Her words — simple. Fragile. But also dangerous. Because hope born in dark places tastes like fire. It burns or it lights.
The wind picks up. The hollow hiss of ventilation systems from the lower decks hums low beneath the station. I taste metal, rust, regret — and salt. Sweat. Fear. Want.
I lift her chin, press my lips to hers again — firm, soft, landmine gentle. I taste night air, pine-mist, the kiss of metal plate sliding over skin.
“She already is part of it,” I murmur against her mouth. “Now.”
We don’t stay long. I don’t want eyes on us. Eyes prying, watching, judging. I can smell clan-rats in the air — predators dressed in polite voices, waiting. But tonight I don’t care. Tonight the only world that matters is beneath my steel bones and her warm skin.
When we return to the quarters, the door seals behind us with its soft hiss. For a moment the world outside disappears: steel corridors, surveillance drones, deals, whispers, plots, rebellions. Gone.
I help her out of the cloak. Tie it over the chair. The smell of pine and damp cloth lingers in the stale recycled air. I inhale it deep, so deep it burns in my lungs like brandy.
She stands in uniform — raw, real, alive. I reach for my own belt — leave it slack. No armor. No gauntlets. Not even a knife. Not tonight.
My back to the hatch-door, I study her under the soft overhead glow — the flush on her cheeks, the tension in her muscles, the way her fingers flex unconsciously.
“Sleep,” I say. Voice heavy with fatigue and promise.
She presses against me — warmth against cold steel, flesh against bone. Fingers lacing between mine.
“Good night,” she whispers.
I close my eyes. The metal hums. The station sighs. Outside, stars shift silently, ancient and vast.
I swear — not to a god, not to a throne, but to flesh and fire and fear-smoothed hope.
No one will touch her.
No one.
Even if I must burn worlds.
Because the world that matters rises in her eyes.
And I’ll be the fire guarding it.
CHAPTER 19
FREYA
Iwake before the alarms.
It’s too quiet.
No hum of engines in the vents. No distant scrapes of maintenance bots rolling by. Just the steady thrum of life-support and the soft hiss of recycled air. But it doesn’t soothe — it presses, like silence stretched too thin. I sit up. My fingers tangle in the thin sheet. The bunk beneath me smells of sweat and recycled fabric. I taste faint salt still on my lips — last night’s kiss, last night’s skin — a memory most have long forgotten before sleep.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bunk. The floor is cold under bare feet. I shift, rub my arms, trying to shake off the rest-fog of dreaming. Outside the hatch, corridor lights are dim — red-tinged for quiet hours. The only sound: a low vibration that hums through the plates, like the ship’s heart.
I step out. The corridor smells of metal, faint coolant oil, and stale boot-wax. My breath puffs, visible in the thin air. I realize I’m shivering — not from cold, but from something deeper.
A distant clang echoes — maybe a latched locker or boots shifting — but it snaps the station awake. The hum shifts pitch. I feel it under my boots.
I don’t know why the unease pulses in my chest, but it does.
Later, I find Jorko at the supply lockers — belt hovering, his limp making soft whines under the belt. He’s hunched over a crate, hands rummaging. I pause. He starts at the sight of me.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look rough.”
