back slowly, studying her face. The confidence she wears now is new. It’s tentative. Fragile. Like moss under careful sun after long dark winters — pale green, soft, alive, but easily crushed.
I don’t touch. I just watch.
“Walk with me,” I say.
Her eyes narrow slightly — cautious trust — then she nods.
Together we step outside onto the compound ringwalk. Above us the twin moons that orbit Storder’s gas-giant dim, swallowed sometimes by mist, but now glint faint silver across the sky. The air is cold: crisp, sharp, alive with forest scents drifting up from below — pine, wet earth, distant rain. I inhale deep. The smell grounds me. Makes me aware. Pristine. Pure. Alive.
Wind tugs at her cloak. I rest a hand on her waist again — not possessive. Protective. Something soft in my bones, hardened by wars, aches for softness.
We walk in silence for a long span — no need for words. The stars overhead burn distant and honest. They don’t judge. They only witness.
Finally she speaks. “Do you think they’ll really leave it be?” She nods toward the huts below, toward the compounds. The people sleeping. Working. Living. Quiet peace, fragile.
I draw a breath. The air tastes of pine needles and distant salt. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I will burn every shadow that tries to slither into our light.”
She leans against me, nose just under my clavicle, uniform collar damp from sweat and breath. “I don’t care about your spurs,” she says softly. “I don’t care about your warlord bones or your past. I just… I want this.”
