I straighten, eyes drifting back toward the children whose laughter sings like bells on the wind.
“Not just fighting for,” I murmur, “living for.”
The sun dips toward horizon-fire, and the Bone Spire shadows stretch long against the earth. I gather lesson plans, notes, and student questions — a tapestry of Earth science queries and Reaper analogies. I feel piled beneath it all not exhausted, butexpanded— like a mind that just discovered vast rooms inside itself.
I glance at the horizon where dawn meets dusk and feel the pull of infinity against my chest.
These kids — once abandoned and alone — are blossoming into something startling and alive. They are more than Earth or Reaper; they are thebridgebetween them. They are the ones who will laugh when others doubt, who will ask why the stars shine before asking how, who will spin stories into equations and equations into stories.
And I’m honored to teach them.
“Tomorrow,” Ayin says softly as we pack up together, “I think we’ll discuss meteorology in tandem with the Wind Psalms.”
I blink, heart fluttering — delighted, tired, and more hopeful than I’ve felt in years.
“The Wind Psalms,” I repeat. “Let’s do it.”
And as students trickle past with calls of “See you tomorrow!” and “Mom, what’s an ion again?” and “Reaper chants for weather patterns —yes!,” I feel that same wild sensation in my veins.
Hope.
Not silent.
Not uncertain.
Not tucked behind fear.
But roaring like fire against stars.
CHAPTER 32
KALLUS
The alert pings like a blade sliding from its sheath — quick, sharp, demanding attention. I’m in the tactical bay polishing the edge of an old training blade, the metal warm and humming against my gloves. I feel the vibration in my fingertips long before the alert shows on the holoscreen: a deep-space encryption signature I recognize instantly.
It’s Earth-made.
Not Reaper tech, not hybrid, not some bastardized human outsider program —Earth.
Someone patched through a blind channel. The signal is buried beneath layers of code and obfuscation, but my systems peel it back like skin.
And then the name blares across the decryption stream:
FREDERICK — ACTIVE.
A cold spike shoots through me.
“Terminate?” I growl, voice low in the silent bay.
The AI chirps calm. “Unknown. Identity matches partial Earth First genetic profiles but encrypted beyond standard classification. Signal traced to exo-tech coordinates on the Helios Spur.”
I taste ash and iron.
Ayla is beside me in an instant — fluid, keen, the scent of starroot incense trailing her like a promise. She leans in to the feed as it finishes decoding.
“Encrypted Earth-signature,” she murmurs. “But not official channels. This was relayed through private arms brokers.”
“Arms brokers?” I repeat, jaw tightening.
