I wander a little further until a familiar face finds me—Brom, the second-in-command. Larger than most of the other Reapers I’ve seen, though smaller than Kallus. His scarred jaw works as he gives me a once-over, then gestures down the hall.
“This way. You’re expected in the mess.”
I consider arguing—askingwhyI’m expected anywhere—but decide it’s better not to poke the bear, at least not this one. I fall in step beside him.
“You always dress your captives in lingerie?” I ask, voice dry.
Brom grunts. “That’s not lingerie. That’s a Reaper’s consort weave. It means you’re protected.”
“By dressing me like a space stripper?”
He doesn’t smile, but something twitches at the edge of his mouth. “You’ll be glad for it. Trust me.”
We arrive at the mess, a wide room carved from raw dark metal, with long tables and benches bolted to the floor. Reapers fill the space, eating slabs of meat I can’t identify, drinking from heavy black mugs. The air is thick with smoke, sweat, and the scent of seared protein. It smells like a war camp.
Conversations die as I enter, Brom behind me like a silent mountain.
Every pair of eyes turns toward me.
I lift my chin.
Some of them look away quickly. Others linger. I see curiosity, hunger, calculation—but not a single one moves toward me.
I feel like a lioness stepping into a pack of wolves. But oddly... I don’t feel unsafe.
I cross the room with slow, measured steps and slide onto the edge of a bench. Brom sits beside me, shielding one flank. A Reaper woman—tall, deadly, with silver scales at her temples—slides a tray in front of me.
Chunks of meat. Dark bread. Something that steams and hisses slightly in a metal bowl.
I poke at it with a fork. “Is it going to bite me back?”
“Only if you’re lucky,” the female Reaper says without smiling. She walks off, a tail-like braid swaying behind her.
I try the bread first. Dense. Warm. Surprisingly sweet.
Around me, the room begins to hum again with low conversation. I catch pieces—stories of raids, jests about some crewman who tried to steal a mate and got his face smashed in. Rough, sharp laughter follows.
They’re... joking. Laughing. Talking about family, crew, shared victories. Not all that different from the pilots and officers on the Grand Lady—if you ignored the visible bone plating and the occasional hissed threat.
I chew slowly, watching.
There’s a strange kind of respect here. A hierarchy, yes, but one not just built on strength—it’s built on loyalty. History. Blood and bone.
“Why show me this?” I murmur, not really expecting an answer.
Brom answers anyway. “Because you’re one of us now. You just don’t know it yet.”
I snort. “Right. I’m a pampered noble’s daughter with no combat skills and a habit of mouthing off. Real Reaper material.”
Brom shrugs. “Kallus thinks so. And he’s rarely wrong.”
I look down at the collar again. Feel the warmth it still holds from his skin against mine. It doesn’t feel like a shackle anymore. It feels like a promise.
I’m not sure that’s better.
The laughter and growls of the mess fade, melting into the soundless void of memory.
I see my mother’s ice-pale eyes, narrowed as she inspects the table setting. Four spoons, three forks, seven courses. Not a whisper of warmth between us. Every meal a ceremony. Every conversation a trap waiting to be sprung.
