Then we both laugh.
Chelsea’s eyes are shining — bright enough to light this whole ship. Her crimson gaze is steady, expectant, as though she knew this conversation was coming and she had exactly the right words ready.
“You’ll need Mama’s brains,” she repeats, matter-of-fact, as if she’s announcing lunch.
Ayla’s arms fold around her, scooping her up with that easy, warm grace of a mother who has fought and bled for every calm moment she’s ever gotten.
“She’s right,” Ayla says, voice gentle but firm, eyes catching mine with an expression that melts all resistance. “I belong with you in this. Not behind in Brom’s keep. With you.”
I swallow — dry, heavy, but honest. “I argued logic,” I say, trying to sound bravado when really I’m just trying to sayfear.“But she’s right. You do have perspective I lack.”
Chelsea giggles, tucked against her mother, like this is all a great game and not a threat to every nerve in my body.
Ayla kisses Chelsea’s forehead. “We go — together,” she whispers to me. “No question.”
My chest tightens — not with fear, but with something that feels like pride and love and dread all mixed into one sharp coil. I step closer and take both their hands — the tiny one of Chelsea, the warm one of Ayla — and I draw them into my space.
“We do this as one,” I state, slow and grounded, voice like iron tempered through flame. “We face whatever hell he’s gathered. And we end him — one way or another.”
Chelsea’s grin does this little spark thing she does — like she’s picturing herself hair whipping in warp speed, blade at her side, roaring laughter trailing behind like fire. “Next time,” she says, “I fly.”
My chest cracks open a little bit at that. Fierce and unapologetic — exactly like who she is.
“We’ll train for that,” I promise.
She nods gravely, like a commander signing for her first starfighter.
TheGhost Talondoesn’t launch quietly. Its engines slide awake with a soft, erotic purr — like a predatory cat stretching before the hunt. The scent of ionized metal fills the cockpit, sharp and thrilling. Ayla and I sit side by side, consoles glowing with incoming harmonics from the asteroid ring, tactical feeds, encrypted channels, and ghost echoes of Frederick-tagged signals.
I key in our departure — the hum deepens, the stars draw lines of light, and the ship slides out of orbit like water slipping off obsidian.
Ayla leans over the comm board, fingers dancing across options and readouts. Her voice is soft, calm, but every syllable is a plan, a strategy, a tether back to the world we are defending.
“We’ll need a projection of his last known vectors,” she mutters, eyes sweeping holodata. “And check every arms dealer flashpoint within the Helios Spur quadrant. He can’t be acting alone.”
“She’s right,” I say — not reluctantly, but with genuine affirmation. “Frederick doesn’t make moves without a network. If he’s alive and dealing in outlaw tech, he’s got proxies. Supply chains. Codes.”
Chelsea peeks over the console edge, like a little owl perched on a moonstone ledge. “Can I see too?” she asks.
Ayla crouches beside her, murmuring in low tones. “Not yet, little flame. We have to analyze first.”
Chelsea pouts — adorable and ferocious all at once — but she doesn’t protest further.
I inhale — the scent of warm circuitry and star dust, and something deeper:resolve.
I place a hand over Ayla’s — her touch like a compass guiding fire through dark places.
“We do this right,” I say. “Not just for us. For her. For every hybrid and exile who chooses peace over fear.”
Ayla nods, gaze steady.
“As one,” she echoes.
TheGhost Talonslips deeper into the vortex of star currents, the universe passing in silver streaks against the shadowed glass.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a breath.
Not out of doubt.
